Not Your Cinderella: a Royal Wedding Romance (Royal Weddings Book 1)

by Kate Johnson

  “Seriously? I’d’ve given them what-for.”

  “I did. Made no difference. And Kayleigh, look, I’m sorry I knocked you over, but you just landed right on my ankle and it really hurts, love, all right?”

  “Mine hurts worse,” Kayleigh said immediately, lower lip jutting out.

  “Don’t think it does, love,” said Sharon. “I’ll get you some paracetamol, babes,” she said to Clodagh, who thought that would be about as effective as an Olaf plaster, but nodded anyway.

  Her mum made the kids sit on the floor to eat their cereal, which they did with their noses three inches from the TV. When Whitney arrived to take Nevaeh to school she looked at Clodagh, still in her pyjamas on the sofa, and said, “Wish I could lie around all day like you, Shar. I’ve been up since six.”

  “So have I,” Clodagh said, and tried moving her ankle again. It was still unsuccessful.

  “Yeah, but you ain’t even dressed yet.” Whitney herself was dressed like the Tammy Girl icon of Clodagh’s pre-teens, in high-waisted jeans and a cropped polo-neck that revealed a belly-piercing. It didn’t suit her, and it made Clodagh feel old.

  “Sharday’s a raspberry, leave her alone,” said her mum, wrestling Nevaeh into a coat as Tyler and Destiny shed theirs and flew into the living room. “Mind Auntie Shar’s ankle!”

  The kids both peered at it and went, “Eurgh!” and laughed.

  “What? You was walking around yesterday.” Whitney pushed past her offspring and came into the room, peering down at Clodagh. This close, her perfume was overwhelming.

  Whitney patted her hair, which had been braided tightly across the hairline. The roots were dark, the ends frazzled blonde. She had thick black eyeliner and spiky lashes, her lips pink and sticky. Clodagh thought she might have seen this particular look on an intensely annoying girlband, and from it she deduced that Whitney was on the hunt for a replacement for Tyler’s father, Jayden.

  “Ew,” she said, looking at Clodagh’s ankle. “Is it supposed to look like that?”

  “No,” said Clodagh.

  “You should get to the doctor’s then, babe.” With that sage advice, her youngest sister swept away her children, leaving Kayleigh behind to scratch at her chickenpox spots and glare at Clodagh.

  “She’s right,”said Sharon as she picked up the kid’s cereal bowls.

  “And how’m I supposed to get there?” There was a surgery not far away, but Clodagh wasn’t even sure if she could stand, let alone walk, right now. And besides, she thought, looking down at the limb that was beginning to look like something from a cartoon, the GP probably would take one look at it and send her to A&E.

  “I’ll give Scott a ring. He can give you a lift.”

  Scott, who did cash-in-hand building work for a mate, took a while to respond, then even longer to agree to give his sister a lift to the doctor’s surgery.

  “No, the hospital, Mum. The hospital,” Clodagh repeated, and then a three-way argument began with her mother stating it wasn’t that bad and Scott complaining the traffic round the hospital was really bad and the parking was extortionate.

  “Just drop me off, then,” Clodagh said through gritted teeth.

  Right then her phone buzzed. Jamie. Oh, thank God. “I never asked what you’re studying.”

  Dammit, dammit. All her coursework was done by email, but her registered address for the course was Hanna’s flat. She’d have to change that, if she could get on someone’s wi-fi. Her mum’s had been cut off and they kept trying to nick the neighbours’.

  “A Levels,” she replied bluntly, in no mood to be cute.

  “All right, Shar, Scott’s coming to pick you up about ten,” said her mother, putting the phone down. “Which means half past, ‘cos he’s always late.”

  “He’s not my real dad,” piped up Kayleigh.

  “No, he’s not,” agreed Clodagh, finding herself tapping out another text to explain. Why did it bother her so much? Oh yeah, because he was doing a PhD in Computer Science and she didn’t even have GCSE Maths.

  “I want to study history. At Cambridge. Which probably sounds stupid when I’m 31 and have no A Levels, but there you are, that’s the goal.”

  Jamie replied, “It’s a good goal. What’s your area of interest?”

