by Janet Gover
‘I almost forgot.’ She smiled, her mood lifting. ‘The last thing he said was that he likes my hair. He said it highlights my eyes.’
‘I told you so,’ Maria exclaimed in triumph.
Maria was a hairdresser, and Lauren’s unusual cut was both her idea and her handiwork. Maria had lightened Lauren’s already fair hair to shining white, then dyed a broad slash of blue down each side to frame her face. The cut was asymmetrical, curving under her chin on her right side and falling almost to her shoulder on the left.
As they shared a laugh, Lauren thought for the thousandth time how lucky she was to have such a friend. They had both moved into this apartment building on the same day. Lauren was fresh from the Royal College of Art and felt an almost immediate affinity with the tall, dark-haired girl moving into the flat above. Maria had also just left college, and soon the two were firm friends.
For the past few years Maria and Lauren had shared the turmoil of being young, single and, most of the time, short of cash. His Royal Highness was not the first man discussed around this kitchen table, although it was usually Maria who raised the subject.
‘Speaking of your hair,’ Maria continued, ‘you haven’t forgotten. Have you?’
‘Sorry. Forgotten what?’ Lauren was confused by the sudden change of subject.
‘The hairdressing championships. You’re modelling for me.’
‘Of course I haven’t forgotten.’ Lauren was instantly contrite. ‘I know how important this is to you. Not even the prince himself will keep me away.’
‘That’s great,’ Maria said. ‘You know, I’ve got some terrific ideas for you.’
‘I’ll bet you have.’ Lauren looked at her watch and yelped. ‘Oops. I’d better go.’
‘Are you going back to the palace?’ Maria asked.
‘Later.’
‘Well, say “hi” to His Highness for me!’
They both groaned at the awful pun as Lauren disappeared out the door with a wave of her hand.
* * *
Lauren loved the art supplies shop. It was filled almost to bursting with the paraphernalia of her calling. Bright colours and soft brushes. Paints and canvas. Charcoal and varnish. Each item was a reaffirmation of the life she had chosen, a tie to the great artists of the past and her hope for her own future.
She was also very fond of the shop’s elderly proprietors. Mr Haussmann was in his customary spot behind the counter when she walked in the door.
‘Lauren.’ He beamed. ‘It’s good to see you. I hear you’re about to become famous. You’ll soon be too important for my little shop.’
‘I’ll never stop coming to your fabulous shop,’ Lauren corrected him. ‘How did you find out? I haven’t told anyone yet.’
‘Everyone’s talking about it.’
Lauren realised that the gossip was inevitable. The art world was very small. Everyone knew everyone else, and a royal commission was worth talking about.
‘I didn’t think anyone knew yet.’
‘You know how it goes. Someone from up there …’ he nodded towards the doorway and the palace somewhere far beyond it ‘… rang around asking about you. One thing leads to another. It’ll probably be in the papers soon.’
‘No!’ The mere thought horrified Lauren. She didn’t need anyone asking about her. They’d probably start asking about her background. Her childhood. Her family … ‘It’s not important enough for that.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ Mr Haussmann assured her. ‘If any of those parra-pazi photographers come here looking for you, my lips are sealed.’
‘Thanks, Mr Haussmann.’ She gave him a warm smile. ‘Now, I’m going to need some supplies for this job. And only the best. This portrait has got to last a few hundred years – assuming it’s any good.’
‘It will be wonderful.’ Mr Haussmann’s plump grey-haired wife emerged from the storeroom at the back of the shop. ‘With your talent and his looks – how could it be otherwise?’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mrs Haussmann.’
‘You deserve it. So tell me …’ The older woman stepped close and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Is he really so very handsome?’
‘He’s a playboy,’ Mr Haussmann interrupted. ‘You be careful, Lauren. A beautiful girl like you isn’t safe around someone like that.’
‘Don’t you listen to him.’ Mrs Haussmann affectionately dismissed her husband. ‘What does he know? Lauren, you play your cards right and you could be a princess.’
