The Ordinary Princess

by Liz Fielding

  There was a head-turning quality about him that she wasn’t prepared to risk in such close proximity to his official likeness.

  Besides, there was more light out of doors in the street market; she’d get better pictures. All she had to do was keep her nerve for a couple of hours.

  And why not?

  He’d asked for this, she reminded herself. She’d tried to step back.

  Fortunately for her, he hadn’t let her.

  ‘We’d better get on,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how much time you can spare.’

  ‘I’ve given myself the rest of the day off. On good advice.’

  ‘Oh?’ Then, ‘Oh!’ He meant hers. ‘Right,’ she said, just a bit flustered. ‘Well, in that case maybe you’d like to stay and eat…’ She was rarely short of words, but he just had to look at her that way and her mouth dried.

  ‘What we’ve bought?’ he finished for her. ‘At the market?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘That sounds…’

  This time he was the one lost for words. And who could blame him? Shopping and cooking wouldn’t feature prominently in his average day. Year. Decade.

  ‘Ordinary?’ she offered.

  ‘For you, maybe. Not for me.’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’ Then, ‘You don’t have anything more exciting planned for this evening?’

  ‘A notice will appear in “Court and Social” tomorrow to the effect that I am suffering from a slight cold and have cancelled my engagements for the rest of the week.’

  ‘You really did it?’

  ‘It wasn’t much of a wrench. My life isn’t all caviar and champagne,’ he said, with a wry smile in response to her little dig at him. ‘In fact, it’s rarely either of those things. All I have to look forward to tonight is an evening with a report from my finance minister.’

  She wasn’t quite sure whether he was joking, whether she was supposed to laugh or not. It occurred to her that, despite the hauteur, the formality of his speech and manners, he was a lot better at this than she was, which was a surprise. That aristocratic nose didn’t quite go with teasing. Or maybe it was just part of the defence mechanism. He would be good at guarding himself.

  ‘I consider it my duty to save you from that,’ she said, giving him the benefit of the doubt and teasing him back.

  ‘Thank you, Laura.’

  ‘You’re very welcome—’

  What? What on earth was she going to call him? Sir? Your Highness? Prince Alexander?

  ‘Xander,’ he said, proving—unnervingly—that he was perfectly capable of reading her mind when he made the effort.

  She frowned, as if she didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

  ‘You were wondering what to call me. You’ve been having problems with it ever since we met.’

  ‘I have?’

  He looked down at her. ‘Most people stick with “Your Highness” or “Your Serene Highness” in the first instance, depending upon the formality of the occasion, followed by “Sir”. That’s the accepted form. Protocol. But you don’t approve of titles.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because, on the few occasions you’ve used mine, it sounded like an insult.’

  She didn’t deny it. ‘My mother was an American. I’m a natural republican. With a small R—’

  ‘You don’t have to explain. Or apologise, Laura—’

  ‘I wasn’t apologising!’

  ‘Just say it.’

  ‘Your Serene Highness?’

  ‘Xander.’

  ‘Xander,’ she repeated, but still feeling as if she’d got a mouthful of cotton wool.

  ‘It’s just a name. Like ordinary people have. Don’t go self-conscious on me, now. It doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘No. It’s just that I can’t help feeling that I could get locked up in the Tower for being so forward.’

  That appeared to amuse him. Brackets formed on either side of his mouth and she caught a glimpse of teeth as he smiled. He should do that more often, she thought.

  ‘You weren’t reluctant to give me the benefit of your opinion last night. Or this morning.’

  ‘Mmm? Oh, that’s because I have this problem with my mouth. It speaks without thinking. It can get me into a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’ He picked up her shopping basket and offered it to her. ‘However, you’re going to have to risk the Tower because if you address me as “Your Serene Highness” in the market,’ he said, the smile disappearing as quickly as it had come, ‘it will rather give the game away. Won’t it?’