  “Social history. Well, women’s history. That’s what I blog about. Did you know Queen Anne was pregnant at least seventeen times and was not survived by a single child?” How’s that for Random Fact Girl? “Mostly women overlooked by history, especially women of colour. But that can wait for the masters degree,” she added flippantly.

  “Clodagh Walsh, MPhil. Has a nice ring to it. That explains your rando Rosalind Franklin knowledge. And where’s your blog?”

  “Sure, why not go for the PhD if we’re looking at impossible dreams. And not telling you.”

  “Why impossible?”

  She laughed out loud, then assured her mum she was just looking at funny cat videos.

  “You’ll use up all your data,” said Sharon. “The Singhs changed their password. I’ll see if anyone else is unsecured…”

  “Er, how much is your PhD costing?” Clodagh texted.

  There was a short silence. Then the prince replied, “Good point. There are grants, you know.”

  “Yes, for very exceptional people.”

  “You’re very exceptional,” he replied, and she wasn’t sure what to say to that.

  “Peaseman’s going to love you,” said Khan as Jamie got back in the car.

  He groaned. His private secretary didn’t come on every royal visit, and Jamie was beginning to wish he had this time. “I know. What the hell was I thinking?”

  “Geraint won’t be too pleased either,” said Morris.

  “Whatever day it is, I’m busy,” Khan added.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Jamie had spent the day with a homeless charity, doing everything from food and laundry to walking the streets speaking to rough-sleepers and visiting families in squats and temporary accommodation. He’d listened with sympathy but no real surprise to the stories that had led people to these sorry states, from failed businesses to domestic abuse. One woman told him she’d been raped four times since she began living on the streets. Another showed him pictures of her child who’d died because the ambulance couldn’t find the squat they were living in.

  And somehow he’d found himself agreeing to sleep on the streets for a night to highlight the plight of the homeless.

  “Why does it have to be in winter?” Morris said.

  “Well, if it was in July the point would be rather negated,” Jamie replied, waving through the window until they’d passed the crowds. He stretched, his muscles protesting. He’d gone for a run this morning in Kensington Palace Gardens with Ed and his security detail, but Ed was in much better shape and had set a somewhat punishing pace.

  “Gotta run fast, little brother, or the paps’ll catch us,” he said, despite there being no evidence whatsoever of anyone with a zoom lens in the vicinity. They’d run right past a family taking pictures of the palace, but Edward was as accomplished at disguising himself as Jamie.

  No, that wasn’t quite right. Ed had been the one who pointed out that what they were in public was the disguise. A costume, perhaps. A sharp suit, bespoke shirt, subtle tie. Clean-shaven, hair as tidy as possible (he always gave Jamie a severe look at this point), polished handmade shoes. An impeccable overcoat in the colder months.

  They were never officially seen in sports gear other than polo uniforms—and since Jamie was a terrible player this wasn’t a problem—and by some mutual accord their smart casual outfits wouldn’t have shamed a 1950s churchgoer.

  Running gear, sweatpants, hoodies and especially t-shirts were non-U. Jamie had added a variety of hats to his repertoire, from a Kangol beanie to a NY Nicks baseball cap, and of course his glasses helped enormously.

  Speaking of which… He got out his contacts case and popped his lenses out. Glasses on, tie off, much better.

  H
is phone lay still and quiet on the seat. Olivia had texted earlier and his heart had fallen irrationally when he’d seen it wasn’t Clodagh.

  Googling her would be bad… but she had told him she blogged about overlooked historical women. Women of colour, too. And that Queen Anne quip. Maybe…

  He found way more results than he’d expected to. Some were clearly American, so he skipped on past those. Many of them listed the name and credentials of the author, so he could discount those too.

  By the time he thought he’d found her, the car had just turned onto the M11. But halfway through a blogpost about Mary Seacole, his phone buzzed. Clodagh!

  “What was the name of the doctor who treated me at Adam Brooks?”

  Buzz. “I mean Addenbrookes. Stupid autocorrect.”

  Jamie frowned. Maybe she needed to pass it on to her new doctor in Harlow. “Can’t remember. I’ll see if Benson knows.”

