by Liz Fielding
“Your village no-parking rule meant I had to leave my car at the Hall.”
“You’re staying there?”
“No, I’m staying in London but I’m on my way to discuss security arrangements for the wedding with the Chief Constable. My appointment is in half an hour, which is why we have to keep walking.”
“One kiss and you’re gone?”
“Oh, Ally ...” His face softened and for a moment she thought he was going to say something but then he shook his head. “I’m staying in London for two reasons. One, and this isn’t for general consumption, Prince Carlo and Princess Anna are coming to England the week before the wedding to attend a number of social engagements, including a gala performance by Eloise. Security arrangements have to be made with the hotel and the Festival Hall.”
“Oh, right.” Would he see her? Of course he’d see her ...
History. Eloise was history, she told herself. Fredrik was here with her.
“Two, while I have no doubt that Max would have given me a bed for the night, I’d rather spend what little spare time I have with you. So, unless you’d rather be tucked up with your laptop this evening, I’ll pick you up at about four.”
Fredrik was here with her and asking her out on a date. The blog could wait.
“I’ll be in my office at the Hall.”
“Shame. I was looking forward to a cup of tea and a slice of your mother’s cake. Another time, perhaps.”
“Be careful, Fredrik, I might take you seriously.”
“Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am a very serious man.”
“Okay, then seriously, let’s make it the quiet dinner.”
“Did you have anywhere special in mind?”
Ally had no doubt that he could get a table in anywhere but it wasn’t about being seen in a smart restaurant, or even the food, it was about being together.
“Room service?” she suggested.
Fredrik stopped. “I wasn’t ...” He made an oddly helpless gesture for a man who was so controlled, so together. “I just wanted to spend some quality time with you without the constant risk of some emergency calling me away.”
“Me too but without the buckets of popcorn, a rubbish movie, waiters who keep popping by to make sure everything is to our satisfaction. We could always go for a walk afterwards. In one of the parks or along the embankment?”
They never made it along the embankment.
Fredrik’s suite at Claridge’s had everything they needed for a close encounter. A bed the size of a tennis court, a fabulous bathroom with a bath big enough for two and dinner served by a butler who, having made sure they had everything they needed, made a discreet exit.
It felt, Ally thought, like a brief honeymoon. Absolutely perfect.
“I’ve been thinking about a hen party.” It was four weeks to the wedding. Ally, Hope and Flora were in London for their final dress fittings and they were celebrating the occasion with supper at their favourite Italian restaurant.
“Oh, no, you’re not distracting us that easily,” Hope said. “We want to hear all about you and Fredrik.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Oh, come on. He turned up in Combe St Philip, kissed you in front of dozens of people before whisking you off to London for a date. Who does that any more?”
“It’s just a fling, ladies – move on, nothing to see.” Ally had stuck firmly to that line after her disappearing act in San Michele, and she wasn’t budging just because Flora had seen Fredrik pick her up at the Hall.
“Where did he take you? Fancy restaurant, the theatre, back row of the cinema ... Come on, you have to give us something!”
“All those were on offer,” she replied, “and we did have dinner but since time was short, I opted for room service.”
“Whoa! So it was a hot date,” Flora said, grinning.
“Hot as Hades since you’re asking but Fredrik will leave with the royal party the day after the wedding and, with luck and a following wind, I’ll be fighting off job offers. End of.”
“If the gossip mags had any sense they would be lining up,” Hope said.
“They are. Even the man who sacked me has suggested that he might have been a little hasty and invited me down for a ‘chat over lunch’ to discuss my ‘career prospects’.”
“Somewhere expensive I hope,” Flora said.
“Never going to happen.”
“If you’ve given up on the gossip magazines, what are you going to do?” Hope asked.
“To be honest I’ve loved doing this PR stuff.”
“You’ve done an amazing job, giving the media what they need without me having to get involved.”
“Your job is to marry a prince. Mine is to show the world how it happened.”
The diary was down to the last few pages. Dress fittings, hen party, last moments with her friends and family.
Her bridesmaid blog had been featured in all the gossip magazines, the editors no doubt hoping to earn enough brownie points to get a chance of some exclusive photographs, or an interview with the bride.
So far they had all been scooped by the local county magazine, which had run a feature on Sir Max’s landscape business; and a glossy cookery magazine had interviewed Flora on her role as royal wedding chef. They had been too polite to push for details of her menu, but there had been a photograph of the jars of San Michele honey lined up on her pantry shelves and a number of local sweet recipes in which it featured.
Since it had appeared Flora had received a number of offers from magazines and publishers and a famous department store had started stocking the honey.
“If a chance to get into PR, serious stuff, came up ...”
“You should grab the moment, Ally, and start up on your own.”
“Nice thought but no money,” she said, reaching into her bag for her notebook. “Hen party?” she reminded them. “I thought the Friday before the wedding –”
“Hold on,” Flora said. “We’re getting away from the important stuff here.”
“What can be more important than Hope’s hen party?”