  ‘You’re right.’ He lifted a brow, prompting her to be bold. ‘Xander.’ She took the basket, trying to ignore the sensation that she’d just stepped over the edge of an abyss. Then she picked up the worn leather shoulder bag sent by Trevor McCarthy, slinging it over her shoulder as casually as she could, holding her breath, waiting for him to pick out the telltale glint of a lens disguised by a chunky rivet. Spot that its matching pair was in fact a shutter release. Which was totally stupid.

  Why would Prince Alexander—Xander—even suspect what she was planning?

  If he’d had the least idea he wouldn’t be here.

  ‘If you’re ready?’ He opened the kitchen door, standing back for her to precede him. ‘Did Katie catch her flight?’ she asked, reaching for normality as she headed for the front door.

  She’d be fine. It was just nerves, that was all. A little air and her breathing would return to normal.

  ‘With much wailing and gnashing of teeth,’ he said, as they took the steps up from her basement flat to the street. ‘She reverted to the wild child look in sulky protest for her trip home. Which, since the photographer tailed her all the way to the airport, couldn’t have worked out better.’

  ‘When is she coming back?’ she asked, attempting the kind of normal conversation they’d have if this were a normal conversation. She sounded stilted, hideously false to her own ears.

  ‘At the weekend,’ he replied, apparently noticing nothing odd in her manner. But then maybe that was the way people always were around him. ‘I’ve spoken to her mother and she’s arranged for Nanny Blake to meet her at the airport and take her home. After that, it’s up to Katie.’ He glanced up at the tall house they’d just left. ‘Have you lived here long?’

  ‘What?’

  That did attract a look of surprise.

  Oh, good grief. She had to get a grip. That was an ordinary question, she told herself. The kind of question anyone would ask. Only her guilty conscience made it feel like an interrogation. ‘Oh, here. All my life,’ she said, as they began to walk down the street. Xander took the outside, his arm brushing against hers, which made it difficult to concentrate. ‘My parents bought the house when I was born. As a base. They travelled a lot, you see. My father was a climber. My mother a travel writer. Once they married they combined their interests. They were rarely home.’

  ‘Tough for you.’

  ‘I never knew anything else.’ Nannies, boarding school, Jay. She’d always been there. Had compromised her own career to stay close after the death of her parents. ‘They actually met on a plane,’ she said. ‘When they were killed my father’s aunt—my guardian—decided the best thing to do was convert the house into apartments. That way I’d still have my home.’ Continuity. Wouldn’t have lost everything she knew. ‘And an income,’ she added.

  ‘Practical woman.’

  ‘Yes. She is. Practical and kind and I owe her so much. She sold her own home, came to live in the garden flat with me so that I could come back in the school holidays. Until I was old enough to live on my own, that is.’ He didn’t say anything and she pressed on, ‘Then she moved up to the next floor.’ She smiled. ‘The garden flat has its own front door, you see. She thought I should have the freedom to come and go without feeling as if I was being timed in and out.’ She grinned. ‘At least, that’s what she said. I have a feeling she just wanted to see the back of the garden, tiny though it is.’

  �
��How do you feel about gardening?’

  ‘Love it,’ she admitted. ‘Although it’s largely a matter of filling the pots. One day, when I’ve made my name and I’m rich and famous, I’m going to have a proper garden.’ She moved quickly on. ‘A couple of girls who work in a bank live on the floor above her. Sean’s got the attic studio.’

  ‘Sean?’

  ‘He’s an actor. Mostly. When he’s not working as a cleaner, or dog walker, or waiter.’ She eased her shoulders up into something resembling a shrug. ‘When you rang the bell this morning I thought it was him or I’d have put on some clothes.’ That hadn’t come out quite the way she’d intended. ‘Before I opened the door.’

  She glanced up but his face was giving nothing away. She knew the technique. Nature abhors a vacuum and people are unnerved by silence. She used it herself. If you just stayed silent long enough the other person would leap in to fill the void.

  Knowing it didn’t stop her from being unnerved. Or leaping in.