  He opened the privacy screen and asked Khan to call through to Benson.

  “Ta. The PAH system won’t sync with Cambridgeshire, *of course*, so he can’t access my X-rays.”

  “Your GP can’t do it?”

  Clodagh took her time typing a reply. More than once the ‘typing’ bubble disappeared, as if she’d deleted without sending.

  “Are you OK?” Jamie sent.

  Khan replied with the doctor’s name. Thank god for Benson’s good memory. Jamie asked for the spelling and texted it to Clodagh, but her reply had already come through.

  “I’m fine,” she sent, then immediately, “No I’m not. Ankle got worse. Long story.”

  Got worse? How could it get worse? Wasn’t it just a simple break?

  “What happened? Tell me.”

  In fits and starts, she told him she’d done too much walking and then a kid had jumped on her ankle in bed and she’d ended up back at A&E. A longer wait followed this, and Jamie watched the passing road signs with increasing anxiety. Should he tell Morris to keep going onwards to Harlow?

  “They’ve realigned the bones. I have to wear a plaster cast. Can’t bear weight on it at all. Stuck on Mum’s sofa for weeks. All because some impatient cow thought I was being too slow at the check-out in Aldi and my horrible step niece or whatever the fuck she is thought I’d make a good trampoline. I hate this place. I hate everyone.”

  Immediately that was followed by, “Sorry. Just a bit fed up. Not looking forward to the next few weeks.”

  Weeks of her millions of nieces and nephews demanding fizzy drinks and Peppa Pig. Weeks of not being able to escape, even to the shops. Weeks of no one doing anything for her—because Jamie got the very clear impression it was Clodagh who did things for her family, not the other way around.

  Weeks of her soul being chipped away, bit by bit, until the bright, funny girl who made jokes about cats and learned about nucleation and wrote those smart, clever blogs had disappeared completely.

  “Don’t turn off,” he said to Morris. “We’re going to Harlow. Call Lenka and have her make up the second bedroom. No ifs or buts.”

  To Clodagh he texted, “I’m half an hour away. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Well, what the hell was she supposed to make of any of this? From cat jokes and kids’ TV to meeting her at the hospital?

  Again?

  At least she didn’t have a concussion this time. She’d tried to explain to the staff at this hospital that she didn’t remember most of what happened at the other hospital because of her concussion, which had led to a misunderstanding about being checked for a concussion now, and all the while her ankle throbbed so badly she couldn’t think straight.

  Now, with it reset—after a lecture about not letting people hit her with trolleys, as if she’d done it on purpose—and a hard cast on, she was trying to make her way on crutches back to the entrance. God, this was hard work. Slow-going.

  And her memories of this place were probably the worst she had. She’d nearly told Jamie that, and deleted it just in time.

  She spotted an empty chair and made towards it, so she could sit down and ask Jamie what the hell he thought he was playing at. But then two men came towards her, and one of them was Jamie in his geeky glasses and before she knew quite what was happening he was hugging her.

  “Are you okay?”

  She thought she heard a snigger from his PPO but when she looked up the man’s face was entirely neutral.

  “Sorry. Of course you’re not okay.” He held her by the shoulders and peered at her face. Clodagh had been trying not to cry most of the day, and she’d failed several times, which probably showed. “Does it hurt very much?”

  She shrugged. “No, but the anaesthetic hasn’t worn off yet. I have some more painkillers.” And if her mum nicked them this time there’d be another Walsh in the A&E.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  He sighed. “I know, but it feels like it is. Come on.”

  He walked her slowly out to his car, the prince and his bodyguard, and no one paid the blindest bit of notice. Clodagh supposed people had other things to worry about in an A&E department. While she’d been inside, darkness had fallen. Had it really been all day?

  All day, and the only person who’d contacted her was Jamie.

  “I was going to call my brother,” she said. “For a lift.” Although it would be nice to be escorted in Jamie’s luxury vehicle, at least when she was awake enough to appreciate it.

  “Well, now you don’t have to.” He opened the door for her himself. The seats inside were the sort of leather that looked buttery and soft. The carpet was thicker than anything Clodagh had ever had in her home. Even the damn lighting was good.

