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

by Kate Johnson

  The large, glossy carrier bags of supplies on the kitchen table seemed to have come almost exclusively from the Allendale gift shop, which appeared to sell everything under the sun. There were toiletries of all kinds, made in the local town and scented with herbs and florals ‘traditionally grown in our kitchen garden.’

  “Must be a hell of a garden,” she said to Jamie, unpacking a shampoo and conditioner set made with local honey.

  “I’m kind of disappointed the toothpaste isn’t made with their own spearmint,” he replied, holding up an ordinary tube of Colgate.

  “Okay, you get points for the toothpaste and I get them for the condoms. Anything else they don’t stick their own label on?”

  They made a game of it, unpacking local cheese and bread and vegetables. Jamie won points for supermarket pasta, and Clodagh for teabags. The Duke of Allendale was apparently very proud of his sheep, and the estate produced sweaters and socks and even lanolin soap. Clodagh expected to win the game by unpacking this bag, but there appeared to be a ‘country shop’ selling eye-wateringly expensive clothing of the sort worn by people who carried shotguns broken over their arms and were permanently followed by Labradors.

  “That doesn’t count, they sell them here,” Jamie said as she held up some walking boots.

  “You can’t just make up the rules as you go along,” she complained.

  “Course I can, I’m a prince.”

  “And I’m a… what am I going to be?” she asked, slightly delirious.

  “Uh…” he was sorting through a bag of cheerfully coloured shirts and didn’t look up, “probably a duchess. It’s usual to grant a title upon marriage, so we’d be the Duke and Duchess of somewhere. You could be Clodagh, Princess James of Wales, but probably not since Annemarie didn’t take that and anyway, it’s—Clo?”

  She grabbed at a chair and sat down abruptly. “A duchess?”

  “Yeah.” Jamie put down the shirt he was holding. “One of the extinct titles, I expect. Cumberland? Sussex? Um… probably don’t want Albany, he was a traitor in the First World War. Are you all right?”

  “Duchess,” Clodagh said. She took a deep breath and let it out, and there was Jamie, crouching in front of her. He took her hands.

  “You don’t have to be,” he said. “We could ask not to be.”

  “Prince Jamie and Mrs Windsor?”

  “Mrs Wales, or—yep, right, shut up Jamie. Hey.” His eyes were kind. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a title.”

  “Says the prince. ‘Clodagh the Duchess.’ Oh God, my mum will do her nut.” She screwed her face up. “Ugh. I’m going to have to call her, aren’t I?”

  Jamie nodded reluctantly. “And I’ve got to call… I don’t know. Peaseman probably.” He got to his feet. “Breakfast, and then we’ll go and see what the damage is, okay? Can’t face all this on an empty stomach.”

  They had eggs and bacon and orange juice. ”Points to me,” said Clodagh, taking it out of the fridge, and Jamie grinned mischievously.

  “Nope. Orangery, my dear Clodagh. Check the label.”

  She did. “Are you kidding? Oranges in Derbyshire?”

  “The glasshouses are really impressive. I’ll show you… one day,” he finished lamely. They both knew there wasn’t going to be much opportunity for that any time soon.

  They hadn’t quite finished eating when there was a knock at the door. Exchanging glances, Clodagh said, “I’ll go.”

  It was Geraint, sober-faced. “Sorry to interrupt, but there have been a few developments.”

  “What kind of developments?”

  He had a pile of newspapers under his arm. Clodagh’s appetite abruptly vanished. She took her plate to the sink, and Jamie’s followed shortly after.

  “Well. To start with, Lady Olivia has been running interference for you, sir. I have had some… vehement phone calls from Her Majesty’s office.”

  Jamie winced. “I’ll bet.”

  “We have kept your location secret for now,” Geraint said, and the last couple of words sounded heavy to Clodagh. “However, there has been…” he paused, “heavy media speculation about your… actions yesterday.”

  Jamie ran his hands through his hair, which made it stick out all over the place, and sighed. He held out his hand to Clodagh, who took it and went to sit beside him. “Okay. Go.”

