by Kate Johnson
“Miracles never cease. Did you put butter in it?”
Olivia’s face fell comically. Jamie laughed.
“You have other talents,” he said. “Clodagh. Would you like some proper food? I’m starving.”
“You had a massive lunch!” Olivia protested.
“Yes, and then I worked off all the calories by exercising my brain. What would you like for supper? I had a food delivery yesterday so the place is quite well stocked. Some weird Hallowe’en cupcakes I didn’t order, but that’s online grocery shopping for you.”
“I was only telling Clodagh how you can’t get anything delivered quickly here,” Olivia complained, following Jamie into the kitchen and apparently forgetting Clodagh couldn’t do the same. “I mean, you have to go out to the shops. What’s that all about?”
“I think it’s what normal people do, Oll.”
“Ugh. How awful. ‘Outside’.”
Jamie came back in, rolling his eyes. He had a package of chicken in one hand and a pizza box in the other. “What do you fancy?” he asked Clodagh. “The chicken will take a while to roast, or I could maybe make a risotto? Or a curry? I saw a recipe the other day for Korean chicken, but I haven’t tried it yet. Or there’s good old pizza. I have some pepperoni slices to go on it, if you like. And a salad, or chips. Or pasta? What do you like?”
Clodagh felt her eyes get big. She wondered if Jamie knew what an embarrassment of riches he’d just presented her with.
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes to what?”
“Any of it. All of it. Yes, please.”
He laughed. “I do like unfussy eaters.” He gave Olivia a severe look as he went back into the kitchen.
“I’m not fussy! I just don’t like things that are too spicy. Or brown. Ugh, brown food.”
“Brown food?” asked Clodagh, to be polite.
“You know. Chips. Sausage rolls. Chicken wings. Those sorts of buffets you get where everything is the same colour.”
The sort of food I’ve eaten every day of my life.
“Ignore her, she’s a snob and a half,” said Jamie, coming back in. “I’ll do chicken. Do you like barbecue sauce? I can do some chips with it and a bit of salad to keep Her Ladyship happy.”
“You’re hilarious,” said Olivia as she sat down beside him on the other sofa. “I’m going to go home soon, and eat proper food, like people in proper cities have.”
“Proper food from a proper takeaway?” Jamie teased, and she bashed him on the shoulder. “Stay for supper if you like. There’s plenty of food, not that you ever eat much.”
“Fat girls don’t keep jobs in PR, darling. If I have so much as one chip I’ll be up at five for the personal trainer, instead of six.”
“You should try rowing,” Jamie said, glancing at Clodagh and giving her half a smile. “Good all-round workout, so I hear.”
“And not as early as five am, either,” Clodagh said, glad to finally have something to add to the conversation.
“And cold and wet, ugh, no thank you. I shall stick to a nice clean warm gym, thank you very much.”
“Closest Olivia ever gets to rowing is the Henley Regatta,” Jamie said. “Apart from that time you were cheering from the boathouse,” he added with a sly wink.
Olivia pursed her lips. “I shall say nothing,” she said, “except that it’s true rowers to have amazing personal fitness. And speaking of fitness, Clodagh, have you seen the PPOs?”
“The…?”
“Personal protection officers,” Jamie said. He picked up the control and switched on the huge TV. “Olivia fancies one of them.”
“Can you blame me, darling? Have you seen his eyes?”
Jame made a gesture that seemed to convey he could see nothing special about the man’s eyes, and also that he was supremely disinterested in his girlfriend’s crushes.
Olivia turned to Clodagh. “So gorgeous. His name is Davood. Don’t you think that’s a sexy name?”
“I guess,” said Clodagh, who had absolutely no opinion on it whatsoever. Watching these two was like watching a sitcom.
“Your mother would disown you,” Jamie said, flicking through the onscreen guide. “Remember when you said you thought Idris Elba was hot? She went into conniptions at the very thought of having non-white grandchildren.”
“Yes, well, sometimes Mummy lives in the nineteenth century,” Olivia sniffed.
