‘…To be unpleasant.’ He finished it for her. They laughed as he moved out of the shadows towards her side of his veranda.
‘A nightcap?’ he asked, head tilted to one side. ‘I’ve got some very good brandy in my room. I’m assuming you’re still the free spirit I remember?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she said but crossed to where he stood. ‘I think I could be. Marriage wasn’t for me, in the end. You were right.’
He smiled at her. That smile.
She took his proffered hand and held her breath, wondering briefly what Coward had really thought about Amanda and Elyot. Lovers who could not live together but neither could they live apart. Did it really matter? She glanced across at the waiting Rafe. She was free and had all the time in the world to make up her mind. Perhaps, as he had once suggested, the moment had come for her to spread her wings at last.
A Real Prince
Fiona Harper
Fiona Harper
Award-winning author FIONA HARPER writes fun, flirty, heart-warming romances for Harlequin Mills & Boon. Her books are sold round the world and have been translated into over twenty different languages.
As a child, she was constantly teased for two things: having her nose in a book and living in a dream world. Things haven’t changed much since then but at least in writing she’s found a use for her runaway imagination. Fiona lives in London, England, with her very patient husband and her two wonderful daughters. She loves good books, good films and good food –especially anything cinnamon-flavoured –and she can always find some room in her diet for chocolate. Her new novel Make My Wish Come True is available now.
A Real Prince
Some women spend their whole lives looking for their prince. I’m standing right next to mine. He’s tall and good-looking and he’s very dashing in his red and gold uniform. He smiles lovingly at me before we both turn and face the hundreds of people pressing themselves against the metal barriers, leaning forwards and madly waving their plastic Union Jack flags.
I wave and the cheers increase in volume. Cameras and smartphones point in our direction, capturing every nanosecond of our public interaction. I know this is my job now and I shouldn’t mind their presence. I also know I have to put on a good show, that I can’t let my nerves work their way to the surface, so I smile and flick my long dark brown hair back off my face with my fingers, careful not to disturb the heavy waves or the crimson fascinator perched on top of them that matches my suit.
‘Duchess!’ someone calls. ‘Over here!’
I turn, keeping my smile bright, and wave my hand from the wrist like I’ve practised.
More shouts now, coming from all directions.
‘Prince William!’
‘Kate!’
We stand united and smiling beside the rest of our family. Well his family. Mine don’t usually generate such a fuss. His parents. His grandparents. His little brother…The whole gang is here.
In a minute we’ll have to go down the steps and into the vast building and walk down the wide path carved out by dull grey metal barriers. Right now I’m happy to be a little distance away, waving so hard I’m surprised my hand hasn’t fallen off my wrist.
Once again I’m struck by the sheer absurdity of it all. Why should these people turn up to wave and cheer at me? I’m one of them, really. An ordinary girl, from an ordinary family. A girl who, by sheer stroke of fate or luck or whatever you call it, has ended up with this life.
I’m woken rudely from my musing by the feel of the prince’s hand sliding round my waist, pulling me closer. I freeze. This really isn’t appropriate, and I know the hand isn’t going to stay there. He proves me right, sliding it lower so his fingers curve around my bottom and gives it a little squeeze. My smile goes rigid.
I manage to hiss at him through my teeth, while still beaming demurely at the gathered crowds. ‘If you don’t move that hand right now, Gareth, I’m going to use that sword of yours to do a little impromptu surgery.’
‘I’d like to see you try,’ he whispers. ‘It’s fake.’
And so is he. My lookalike Prince William leaves his hand just a second longer on my backside then drags it away, maintaining contact as long as he can, then lifts it to wave at the people who have gathered outside the entrance of a south London shopping centre to see us.
‘Not nearly as good as Pippa’s anyway,’ he mutters. ‘That new girl at the agency –Hannah, or whatever her name is –she might not have the sister’s face exactly, but turn her round and she’s spot-on.’
Ugh.
What a prince.