‘I don’t want to be a princess,’ Lauren replied seriously. ‘From what I saw yesterday, it doesn’t look like much fun. I’d rather be me – a struggling artist. But he does have a fabulous face. It won’t be easy to capture that face. And those eyes! Speaking of which, I think I’m going to need a lot of cadmium blue. And a very large canvas – for his ego.’
Lauren didn’t take very long to accumulate an impressive range of supplies. For the first time, she didn’t shop with one part of her brain focused on her tiny bank balance. If this portrait was going to hang in the palace, she would use only the best. However, the best didn’t come cheap. She blanched when Mr Haussmann handed her the tally of her purchases. She quickly pulled out a credit card, trying not to look concerned. She made a mental note to talk to the prince very soon about money. He should be willing to at least make a preliminary payment to cover her costs.
‘I will have these delivered later this morning,’ Mr Haussmann promised. ‘I suppose we should send them to the palace.’
‘No, no,’ Lauren laughed. ‘To my place, please.’
She took her leave, a couple of smaller parcels under her arm. Mr Haussmann’s question about the delivery had brought home to her for the first time the enormity of what she was doing. She was about to move her professional life into a whole new world, of which she knew nothing but what she read in newspapers and magazines. She might have dreamed about it as a child, but those dreams were never meant to come true for an underprivileged child living in a one-room flat with her struggling single mother. For the daughter of a criminal …
‘Get a grip!’ she admonished herself. ‘You’re always saying people should be judged by who they are, not their families. Well, this is your chance to prove that. You’ll be just fine.’
She almost sounded as if she believed it.
* * *
The small white van pulled up outside Lauren’s apartment at precisely the appointed time. It had no obvious markings to proclaim its ownership. Nor did the two men who got out of it have any insignia about their clothes. However, their efficiency left little doubt of their origin.
Lauren stood by, feeling totally useless, as her paints and brushes, sketch pads and canvases vanished into the spotless interior of the van in the hands of quietly efficient men.
For one brief moment she was once again the small girl crying in her mother’s arms as her few possessions were taken from their home by equally silent and efficient men. Those things had ended up on the street, because Lauren and her mother had not had any place to go. That memory had never left her, and never would. But there were times she was thankful for the past that had pushed her to make something of her present.
The last thing to go was her large wooden easel, wrapped for safety in a bolt of grey felt. Her small flat suddenly seemed vast and empty. Half of her living space had been occupied by what she grandly called her ‘studio’. In reality, it was just the area protected by a large drop sheet, and holding her easel and a table covered with her artist’s tools. Now, all that had gone. Lauren went too, feeling not unlike one of the packages stowed so efficiently and effortlessly in the back of the vehicle.
An armed soldier waved them through the same ornate iron gates that Lauren had passed on her previous visit. The drive led to a series of courtyards in the maze that lay behind the palace facade, protected from the public gaze by high walls. On her first visit, the surroundings had barely registered on Lauren’s mind. This time, she took more notice of the e
xtensions and outbuildings of various eras that had sprung up as the palace grew to accommodate the changing times and tastes of its royal occupants.
The van drew up in a large cobbled courtyard, bounded on one side by the palace itself, on the others by outbuildings, some of which had obviously once been stables. Still were, Lauren corrected herself as she got out of the van. The earthy smell emanating from the buildings on the eastern side of the courtyard was not exactly unpleasant, but it wasn’t the sweetest perfume.
A few seconds later, the clatter of hooves confirmed her suspicions. A dozen mounted guards emerged from the wide doorway of the stable block. They ranged themselves in a processional order and waited. A stable hand, in a uniform as spotless as those of the guards, led a rider-less horse from the stables. The animal was magnificent. His dark chestnut hide shone with as much polish as the silver swords of the guardsmen. His glossy black hooves shuffled restlessly on the cobbles as he too waited.