“Actually,” Clodagh began, and they both turned to look at her. “Um, wasn’t there a black queen at one point? I mean, she was descended from a Portuguese family who had African ancestry or something?”
“Really? Who was that?”
Your great-great-great-and-some grandmother. Oh crap. Random Fact Girl strikes again.
“Queen Charlotte, the wife of George III. It’s said her ancestor was a Moor, and that she had African features. By the American one-drop definition, that would make her black.”
“And me, too?” said Jamie, cocking his very white head.
“I suppose so. I mean it’s just a theory, no one knows for sure, and I don’t suppose we ever will.”
“Gosh, aren’t you exciting and exotic,” said Olivia, nudging him. “I’ll remember that next time Mummy comes over all Lady Catherine de Bourgh. ‘Are the shades of Allendale to be thus polluted?’” she declaimed, one hand to her brow.
“Your family is ridiculous,” said Jamie, getting up to go into the kitchen.
“Hello, pot, kettle!”
His head appeared around the doorway, a wicked glint in his eye. “What? Apparently the kettle is black.”
Olivia rolled her eyes at Clodagh. “Ignore him. Do you remember the fuss when Edward got married? Annemarie is lovely, but there were an awful lot of people complaining he should have married an English girl. Good God, I remember my mother trying to concoct some absurd plot to get me in his bedroom in my underwear.”
“Christ, did she?” said Jamie from the kitchen.
“Yes. Oh come on, Jamie, she’d send me off to be one of the Marquess of Bath’s wifelets given half a chance. Do you want a hand in there?” she called through.
“No,” came his firm reply. “Clodagh, do you like blue cheese dressing?”
“Probably,” said Clodagh, who had never been given much choice about what she might and might not like to eat.
“Choice is a luxury,” Clodagh’s grandmother used to tell her, and as she thought about the insane amount of food Prince Jamie had on offer, she could only nod.
Chapter Seven
Jamie made sticky chicken with barbecue sauce, and chips with salad and half a dozen types of dressing to choose from. He put on University Challenge and bickered with Olivia over the answers, whilst Clodagh drifted gently into a food coma.
She woke some time later under a blanket on the sofa, the room silent and empty but for a strange woman sitting on the sofa, reading a book.
“Um?” said Clodagh.
The woman gave her a polite smile that went nowhere near her eyes. “I’m Martins. One of His Highness’s PPOs. He asked me to stay here tonight as a chaperone.”
Clodagh tried to sit up, her head throbbing anew. “Why, does he think I’ll jump him or something?”
Martins shrugged. “He just thought you might be more comfortable knowing there was another woman around.”
Right, thought Clodagh, more comfortable and less likely to make up allegations about him. “That’s very kind,” she said, attempting to stand. “Where is His Highness?”
“Gone to bed. He has a full day tomorrow. He said if you give me a list of what you need—toiletries, clothes and so on—I can get them for you tomorrow.”
Clodagh thought about the parlous state of her finances, and nearly laughed.
“Yeah, sure. Think I’ll go to bed now, if we’re talking about silly dreams.”
Late the next morning after the best night’s sleep she’d ever had, she sat in bed checking her bank account on her phone and working out what she could afford to spend. There were some toile
tries in the bathroom, all of them brand new and unopened. Clodagh decided it wasn’t freeloading if she was expected to use them. But she needed clothes and shoes and underwear, and she might be able to get some of those things from charity shops but certainly not all.
She gave Martins a carefully planned list of items and shops that might stock them cheaply, and added anxiously, “I can’t pay you back immediately because I haven’t got enough in my purse, but if you can take me to a cashpoint I probably can.”
Hopefully. If she went into her overdraft. Again.
Martins gave her a slightly odd look, but nodded and handed her over to Phillips, another female PPO who had the same air of professional detachment. She sat in the living room, reading the newspaper, while Clodagh tried to work out what was going to be the least expensive thing to eat from Jamie’s extensively-stocked kitchen.
There were four types of mustard in the fridge. Who needed four types of mustard? And why did a man living alone need one of those huge American style fridges, with two doors and an ice dispenser?