And I had stupidly believed my new career as a Kate Middleton lookalike was going to help me meet a decent man. Fat chance. Gareth Parsons, my faux prince, is like all my rotten ex-boyfriends rolled into one. It wouldn’t be so bad if we didn’t always get booked as a couple, and demand has been sky-high since the wedding and the Jubilee. I have to put up with his wandering hands at least three times a week. Sometimes more.
Why can’t he be more like the real Wills? There’s a man who knows how to behave, who clearly adores his wife. The strange thing is that Gareth is such a good match for the prince that at first I willed him to change, waited for him to pick up some traits from the man he emulates, but I’ve been working beside him for more than a year now and there hasn’t been the slightest sign of improvement. If anything, he’s got worse.
How hard can it be? To find a good man. I’m not even asking for royalty. Just a Y chromosome and a basic grasp of how to behave like a human being. Knowing how to make a girl feel like a princess would definitely be a bonus, but I’m starting to realise how unlikely that is. I used to think I was just unlucky, but now I think finding a man like that is about as probable as getting married to a prince for real.
Damn Kate for getting there first!
I look just like her. I could have done it. With a bit of luck and a following wind…
Three years ago I was working as a waitress for a pizza restaurant. A few people commented that I looked like Prince William’s girlfriend, but only if I did my hair a certain way or dressed up –like at my cousin’s wedding. I just used to make a joke about it and say no, I wasn’t her, but I wouldn’t complain if my very own Prince Charming swept me off my feet.
But then Kate and William got engaged and suddenly people were staring and pointing at me when I went to the supermarket. When I went up to the West End once a couple of Japanese tourists started following me and wouldn’t leave me alone until I’d posed for a picture and signed the London street map they were clutching fiercely. I tried to tell them the truth, but they just thought I was trying to put them off the scent.
I went home and told my flatmates about it over takeaway curry that evening, and it was Becky who came up with the idea of approaching a lookalike agency. ‘Come on, Sophie,’ she said. ‘It’ll be a laugh.’
And that wasn’t the only perk. Extra money in the bank. Meeting interesting people, dressing up, going to glamorous locations. I gave up waitressing eighteen months ago. And it has been fun –at least until Gareth started to believe he had groping rights on my d`erriere.
The rest of the ‘family’ aren’t so bad. Pam, who’s the Queen, is a retired schoolteacher and uses her lookalike work to fund her trips abroad with her sister. She’s off to Peru next. Steve and Annie, who are Charles and Camilla, are actually married. They never stop laughing with each other and they’ve invited us all to their silver wedding anniversary party next month.
I don’t know much about Harry. He’s new. The agency only took him on a couple of weeks ago. I sneak a look across at him. He’s pretty good, actually, even though his hair is a shade darker and I think he’s broader than the real Harry. But he’s obviously decided to embrace the bad-boy side of the prince, because he’s eyeing up all the pretty girls in the crowd and showing off.
Shame. The two brothers are a matching pair. I was hoping he wouldn’t be cut from the same cloth as Gareth. One of him was plenty.
Thankfully, it’s time to
start the ‘walkabout’ and it’s going to be much more difficult for Gareth to get a surreptitious squeeze in with eyes staring at us from every angle.
We descend the stairs and walk through the main entrance of the shopping mall. I smile. I shake hands. I pose for photos. I don’t talk much. I’ve been having voice lessons, but I can only manage a few select phrases before the tinge of cockney in my London accent gives me away.
The walkway gets narrower as we head towards the vast department store, where we’re all supposed to gather for a publicity photo shoot before Pam can cut a ribbon, declare the shop open and we can all go home and have a nice cup of tea. I can’t wait.
I wonder if the real Kate feels like this during public engagements? I think it must be even harder for her. I can dress down, look like me if I want to. She’s got no choice but to be her. But having Wills to go home to must be all the compensation she needs. If I took Gareth home for a cuppa –shudder the thought –I’d have to disinfect the place afterwards.