Prince Nicolas emerged from the palace wearing a red guard’s uniform liberally decorated with gold braid and medals of the same colour. A long sabre hung at his side. He strode down the stone steps, his eyes fixed on the troop waiting for him across the courtyard. The man holding the horse snapped to attention and saluted as his officer approached and took the reins. With the ease of much practice, Prince Nicolas swung himself into the saddle. The big chestnut horse pranced and sidled a few steps, tossing his head, before submitting to his rider’s will.
As the prince turned his restless mount, his glance touched Lauren where she stood by the open doors of the van. She instinctively raised an arm in greeting, but let it drop when he looked straight through her as if she wasn’t there. Prince Nicolas took his place at the head of the troop. At a shouted command from their leader, the guards moved forward in unison, even their mounts seeming to fall into military step. In a flash of red and gold, they turned a corner and were gone, leaving behind a rapidly fading clatter of hooves.
Lauren stood staring after them; the image of the prince and his mount burned into her mind’s eye as if some great equestrian portrait had come to life in front of her. More than man and horse, Prince Nicolas and the big chestnut he rode were the very definition of military bearing, and honour and bravery in battle. The glint of his sword and the prancing step of horse were the stuff of schoolboy dreams. The prince’s handsome face and overwhelming vitality would set girlish hearts aflutter. He was the hero of a thousand romantic tales – off to battle for a righteous cause.
Except, he wasn’t. He was probably just going to parade for visiting tourists. No great deeds awaited him, just the flash of cameras. Far from an honourable man, the prince didn’t even have the manners to acknowledge her with a wave or a nod of his head. Lauren shook her head in disgust and turned to supervise the unloading of her precious easel.
As she did, the prince’s equerry appeared at the top of the stone stairs.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Phelps.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Courtauld.’
‘If you’d come this way.’
Once more Lauren found herself following Courtauld’s ramrod back through palace corridors. These were smaller than the elegant galleries of her first visit. In the absence of grand windows, simple light fixtures lit the halls. Their dull glow did little to enhance the dark walls or the paintings that hung on them. The paintings were of lesser quality, and Lauren realised she was looking at the future of her own work, should it not live up to the exacting standards required of the royal collection.
She wondered if Courtauld had chosen this route on purpose. He obviously disapproved of everything about her, from her hair and clothes to her manners. This was no doubt his way of putting her in her place, but she wasn’t going to let it get her down.
Up one flight of marble stairs the corridors became wider, the furnishings more lavish and the paintings better.
‘I was told you would need as much natural light as possible,’ Courtauld said as they neared the end of the corridor. ‘I hope this will suit.’ He opened a door, and indicated that Lauren should precede him through it.
‘Wow!’
Lauren moved into the middle of the room and turned slowly, taking in every corner of her new studio. The richly embroidered pale blue curtains had been pulled back from the large windows that dominated two walls of the room. Light streamed in. Unlike some of the more ornate rooms Lauren had seen, this chamber was simply decorated. The embossed wallpaper was cream and the ceiling was likewise plain in colour, although moulded into graceful arcs at each corner of the room. The wide expanse of polished wood floor gleamed golden in the sunlight. On the wall to her left, the fireplace was grey marble. Lauren noted the stain on the wallpaper where the painting above it had been recently removed.
‘What a fabulous room,’ Lauren breathed. ‘It will make a wonderful studio.’
‘I took the liberty of removing the more valuable furnishings,’ Courtauld continued, seeming unmoved by Lauren’s delight.
Lauren glanced at what was left. A large wooden table sat to one side, the perfect place for her brushes and paints and the assorted paraphernalia of her art. Either side of the fireplace stood two large comfortable-looking armchairs with a small table between them. The lack of clutter made the room look even larger. In fact, she realised with a start, this one room was probably bigger than her whole flat!
‘It’s perfect,’ she said out loud, ‘but …’
‘Please ask for whatever you need.’
Lauren waved at the expanse of polished floor. ‘Painting can be a messy business,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid that beautiful floor will suffer. It should be covered. I can bring a cover sheet from my own studio.’
‘No need.’ Courtauld pointed to a shape against the far wall. ‘Just indicate the preferred position. That carpet will protect the floor.’