She amused herself counting the different types of pasta in one cupboard—ten, including wholewheat and gluten free—and varieties of culinary oil on a shelf in the walk-in larder.
“Olive oil, light olive oil, extra virgin olive oil, chilli oil, sesame oil, truffle oil—ew,” she added as she took a sniff.
“Mostly that’s for dressings,” said Phillips, and Clodagh nearly dropped the bottle. Which would have been mortifyingly expensive.
“What?”
“Truffle oil. You add it to dressings and drizzle it into soups and things. It’s more of a garnish than a cooking oil.” She shrugged. “A little truffle goes a long way.”
Clodagh carefully replaced it. “I can’t say I’ve tried it. Isn’t that the stuff pigs hunt out?”
Phillips nodded. “And dogs. It’s ridiculously expensive.”
“I won’t go near it.”
“I’m sure His Highness won’t mind.”
“I wouldn’t appreciate it,” Clodagh said, backing out. Her ankle hurt a little less today, but she was keeping as much weight off it as she could all the same. The faster it healed, the better.
She’d already had to call the card shop in the Grafton Centre and the catering agency she sometimes worked for, to tell them there was no way she could make her weekend shifts. That had been painful. She hadn’t quite got up the courage to call Marte at the Prince’s Arms yet. Maybe after she’d put in a call to the CRB about disability allowance and sick pay when you had a zero hours contract…
“His Highness did say if you wanted to order anything in, that was fine. A takeaway,” Marte clarified. “Some places do Deliveroo around here, or perhaps one of us could go out for something.”
Was she mad? Okay, Prince Jamie clearly had a very extravagant household budget, but sending out for lunch? It was ridiculous.
Clodagh made herself a cheese sandwich, remembering the butter this time. She only put on a little, because you had to make butter last, and this was the real stuff too, no fake margarine rubbish. Fancy cheddar, no own-brand ‘mild cheese’ bollocks for a prince, and bread sliced so thick you got about half a dozen slices to the loaf.
“So this is how the other half live,” she said to Phillips, who looked over her tatty leggings and t-shirt and said nothing.
Mid afternoon, a knock came at the door, and Phillips answered it. Clodagh twisted over her shoulder to see her looking at an entry cam before she opened the door, to admit another of the PPOs—how many were there?—with several large carrier bags from John Lewis.
“You get fun looks going round the lingerie department by yourself,” he announced cheerfully, extending the bags to Clodagh with a flourish. He was Asian, and had nice eyes. Maybe this Davood Olivia had been goading Jamie with.
“What’s this?” she said, eyeing them without taking them.
“Things you might need. Don’t worry, Lady Olivia made the order, I just picked things up,” he added, holding out another bag, this one with toiletries in it.
Tentatively, she took this one. Everything in it was top of the range. Dread mounting, she looked through the other bags, which had been set on the sofa next to her.
She saw cashmere, or at least what she thought was cashmere. A label peeking from a pair of jeans held a brand name she’d only seen in magazines. There were sets of lingerie, the type that came on hangers and had a ridiculously high cost-per-inch ratio. A silk nightie, with delicate lace trim.
Fishing in the bottom, she found a receipt, and nearly threw up.
No, these must be for Lady Olivia herself. Clodagh felt relief wash over her when she realised this, coupled with embarrassment. Of course they weren’t for her!
“Where’s my stuff?” she asked, looking up at the two bodyguards, neither of whom held Primark or charity shop bags.
“That is your stuff. Lady Olivia ordered things yesterday when she realised what you didn’t have. She took some of the sizes off your clothes to get them right.”
Clodagh felt her face burn at the thought of Jamie’s girlfriend seeing just how crappy her clothing choices were, let alone how much fatter she was.
“If they’re not right I’m sure I can exchange them,” said the male bodyguard, glancing at his colleague.
“Exchange them,” Clodagh said, looking at the cashmere and silk and lace. “Exchange them for what?”
“For the right sizes?” said the PPO, as if there might have been another answer he hadn’t figured out yet.
Yes, there is another answer. Exchange them for what I asked for. For what I can afford.