I keep walking and waving, slowly heading to the bright lights of the department store at the other end of the mall, but things start to go wrong. The crowds are pressing closer, all trying to get a glimpse of us. I still find that a bit surreal, but I suppose I can understand it. I stood in the rain for five hours to get a glimpse of the real Her Majesty when she did her Jubilee tour and all I saw was the back of her hat. It’s all of us together today, so maybe we’re a good second best?
But then I realise that the barriers here nearer the shops aren’t as sturdy as the metal ones outside. Near the department store they’ve gone for looks rather than functionality, opting for those posts with ropes clipped between them. All it takes is one over-excited child to lean on one section, causing the posts at either end of the rope to come crashing to the floor, and the crowds surge towards us, holding their iPhones aloft and yelling our fake names. Pole after pole goes down and suddenly royals and commoners are just one big mix.
Bodies are pressing in close, hands grabbing. Someone tugs at my hair. ‘Ouch!’ I say and spin round, but I can’t tell who did it, or even if it was deliberate.
The Queen and Prince Philip were leading the way farther ahead and the shopping centre security guards leap into action, steering them inside the department store entrance and lowering the shutters until they’re a couple of feet above the floor. Charles and Camilla manage to duck underneath just after them. I see Harry only a couple of steps behind.
My heart starts to gallop. Gareth and I have managed to lag behind, mostly because everyone seemed to want a photo of us together, and the crowd now fills the gap between us and the half-closed shutters.
No one is nasty; they’re all smiling and jolly, pleased to see us, but that doesn’t stop the people who were at the back of the crowd pushing in behind, crushing us all into one mass of torsos. I’m reminded of my one ill-fated experience of a mosh-pit, when I had to be rescued by a nice St John’s Ambulance man and missed half the concert. I start to wish I hadn’t kept up with Kate and lost those extra ten pounds last year, because I start to feel fragile and alone in the crush. The bodies around me are packed so tightly together now that I lose one crimson stiletto as I’m lifted off my feet and transported a few steps sideways.
‘Gareth!’ I croak. I thought I’d seen him a little ahead of me and I twist to see if I’m right. He’s taller and stronger than I am, and he might be faring better. I never thought I’d voluntarily ask him to put his hands on me, but I’m coming pretty close. Where the hell is a close protection officer when you need one?
I manage to catch sight of Gareth, heading towards the department store. I call out again and he looks right at me. With a rueful expression on his face, he shakes his head and turns before carving an easy wake through the enthusiastic shoppers.
I hop as best I can, in one stockinged foot and try to follow him, but I’m not quick enough. The crowd closes in behind him and if I make a few paces headway I just get swept back again. My other shoe disappears. Not good for all sorts of reasons, but mostly because I’m shorter without my heels and it feels as if the crowd is starting to close in above me too.
I’m not her! I want to yell. Leave me alone! But my breath is stuck in my throat and all I can manage is a pathetic squeak. I elbow the seven-foot lump of lard next to me in the ribs and when he jumps back and shouts ‘Oi!’, I suck some much needed oxygen into my compressed ribcage and yell for help. I don’t care at all if my Catford vowels are giving me away.
A firm hand grabs mine and I scream, but when I look down I see the sleeve of a uniform and some gold brocade. Thank goodness! Gareth has finally come good. About blooming time he lived up to the man he impersonates!
He pulls me through the crowd. People seem to part and melt before his more substantial frame. I just keep my head down, pressed almost against the back of his jacket and do my best to follow him.
I squeal in pain as someone stamps on my shoeless right foot. My prince pauses briefly, turns to see what the problem is, then lifts me into his arms in one swift motion he picks up his pace to a swift march. I stop rubbing my damaged toe and clasp my hands around his neck to stop me tumbling back down to the floor as, and it’s only then that I realise my rescuer isn’t Gareth the Groper.
It’s fake Harry.
He’s the one carrying me effortlessly through the thinning crowd. I change my mind about those ten pounds, glad I lost them now.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, frowning a little. His voice is deeper than I expected and close up I can see his face is leaner than the real Harry’s and his eyes are green, not blue.
I nod, still unable to find my voice.