‘But the carpet will be ruined!’
‘It is of no consequence.’
Before Lauren could open her mouth to argue, the first of her boxes arrived, carried by one of the two men from the van. He was soon put to work unrolling the vast square of carpet, which was positioned at Lauren’s direction in the centre of the room.
In a surprisingly short time the studio began to take shape. Lauren’s easel stood in the middle of the carpet, her stool next to it. Her boxes of paints and brushes sat on the wooden worktable ready for her personal attention. At her request, a kitchen chair had materialised, as had a large waste bin. She still felt uneasy about the inevitable spills of paint and oil, and mentally made a note to bring some protective coverings from home. Courtauld might think this furniture was of no consequence but it was far better than anything Lauren possessed, and she would not willingly or carelessly damage it.
‘I must take my leave,’ Courtauld said as the last boxes were placed on the carpeted floor. ‘Other duties await me.’
‘Thank you for everything.’ Lauren was genuinely grateful. ‘It’s a terrific studio. You couldn’t have chosen a better room.’
‘I didn’t choose the room. Prince Nicolas selected it. He felt you would want to be close to his own offices.’
‘How close?’
‘The door across the hallway leads to His Royal Highness’s offices.’ Courtauld bowed and left the room.
Lauren waited for a few moments, then cautiously opened the door just a few inches. There was indeed another doorway almost directly opposite hers. It wasn’t the door she’d used the day before, when she visited Prince Nicolas. Of course he would have a secretary and probably a whole suite of offices filled with people whose job it was to look after him. She ducked back inside her studio, telling herself that it made perfect sense for an artist to work near her subject. She shouldn’t read anything into it – nor should she feel nervous about it.
For a few minutes, Lauren stood looking around the studio. She paced about and rearranged some of her brushes and paints on the worktop. She walked to the window, which looked out over a courtyard not unlike the one wher
e she had seen the prince at the head of his mounted troop. She closed her eyes for a moment, and found the picture still in her head. The bright red of the uniforms against the grey stone of the stable block. The glint of sunlight on polished silver. The sense of barely restrained energy in the prince and his mount.
Lauren opened her eyes. An equestrian portrait? Why not?
She reached for a sketch pad.
* * *
Nicolas paused as he reached to open the door. He wasn’t used to knocking. Certainly not here in his own private quarters. But manners caught up with him in time, and he tapped gently on the wood. There was no answer, so he opened the door.
Lauren was sitting on a high stool, leaning over the large wooden refectory table he had selected for her workbench. She was as inappropriately dressed for the palace as she had been yesterday. Her black jeans were tattered at the hems. Her tight top, also black, sported a number of ragged holes. He wondered if that was a deliberate fashion statement. Perhaps Lauren had simply not noticed the holes – or not cared. Whichever, her unaffected behaviour and spontaneity were a delight in a place ruled by protocol. Her remarkable blue hair fell forward, partly obscuring her face.
For the first time, he noticed she had a slight bump in the middle of her nose. Far from detracting from her looks, it simply added to them. Her face would never grace the pages of a fashion magazine, but he found her enormously attractive. Her passion for life was writ clearly on her face. As was her devotion to the work that now engrossed her.
On the floor around her, a selection of crumpled and discarded sheets of paper suggested several false starts to the work that now held her so focused she hadn’t heard his knock. Her attention was glued to the sketch pad on the tabletop, while the thick pencil in her hand flew across its surface. She exuded an aura of intense concentration that seemed to build an invisible wall around her, cutting her off from him.
The younger son of a royal house understood barriers. His life of wealth and privilege came well supplied with rules and boundaries not of his own making. Nicolas had always known he was the ‘spare heir’, the guarantee of succession, should anything happen to his older brother. In fact, duty had dictated his very birth. His mother had married where she was told. His father had been distant from his sons for most of their childhood, leaving them with nannies and tutors. His death when Nicolas was just nine had barely impacted their lives at all and even now, his feelings for his father remained more sadness at a relationship he’d never had, rather than grief at the loss of a loved one.