Carefully, Clodagh put down the bags of clothing that cost more than she’d earned last year, and stood up. “Would it be possible,” she said, “for you to give me a lift to the station?”
The two PPOs exchanged glances. “The station, ma’am?”
“Yes. Actually, there’s a bus stop on Emmanuel Street, I think, or does the guided busway go to the station?” She hadn’t used it yet. Not much point when you could walk everywhere.
“Why do you need to get to the station?” asked Phillips.
“Because I don’t think there’s a bus to Harlow. There might be a coach, if you can take me to the bus station on Drummer Street. I don’t know if the Megabus goes there directly.”
“Harlow, ma’am?”
They both looked at her with identical bland expressions. Gone was the woman who chatted about truffle oil and the man who joked about lingerie shopping. They were as expressionless as mannequins.
“Yes,” said Clodagh, lifting her chin. “Harlow. I’m going home.”
Jamie’s head was full of the conversation he’d been having about games as factorisation systems when he scanned his retina and keyed in his code to get from the Lady Mathilda buildings into the Master’s Garden. Damn convenient having the door there like that, although it would have been more fun if the old walkway direct from the Master’s House to the library was still there. He glanced up at the floating door halfway up the wall of his house. Today, it was sealed up, and only offered a minor curiosity as one used the back stairs from the study, but—
“What is it? What’s wrong?” he said, as Geraint crossed the lawn to meet him.
“Nothing’s wrong, sir—”
Jamie narrowed his eyes. Geraint hated being read by anybody, but Jamie had known him too long and had been too well-trained in body language.
“All right. Miss Walsh has left, sir.”
“Left?” Not to go shopping, by Geraint’s face. “Where? When? Why?”
“She wanted to go home, sir. No, not to her flat, that’s still not habitable—”
“Was it ever?” Jamie muttered, striding to the house to drop off his laptop bag.
“—she’s gone home to her mother’s house. In Harlow,” he added, with some distaste.
“Harlow?”
“Yes, sir. Harlow. It’s a new town in Essex.”
“I know what it is,” said Jamie, wh
o’d opened a new hospital ward or primary school or community centre there once. Maybe. Might’ve been Stevenage. Or Luton. Hard to tell them apart sometimes.
He shoved open his front door, chucked his laptop bag into his study, and ran his hands through his hair as he tried to think. Paused when he saw the mound of shopping bags on the sofa.
“What’s all that?”
“Well,” said Geraint, as Jamie moved cautiously closer, “we believe it’s the reason why she left, sir.”
What? He’d asked Oll to order Clodagh some new things, since she had pitifully little left from her old flat. He’d told her not to go over the top, since Clodagh probably wouldn’t appreciate being treated as a charity case, but then Olivia’s idea of high street was basically Harvey Nichols.
He stopped when he saw they were from John Lewis. Good old John Lewis. Hardly expensive. The bastion of the middle classes.
Inside was a collection of casual clothing, some lingerie he tried not to look too closely at, some boots and a pair of trainers. None of it was expensive. In fact when he looked at the clothes Olivia had picked out, most of them were very practical, especially for someone who had to wear a large medical boot thing on her leg.
Had Clodagh been hoping for something pretty? Damn, was she insulted by all this practicality? Or worse, was she after designer labels? Maybe she really was a gold-digger. Maybe she really had staged this all to get expensive presents out of him. Maybe he’d totally misjudged her.
“Who was with her today?” he asked, and Geraint radioed Phillips to come over. She was a sensible woman, formerly of the Royal Military Police. Maybe she’d said something to upset Clodagh.
“She got very upset when Khan brought the shopping back,” Phillips said. “It didn’t seem to be what she was expecting.”
Jamie sagged onto the other sofa and glared at the pile of shopping bags. Dammit. How had he read her so wrong?
“With respect, sir, I think Lady Olivia might have… misjudged,” Phillips went on.
“You don’t say,” Jamie muttered. “Well, take it all back, then—”
“I think she was expecting something more like this,” Phillips went on, taking a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and handing it over.