  Geraint plonked down the sheaf of newspapers. Most of the headlines were about the funeral, most of the main pictures the Royal Standard-draped coffin. But the teasers up by the mastheads, they were all about Jamie and his ‘mystery woman’.

  Mystery woman. Well, that bought her some time—

  “Online versions have since been updated,” Geraint said, bring out his iPad and showing them a broadsheet website. Jamie flinched. Clodagh squeezed his hand hard, and made herself look.

  “Prince Jamie’s ‘Mystery Woman’ Revealed,” it said, and underneath was a picture of Clodagh from sixteen years ago. A headshot of her from the publicity stills the TV company had done at the start of filming, and then a larger, fuzzier shot of her from the show itself. She was probably seven or eight months pregnant, hair scraped back into a pineapple style, ears full of gold rings, face full of make-up. She had the total chav uniform, too, the velour tracksuit and the cropped t-shirt showing her belly.

  Clodagh exhaled slowly.

  “Teenage mum identified as Prince Jamie’s secret squeeze,” said the subheading.

  She turned away. “I don’t want to read it. Who… was it my family?”

  Jamie put his arm around her as she turned her face to his chest. “It looks like your mum. Wait… no, a friend saw the footage online—”

  “Footage?”

  “There were photos from the pub and a short video clip,” said Geraint. “It went viral.”

  “Of course it did,” said Jamie pessimistically. “A friend saw it online and texted her that it looked a lot like you, and… she remembered the name of the pub you worked at because, of course… well, long story short she seems to have put two and two together and made four. Locals at the pub would only identify you as ‘Clodagh who works behind the bar’ but no more than that, so that’s loyalty, I suppose,” he added, trying to sound encouraging.

  “But my mum dropped me in it.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t on purpose. I mean, I’m sure she didn’t mean to…”

  Clodagh sighed. Well, this had been nice while it lasted. “She never means to. I can see it, she’ll have got all excited and called one of those ‘do you have a story’ lines they have in the tabloids and told them.” She lifted her head and looked at Jamie, all sympathy, and Geraint, stoically blank.

  “She won’t have thought about what it actually means for me, or you, or even herself. Was there a payout? Bet there was a payout.”

  “Estimates in the region of six figures,” Geraint murmured. “For a tabloid exclusive.”

  “Really? Jesus. Well, no wonder. That’d buy half of Harlow.” She’d never really looked at property prices there. It wasn’t like anyone in her family could afford to buy anything. But even at the bottom end of the six figure scale, “That’s more money than anyone in my family—on my whole estate—has ever seen in their entire lives. All put together. You’d sell your own grandma for that. You’d sure as hell sell your daughter,” she added, looking sadly at the iPad.

  “How much of the story do they have?” Jamie asked.

  “Most of it, from what we can tell. Sold it to one of the tabloids as an exclusive. Everyone else has picked it up from there. It had spread before we could block it,” he added apologetically.

  “Not your job,” Jamie said crisply. He seemed to straighten. “Right. You’ve spoken to Peaseman?”

  “Many times,” said Geraint, with just a hint of suffering. “He was most insistent he spoke directly to you. We have also taken calls from your mother’s press secretary, your father’s, your sister’s and your sister-in-law’s, as well as Her Majesty’s. Lady Olivia has drafted a statement she w
ishes you to look over.”

  He flicked to something else on the iPad.

  Jamie kissed Clodagh on the cheek and said, “Never explain, never complain, never apologise.”

  “Easy for you to say,” she said miserably.

  Geraint handed over the iPad with Olivia’s press release.

  “His Royal Highness Prince Jamie is aware that there has been significant speculation about his private life in recent weeks but asks for respect and privacy at this difficult time.”

  “That’s it?” Clodagh said.

  “Her ladyship wondered if an additional few statements might be added,” Geraint said. He scrolled up.

  “Clarence House can confirm that an erroneous statement was released describing His Royal Highness as ‘in a relationship’ with his childhood friend Lady Olivia Altringham. Whilst Lady Olivia has been of significant comfort to Prince Jamie during the recent tragic events, His Highness and Her Ladyship wish to clarify that their relationship has never moved beyond close friendship.”

  “I see we’re bringing out all the titles,” Jamie muttered.