  ‘He usually drops by for coffee.’

  Still no response.

  If Xander kept this up for long enough she’d probably blurt out her entire life story. Everything. Even her truly embarrassing crush on a waste-of-space pop star when she was fourteen and certainly old enough to have had better taste.

  ‘If I’m still home when he gets up,’ she said, a little desperately.

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Do?’ Her relief that he’d broken his silence was ruined by confusion. ‘When I get up?’

  ‘When you’re not between “appointments”? How do you plan to make your name and so become rich and famous?’

  Oh, sugar! She knew she’d made a mistake as soon as the words had slipped from her mouth. Had hoped she’d covered her gaff.

  ‘You’re blushing, Laura.’

  Nothing so innocent. It was hot shame at her deception. But if he thought she was blushing she could live with that. Just.

  ‘Well, the thing is—’ she began, then stopped, her mind a complete blank.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, coming to her rescue.

  ‘You don’t want to know?’

  ‘I’ve guessed.’ Her heart stopped. She’d swear it actually stopped beating… ‘You’re an actress manqué?’

  What?

  ‘Am I right?’

  ‘Good grief, no!’

  She didn’t actually groan out loud, but it was close. He’d just given her the perfect excuse to be out of work—the manqué covered that very nicely—and available to spend time with him. Instead of grabbing it with both hands she’d leapt on her high horse. Been insulted that he could even think such a thing.

  Not that she had anything against the theatre, but she couldn’t imagine anything worse than living the self-absorbed life of her top-floor tenant, constantly stressing over the way he looked, the parts his rivals had stolen from under his nose.

  She wanted more than that. She wanted to make a difference in this world.

  So, what on earth was she doing wasting her time on a royal story?

  And what on earth, she wondered, was Jay doing, encouraging her?

  She realised that Prince Alexander was waiting for her to tell him what she did that was so much more relevant than Sean. Something that wouldn’t give the game away.

  ‘I guess I’m still looking for my own particular niche.’ She attempted a smile. ‘Something that manages to juggle the enormity of my aspirations with the limits of my talent.’

  ‘Just like everyone else, in fact. But then you’re a woman of property,’ he said. ‘I suppose you can afford to be choosy.’ Maybe she was being ultra-sensitive, but he didn’t make it sound like anything to be proud of.

  ‘Not everyone gets their own hand-carved niche handed to them at birth,’ she snapped right back at him. ‘For no other reason than who your father happens to be.’ Then, for good measure, ‘And because you’re a man.’

  ‘Laura—’

  ‘What does your sister feel about that? She is older than you?’

  ‘Five years older,’ he admitted.

  ‘And this is the twenty-first century?’ She didn’t wait for him to answer that one. It was a purely rhetorical question. ‘It’s not as if there haven’t been some pretty successful queens in the past. Women Prime Ministers, even.’

  ‘I take your point, Laura.’

  ‘Okay, so I own a house, but I don’t sit around navel gazing all day. Who do you think pays the bills when the roof leaks, or the gutter needs replacing? Rolls up her sleeves when the hall needs a coat of paint?’ They were passing the local pizzeria. ‘Who do you think has to buckle down and do a little waitressing when the expenses outstrip the income?’ Or when she’d messed up the day job. ‘Believe me, that’s not a career choice.’

  ‘I wasn’t criticising.’

  ‘No?’ It had surely sounded like it.

  ‘No.’ He shrugged. ‘Look, maybe I’m being clumsy. I don’t often get a chance to meet complete strangers. Not like this.’

  He was apologising? She’d just bet that was a new experience for him.

  ‘I’m just trying to get to know you, that’s all. My life is an open book, as you’ve just demonstrated. But you’re undiscovered territory.’

  ‘And you’re an explorer?’

  He half raised his hand in a gesture of self-defence. ‘It’s beginning to feel like a hack through impenetrable jungle.’