  She sighed, and got into the car, which took a bit of doing. Unsure what to do with the cumbersome cast, she tried to rest her foot on the floor, but the PPO did something to the seat and a leg-rest popped up.

  There was enough leg room in this car to have a leg-rest, and inches to spare. Between the front and back seats was a privacy screen. The wood trim gleamed expensively at her. It even smelled nice.

  This car was probably worth more than her mum’s entire block of flats.

  Jamie got in at the other side, and fussed over her comfort as the car set off. It was so smooth and quiet she had to check the scenery to be sure they were moving. Shame it’s such a short journey.

  “Now, okay,” he said, as they turned back onto the main road. “I have a proposal, and it might sound a bit mad, but hear me out.”

  Clodagh looked at him blankly.

  “Would it be accurate to say you’re not enjoying living here?”

  She gave a hollow laugh.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “You can take it as a hell yes,” Clodagh said.

  “Right. You’d rather be in Cambridge.”

  “Well, obvs. But in case you hadn’t noticed,” she gestured to her cast, toes peeping out from the end with their unvarnished nails, “I’m a bit of a raspberry right now.”

  “Raspberry?”

  Bloody new towns and their stolen rhyming slang. “Raspberry ripple. Cripple. I can’t work right now, which means I won’t be getting paid, which means I can’t afford anywhere to live. Not that I could before all this.” She rubbed her face. “That flat was a shithole, but it was all I could afford. Trust me, I’d have moved out if I could find anywhere.”

  And now it looked like months and months on her mum’s sofa, until her ankle healed and she could look for a new job. Mum had talked about disability allowance, but Clodagh knew that kind of thing never kicked in immediately, if it kicked in at all.

  “Well, then.” Jamie took in a deep breath and blew it out. “That’s why I’m offering you my spare room.”

  Oh, that anasthetic must be having a weird effect on her. “I’m sorry, I thought you said—what did you just say?”

  “Would you like to stay with me? The bigger spare room, Olivia had it last time. It’ll give you time to recover and work on your qualifications, and get s
ome advice about the application process. And you can feed Bustopher if I’m not around.”

  He gave her a smile that looked… hopeful?

  Clodagh stared blankly at the flawless leather of the seat arm. Hadn’t she read somewhere that this stuff came from cows kept inside so their hides wouldn’t be marked by scars from barbed wire or branches?

  “I can’t,” she said. There was no way she could afford to live with him. “Did you miss the part about me having no job?”

  “I’m not asking you to pay rent. Look, the day-to-day living costs aren’t going to change that much with one extra person living there. It’s no skin off my nose.”

  “But…” Clodagh didn’t know how to say it. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” asked Jamie, reasonably.

  They were passing Aldi now. It glowed in the darkness, car park full, people visible by the large windows packing up their cheap groceries.

  She wanted to tell him she couldn’t stay with him, that it felt like charity, that she had her pride, that it was demeaning. She wanted to tell him she would make her own way, but her own way felt short and bleak and somewhat circular. She was always going to wind up back here, in this crab bucket.

  As the huge luxury vehicle cruised easily round the roundabout, Clodagh saw a young woman, a teenager really, pause at the crossing with a baby buggy and a toddler. Pramface.

  “See that girl,” she said, and Jamie peered past her to look. “With the kids?”

  He nodded, and looked at her quizzically.

  Clodagh’s fingers came up to fiddle with the row of small hoops in her ear. “When I started secondary school, there were three hundred girls in my year. When I left, there were two hundred and fifty. Some had been excluded, some had left… and about twenty were doing exactly what she’s doing.”

  Jamie twisted back to look at the girl as the car glided past. She was probably sixteen or seventeen, her hair pulled back and a row of gold hoops in each ear. She looked tired and angry as she jiggled the buggy. She looked pretty much like Clodagh at that age, and like her mother had before her.

  “I used to look at girls like her and promise myself I’d never be one,” she said, staring at her reflection in the smooth black TV screen facing her. No braids, no frosted lipbalm, no spiky eyelashes. Only the earrings to give her away.