  Under this statement was another one, framed with question marks.

  “Clarence House is pleased to confirm that Prince Jamie is in a relationship with Miss Clodagh Walsh. The couple met in Cambridge last year as His Royal Highness began his PhD studies.”

  It was succinct, to say the least. Clodagh supposed the less was said, the less there was to be misinterpreted.

  “Kind of playing is fast and loose with their use of the word ‘pleased’,” she said.

  “How much do they know?” Jamie asked.

  “I can’t say, sir.” Geraint looked pained. “I really think you ought to talk to Major Peaseman, sir.”

  Jamie groaned, buried his head in his hands, and then straightened and held out his hand for the phone.

  “Major—yes, I’m fine, I—well, of course I’ve heard—yes, I was there, for God’s sake—no, of course I know—because I wanted to get away from this bloody circus, that’s why!”

  He leapt to his feet, free hand rumpling his hair. Clodagh watched him pace as Peaseman evidently gave him an earful.

  “Ma’am?” said Geraint, and Clodagh looked up. “Lady Olivia wished to speak with you.”

  “She did?” Clodagh felt a bit sick. “About?”

  To his credit, Geraint didn’t roll his eyes. He just held out a phone—her own, Clodagh realised, seeing a horrific number of missed calls and a collection of texts whose number seemed to be updating rapidly.

  “I’ll be outside,” he said, and made his escape.

  Clodagh took a deep breath and scrolled to Olivia’s number.

  “Darling! Oh my God, I thought you’d never call. Bear with,” she said to someone else. “No, shut up, this is very important. Darling, are you all right?”

  “Me darling?” Clodagh said.

  “Yes, you, darling. Everyone has ears around here,” Olivia muttered. “What’s going on? Have you seen? It’s everywhere! I knew he was… but not that he’d… well. I mean the cat’s out of the bag now, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Clodagh. When she closed her eyes she saw that picture of herself.

  “Right, now, hang on… all right. That’s better.” The background noise faded away. “Now. I assume you know the whole story has broken? All the gory details. That dreadful YouTube clip has… goodness me, the counter is still going up. Have you seen the coverage?”

  “Some of it.” Clodagh looked out of the window, where only trees and sky were visible.

  “Right. Don’t look at any more. That’s the first rule, don’t read what they’re saying about you. Get someone else to do it and summarise. Is that Jamie I can hear?”

  “He’s talking to his private secretary.”

  “Ah. Yes. The good old Major. We’ve had several somewhat terse conversations this morning. I won’t bore you with the details. He’s going to need his own press secretary at this rate. Now. I’ve drafted a couple of statements, so have a look for me and we can see if HM’s press secretary approves. They’re all writing their own, of course, but it never hurts to get one’s oar in first. Has Geraint shown you?”

  “Yes. They look fine to me, but what do I know?”

  “Poor darling, you’re having quite the crash course, aren’t you? Now. Are the two of you happy to say you’re in a relationship? Takes the bloody heat off me, but then I’m just being selfish.”

  “I—” Clodagh glanced at Jamie, who was leaning against the Aga, listening to his phone and looking fed up. “I don’t know. I—we—”

  “Right. Yes. Well, I’ll need to speak to him. Now. Damage limitation. We need a strategy. Do you have any ideas?”

  “Um,” began Clodagh, who didn’t. Damn, and I turned down Media Studies GCSE.

  “Because what I was thinking was… we just say nothing.”

  She paused for effect. Clodagh stared at the trees and sky.

  “Nothing?”

  “Yes. Let the whole frenzy just play out. All the clips and the reruns. The Palace can probably suppress some of them, but injunctions always make the news and it all ends up being counter productive anyway. What’s out there is out there. We draw a line beneath it, and move on.”

  “Move on?” echoed Clodagh, disbelieving. Nothing was ever that simple.

  “Yes. Never explain, never complain, never apologise. You see—look, there’s one important question I have to ask you. Should have asked it first, really. How serious are you about him?”

  Clodagh looked back at Jamie, who caught her eye and made a chattering motion with his hand. He looked tired, and bored, and the smudges of grief weren’t going to leave his eyes any time soon, but he was her Jamie, and she loved him completely.