  He mustn’t think that. He’d start to wonder what she had to hide. She caught a sideways glance. He already was.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so defensive. I guess I’m sensitive about letting the feminist side down. Girls with my kind of education are supposed to be out there, making their mark on life.’ Something she had failed to do.

  ‘You went to college?’

  ‘I read English at Oxford,’ she admitted. And got a First. But she couldn’t tell him that or he’d never believe she hadn’t got a proper job, even though it was the truth right now. He might even put two and two together and come up with a big fat four. ‘Which makes it worse.’

  ‘You certainly seem to be over-qualified to be a waitress.’

  ‘Possibly. Although, in my opinion, if everyone was forced to wait on tables for at least one week of their life the world would be a kinder place.’ Then she gave a what-am-I-to-do? shrug. ‘But I didn’t want to teach and I hate being stuck in an office.’ All true.

  ‘That certainly limits your choices.’

  ‘My most recent employer, while inviting me to explore other career opportunities, suggested I might like to consider childcare.’ He lifted a brow, inviting her to elaborate. ‘It’s a long story,’ she said quickly.

  ‘At least you have the freedom to choose,’ he said.

  ‘You’re saying you’d rather not be the Heir Apparent to Montorino?’ It belatedly occurred to her that just because the job was his by birthright, it didn’t mean he was happy about it.

  ‘I’m pointing out that you do have a choice,’ he said, leaving her question unanswered. ‘And that you aren’t making it.’

  On the point of telling him that he could give up his title and embrace democracy, she took a foot-in-the-mouth check; his opinion of her didn’t matter. He was right: she had a choice. Her choice was to be a journalist and it was about time she started acting like one before she offended him so deeply that he caught the next passing bus just to get away from her.

  ‘So what would you have done?’ she asked. ‘If you’d had the freedom to choose?’

  ‘I have never indulged myself in the luxury of fantasy.’

  It was the response of a man who was used to deflecting questions he didn’t want to answer. But her readers would really want to know.

  She really wanted to know.

  ‘Come on. You must have wanted to be a racing driver, a sportsman of some kind?’ she teased. ‘All kids do. You’re having a day off from being a prince so let your hair down. Dream a little.’

&nbs
p; ‘I’m a lost cause, I’m afraid. A born pragmatist. Totally devoid of fancy.’

  So what was he doing here? Playing a part? Pretending to be ordinary. She’d suggested it, implied it went with the whole Ascot deal. But no one had been twisting his arm. She’d have gone with him even if he’d turned down her cheeky condition. He must know that.

  So, while he might believe what he was saying, she didn’t. A pragmatist wouldn’t be walking down this very ordinary road, going to the local street market to buy the ingredients for her supper.

  But she didn’t challenge him.

  ‘My mistake.’ Then, ‘It’s just round here. I hope we’re not too late to get what I want. I usually come in the morning, but I thought you might enjoy it.’

  ‘Late can be good. It’s a time for bargains.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ she said, giving him a disbelieving look. ‘And you would know about that?’

  ‘I know about economics. The perishable stuff will be no good tomorrow so the traders will be selling it off cheap.’

  As if to confirm what he said, as they turned the corner one of them began to loudly proclaim his bargains.

  ‘Can you cook, Laura?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were threatening to make dinner.’

  She stopped, forcing him to do the same. ‘And you wondered if you should take the risk? Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.’

  He turned to face her. ‘I just thought we might try a pizza,’ he said gently. ‘One that you didn’t have to serve.’

  There was the suspicion of a smile creasing the corners of his mouth. It was matched by a warmer glow to his eyes. As if the shutters had been lifted. For a moment she forgot to breathe.

  ‘Well?’ he prompted.

  The shortage of oxygen caused her to feel momentarily dizzy, but when she recovered she lifted her basket and said, ‘You wouldn’t be trying to wriggle out of shopping, would you?’

  She hadn’t attempted to offload the basket on to him. She was counting on him carrying it back when it was full. Counting on him being too much of a gentleman to do anything else. One had to take every photo opportunity.