They both looked at her as if she was mad. “Fredrik?”
“Jonas said he’s seemed like a different man since you came to San Michele,” Hope said, with that upward inflection that invited a confidence.
“He’s been reunited with his family,” Ally pointed out.
He’d faced his mountain – both real and metaphorical – and although their lives would separate after the wedding, she knew he would never forget her, just as she would never forget him.
“But –”
But ...
There had been a second weekend, nearer to home in a country hotel near Bath, and while she was still getting those curt businesslike emails from Fredrik, the post brought postcards, discreetly tucked into envelopes, to her office at the Hall. Pictures of his mountains, the harbour at San Michele, views of the castle, a crystal clear mountain lake. And on the reverse always the same four words. Sometimes with a question mark. Sometimes without.
Wish you were here.
She swallowed down the lump that rose in her throat.
“But nothing.” To imagine anything else was inviting heartbreak. She opened her notebook, rapped the table with her pen. “Concentrate.”
Hope looked as if she might say more, but Flora jumped in. “You’re right. It’s a big moment. Lots of changes for all of us. We have to do something to mark the moment.”
Aware that she was fighting a losing battle, Hope surrendered. “Okay, but nothing that involves me wearing wings and an ‘L’ plate.”
“What about a night in a spa?” Flora suggested. “We could have the works: face, nails, massage?”
“Plus good food and a glass or two of bubbly. Just the thing to set us all up for the big day.” Ally looked at Hope.
“That’ll do.”
“Great. Now who are you going to invite?”
“Courtesy demands I ask Princess Anna.”
; “Ask away. She and Carlo have engagements in London the weekend before the wedding so I think you’ll be safe.”
Hope arched a brow. “Pillow talk?”
“If you think I’d waste time talking about Princess Anna when I’m in bed with Fredrik, think again,” she said. “But please forget that you heard that from me.”
“Lip zipped,” Flora said, grinning.
“Right. Invite Anna as a courtesy. What about Celina? She isn’t going to have much fun babysitting the Dowager.”
“It’s worse than that,” Hope said. “Jonas completely lost the plot and asked Jack Masterson to be his best man. Her ex-husband,” she added when they both looked blank.
Both Ally and Flora sat for moment in stunned silence.
“Celina was married to Jack Masterson? The Jack Masterson?” Legendary guitarist and singer, front man for the rock group South Face?
“They all met in college in the US, apparently.”
“Right. Well let’s hope that doesn’t leak out before the day or there’ll be an invasion of groupies that nothing will stop.”
“He’ll be keeping a very low profile. No hotels. He’ll be staying at Westonbury Court before the wedding.”
“So is Celina,” Ally pointed out. “It doesn’t matter how amicable their divorce was, that isn’t going to be any fun for her. We need to make an effort to include her. Offer her an escape if she needs it.”
“Leave it to me,” Flora said. “I’ll think of something.”
Ally peeled off her rubber gloves for the last time. The wedding was taking place in ten days and she would be spending every waking hour of them coping with the last-minute details. Not just the final details of the press PR campaign to launch Becoming a Princess, fending off last-minute incursions by the press, but the Wedding on the Green had been her idea; she had promised to handle the arrangements and she wanted to ensure that it ran like clockwork.
“I’m off, Jennifer.”
“Ally ... We’ll miss you so much. I’m sorry you won’t be back after the wedding but I suppose you have job offers rolling in?”
Jennifer’s smile didn’t quite meet her eyes and there was a touch of gritted teeth behind it.
“I’ve been really grateful for the job, Jennifer, but it’s time to move on.”
“Of course. There’s just one last thing. Could you take this through to the snug?” She handed her a tray containing a small cafetière, two cups, sugar and cream. “There’s someone waiting to see you.”
Fredrik ...
Her head might know that whatever they had was temporary but her heart, leaping with something very like joy, clearly hadn’t got the message. She took the tray, backed into the room but when she turned the man sitting by the window wasn’t Fredrik. It was Steve Pike, the editor of Celebrity.
“Ally.” He stood up, a courtesy he would never have extended when she worked for him.
“Steve.” She put the tray down but remained standing, forcing him to do the same.
“You’re looking well.”
Better than him, she thought. There were strain lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a few months ago. The comments in rival magazines, newspaper gossip columns, laughing at the fact that he’d fired the woman who was going to be a royal bridesmaid, speculation on how long he would last, were clearly taking their toll.
“It must be the clean country air.”
He nodded, oblivious to the barbed comment. “You’ve been doing an amazing job for Miss Kennard. I’m very impressed.” She waited. “You received a copy of the magazine featuring your royal bridesmaid blog?”
“Along with a dozen others.”
She’d put the tear sheet in the album she had created for Hope, and a photocopy in her own job-seeking portfolio, along with all the others she’d received. The other editors had received personal thank you notes and the promise of a copy of Becoming a Princess hot off the press – no one was getting an advance look except the newspaper paying a lot of money to run an excerpt along with a colour feature on San Michele on the day of the wedding.