  “I love him,” she said. She said it into the phone, but she was looking at Jamie, and his smile widened. “I love him to the height and depth my soul can reach.”

  “Oh,” breathed Olivia, but Clodagh wasn’t listening. She set down the phone on the table and went across to Jamie, putting her arms around his waist and laying her head on his chest.

  “Actually, Major, can I interrupt you for a minute there?” Jamie said into his phone. He didn’t wait for an answer, but tilted Clodagh’s face up and kissed her.

  “Shall I tell him?” he murmured.

  “Olivia wants to know how serious we are,” Clodagh said. Stretching up, she whispered in his ear, “I think we should tell them.”

  Jamie’s fingers caressed her neck. “And let them figure out the details?”

  “Yes. So much yes.”

  He nodded, and straightened away from her. “Okay. Is she still live? Just a…”

  He took Clodagh’s phone, ignored Olivia’s squawking, and did something that linked both lines. Clodagh grinned. Sexy, clever man.

  “All right, Major, Olivia, you’re both on speaker phone. Shut up and listen a minute.”

  He waited while they both protested, and drew Clodagh into his arms.

  “Do you have a pen? Take this down. ‘His Royal Highness Prince James of Wales is delighted to formally announce that he is in a serious relationship with Miss Clodagh Walsh. His Royal Highness met Miss Walsh last year in Cambridge. The couple request your respect and privacy at this time.’ Got that?”

  He glanced at Clodagh as both phones erupted with questions.

  “Also, we’re getting married,” Clodagh murmured, as if either of them could hear.

  “I think we’ll keep that quiet for now, don’t you?” he said, and Clodagh nodded. “I’ve got to speak to Granny anyway.”

  “Release that statement,” Jamie told the phones. “Put it on Twitter, and my website, send it to the papers, do what you like. Easel outside the palace, I don’t care. That’s the official statement. No more until I’ve spoken to my family. Goodbye.”

  With that he ended both calls, and exhaled hard, finding a smile from somewhere for Clodagh.

  “Well done.”

  “Yeah.” He put his
arms around her and she let herself enjoy the feel of his body against hers. “That’s the easy part. I’m afraid,” he sighed, “we can’t put it off very long.”

  “Your family?”

  “My family.” He held her a bit longer, the two of them standing close and quiet in the kitchen of the Hunting Tower, and then Jamie sighed and reached for his phone. “Major. Did Her Majesty give an indication of when I was to be summoned? Right. Okay, let me know.”

  He fiddled with his phone a moment, then did the same with hers. Clodagh stayed still, listening to his heart beat.

  “Should be getting calls from Peaseman, Olivia, and the PPOs only,” he said, tossing her phone on the table. “Otherwise they’ll never shut up.” He hesitated. “You want to call your mum?”

  No. “What can she possibly say?”

  Jamie gently lifted her chin and made her look at him. “Maybe she’s worried about you.”

  “First time for everything.” She eyed her phone as if it might sprout legs and teeth and attack her. “Urgh, I don’t wanna,” she groaned, but Jamie picked up the phone and held it out to her. “You’re mean.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her and sat down to watch. Clodagh took the seat katy-corner from him and dialled her mum, praying for voicemail.

  “Shar? Oh my God, it’s Sharday! Everyone! Shar why didn’t you tell us! Oh my God we have champagne here! Well, Mr Singh didn’t have any so we’ve got prosecco but it’s the same thing anyway. Are you, like wall-to-wall champers there, babes? Shar?”

  Clodagh closed her eyes. “Hi Mum.”

  “Are you okay, babe? You don’t sound very happy for someone who’s just totally snagged a prince. A prince!” she cried, and people cheered in the background.

  “Well, his brother did just die so we’re not all rainbows and puppies around here,” Clodagh reminded her.

  “Oh. Oh, yeah. My condolences to him, yeah? Is he there? Can I talk to him?”

  Clodagh could absolutely see her, fluffing up her hair as she talked on the phone.

  “Yeah, no he’s really busy,” she said, making a face at Jamie. “We’ve got a lot to sort out, what with you outing me like that.”