When I look over his shoulder I see people starting to follow us. I tap ‘Harry’s’ shoulder and point. Rather than breaking into a run and heading down the main drag of the shopping centre he ducks into a menswear shop and heads towards the back. He doesn’t stop until we’re in the –thankfully –empty changing rooms and he’s pulled a curtain across a cubicle to hide us. Then he lowers me gently to my feet.
My heart is still thumping, even though there are no sounds in the shop outside and it seems Harry’s quick thinking has saved us. Although the cubicle is spacious –maybe six feet by six feet –I find I’m still pressed up close to him, right where he deposited me, and my hands have slipped from his neck and are now splayed on his uniformed chest.
‘Thank you,’ I stutter, and then I let out a little laugh. ‘It got a little crazy back there for a second.’
He smiles back and my words die away. ‘I’m afraid you’re looking a little dishevelled, princess.’
I put my hand up to my hair to discover my fascinator, once held fast by a million hair grips, is at half-mast and my lovely glossy waves are a little matted. When I look down I discover there is a ladder in my sheer nude stockings.
I must look a little disoriented, because he asks, ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
I nod again. I seem to be doing that a lot. ‘My foot’s a little sore, but other than that I think I’ll survive.’ And I’d better. I’m booked for a What the Young Royals Should be Wearing This Season fashion shoot the day after tomorrow.
He nods too. Neither of us moves.
There is a discreet cough from the other side of the changing cubicle curtain. ‘Can I help, sir? Madam?’
Harry blinks and breaks eye contact. I feel my chest re-inflate and I step back. He pulls the curtain aside and we watch as the store manager’s eyes widen as he takes us in.
‘We’re lookalikes,’ Harry explains, and goes on to tell him about the grand plan for the department store opening gone wrong. ‘The crowd got a little…enthusiastic,’ he adds.
The store manager, bless him –who is all of twenty-two, but obviously has been styling himself after Captain Peacock in Are You Being Served? –regains his composure in a heartbeat.
‘Well, if Your Highnesses…I mean, sir and madam, require any assistance –or the continued use of our changing room until the mob disper
ses…’
Harry sends him a smile that would turn my knees to chocolate if he’d directed it at me. ‘What would be really helpful,’ he says, ‘is if we could borrow something to put over these clothes. Dressed as we are, sneaking away undetected might be a little tricky.’ He reaches inside his pocket and brandishes a credit card. ‘I can leave a deposit, if need be?’
The store manager waves the rectangle of plastic away.
Ten minutes later we’ve found a trench coat to cover my red suit and my hair is piled up and hidden under a baseball cap. We’ve tried every pair of shoes in the shop, but the smallest are at least three sizes too big for me. Harry, meanwhile, has been transformed into not-so-Harry, just by switching the uniform for a T-shirt and a pair of chinos. Like that, he doesn’t look like a prince at all.
He looks even better.
‘Stay there,’ he tells me seriously and dashes out the shop. I exchange glances with the manager then fiddle with the belt on my coat. It’s only a moment or two until Harry is back again. He has my shoes, one in each hand, and he kneels so I can slide my feet into them. I shiver as the nylon of my stockings grazes his fingertips.
The stilettos look a little odd with the coat, but they’ll have to do. It’s either that or flapping around in a pair of over-sized brogues like a clown.
He stands up and grins at me. ‘Ready?’
I smile back at him. Not Kate’s demure one. The cheesy one that’s all my own.
That just seems to make him grin harder.
And then he grabs my hand and we shout our thanks to the store manager before jogging out of the shop and heading for the nearest exit. We don’t stop until we’re in the sunshine, round the corner of the park outside, our backs pressed a wall, chests heaving in unison. We turn to each other and laugh.
‘Welcome to the family,’ I say.
‘You make it sound like the mafia.’ His voice is serious but his eyes are twinkling.
‘It kind of is,’ I tell him. ‘After all, this is it for us now. We look like them and they look like us. I’m never going to be able to switch jobs and do –oh –Angelina Jolie instead.’
Truly, Madly, Deeply Page 14