The editor of Celebrity had been sent a printed acknowledgement.
“Won’t you sit down, Ally?”
“I’m not stopping.”
Steve nodded and, accepting that this wasn’t going to be a convivial chat over a cup of coffee, took a small piece of folded paper from his inside pocket and handed it to her.
She opened it and on it was written a life-changing sum of money. More than enough to move back to London and set herself up in her own PR business.
She didn’t respond – she was literally speechless – but assuming that she was waiting for him to raise his offer, he took it back, crossed out the figure and increased it by twenty five per cent before handing it back.
“That’s it. My best offer.”
She knew that kind of sum was paid for pictures, gossip, to run interference across a rival’s expensive exclusive, but to see it in black and white was shocking.
“Photographs, details of the dress, the wedding menu, gossip,” he prompted.
Steve Pike was a man who thought everyone had a price and he was showing her the money, certain that she would not be able to resist all those noughts.
Not sure how steady her voice would be she tossed the paper on the table and walked out, desperate to get home and stand under a hot shower until she felt clean.
Fredrik, having organized security for the royal party in London, left them in the capable hands of his second in command and drove down to Wiltshire to check that everything was ready for their arrival.
It was still early and he pulled into the Three Bells car park, hoping to catch Ally in her granny’s pinny.
“Fredrik ...” Jennifer Harmon was all smiles. “Are you here to check us out before the wedding?”
“Not necessary, Mrs Harmon. I was hoping to catch Ally.”
“She is such a popular girl these days. The editor of Celebrity was in here a couple of days ago. I let them have the snug for their meeting. Can I get you anything? Coffee? A drink?”
“She’s not here?”
“Oh, no, didn’t I say? She doesn’t have time to work here now. And of course she doesn’t need the money. Today’s edition,” she said, pushing an open copy of the magazine towards him.
It was folded back at a photograph of a page from the wedding diary.
He stared at it for a moment. “Can I get a copy of this from the village store?”
She took a piece of paper from her pocket to mark the page, closed the magazine and offered it to him. “Take this one.”
There were roses showering petals on the windowsill of the Hasebury Hall office. She was going to miss working here after the wedding, but for now there was plenty to keep her busy.
She was less than halfway through her post when she opened an envelope containing a tear sheet from Celebrity. Apart from the headline all it contained was a photographic image of a page from the wedding diary.
For a moment she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Then she did and she couldn’t breathe. Fredrik ... He’d think that she’d sold out. That she’d been playing him ... She had to speak to him before he saw it and she grabbed her phone and hit fast dial.
He wasn’t picking up. She waited impatiently while he invited her to leave a message, then said, “Fredrik –”
“Ally.”
She looked at her phone, frowned and then, sensing the presence behind her, spun round.
“Fredrik ... You’re here. I wasn’t expecting you until after the weekend.”
Chapter Twelve
“Obviously.”
There was no kiss, no smile as he took a step forward, pushed the door closed behind him and her initial jolt of pleasure at seeing him faded as he tossed the latest copy of Celebrity on her desk.
“You’ve seen it already. I’d hoped –”
“What? That I’d be too busy to notice?”
“No! I was just calling to let you know. Explain.�
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“What? That someone leaked it?” He didn’t wait, wasn’t interested in hearing what she might have to say but swept on. “You’ve played it so beautifully, Ally. All that crap about how Hope and Flora had rescued you from a groper in the dark. How you could never betray either of them.”
“It wasn’t –”
“I knew it,” he said, not prepared to listen to anything she had to say until he’d got it all off his chest. “I knew it right from the start. You’re out of a job, in debt and you had all the contacts. It was obvious that you’d have every creep running a gossip mag lining up to offer you money, a job. Common sense told me that you’d take it but one damn kiss and like everyone else I took the bait you threw me and swallowed it hook, line and sinker.”
He crossed to the window, staring out at the garden as if he couldn’t bear to look at her, his hands thrust deep into his pockets as if he couldn’t trust himself not to throttle her, his entire body vibrating with tension.
“Dom told you that I didn’t speak to my mother and an hour later you were telling me how you’d confronted you worst fear, talked to your attacker and with one bound you were free ...”
“Are you sorry you talked to your mother?”
He stiffened. “No, but that’s not the damn point.”
“I’m sure you’ll get to it.”
He turned to face her. “The point is, Ally, that you’re brilliant at what you do. People trust you, confide in you. Even the Crown Princess melted for you.”
“I talked to her,” she said. “Everyone else seems too scared to. She’s an unhappy woman.”
He swore. “You must have enough dirt to start your own gossip magazine.”
“Undoubtedly,” she said. “Unhappy people talk to me. In the bus queue, on trains, sitting at the next table in a coffee shop. They always have. Nico spilled his heart out. Princess Anna told me how she married for duty but fell in love with her husband.”
“So why is she unhappy?”
“Because for him it was never more than duty and he’s begun looking at other women with hungry eyes.”