He grins, and his face is handsome. He looks not too much older than me. He extends his hand to shake mine.
“Frederick Wellesley,” he says in a perfect English accent. He pauses for a moment, as if I ought to recognize his name. When I don’t, he pouts. “You can call me Freddie.”
“I’m Diana.” I offer him my hand to shake because it seems like the thing to do.
His eyebrows rise slightly, immediately making me feel stupid. To my relief he takes it and shakes it confidently.
“Diana,” he croons appreciatively.
It hits me that he may be trying to flirt. I feel like I’m supposed to say something, but I don’t know what. My years of loneliness have made me socially inadequate. Perhaps it is his blond good looks that have tied my tongue, and yet I find him nowhere near as handsome as my dark-eyed Hunter.
But Hunter only lives in the realms of my imagination. This guy is real. I find myself just gazing at him without saying anything. But this is the wrong thing to do because he gazes back, right into my eyes. Which is not what I wanted. Immediately, I look away. Gosh, I feel stupid. No wonder they call it the art of conversation. Art requires mastery, and I have none.
I wrack my brain for something to say. I could really do with a friend. I don’t know anyone else going to this party, and I would prefer not to arrive alone. I glance around. Everyone on the plane looks so effortlessly chic. A bunch of young women towards the back who seem too gorgeous to be human are having no trouble laughing and chattering and making friends with their neighbours. Everyone has someone, except me.
Freddie runs his fingers through his shiny, perfectly styled hair. “So, are you on the bride’s side or the groom’s?”
I open my mouth to tell him I’m not sure, but he interrupts.
“No. Let me guess. The groom’s?” He winks. “I could tell just by looking at you.”
I blush. He must think my horrible sense of style and obvious lack of money means I couldn’t possibly be a guest of human royalty. Then again, I doubt I look like the sort of friend a billionaire Otherworld prince would have either.
I bite my lip. I need a back story to explain why I’ve been invited otherwise everyone I meet is going to know I don’t belong.
Freddie's eyes run over me lazily. “So, where did you meet Daxx? A bit cheeky of him to invite his exes.”
My mouth drops open. He thinks I dated Xander Daxx. The way he said it makes it clear he thinks I am a floozy. That is not the sort of back story I want.
I stiffen up and tell him coldly, “I’ve never met Prince Xander.”
His eyebrows draw together in surprise. “You can’t be a friend of Caro’s?”
He means Princess Caroline. “No, I don’t know her either. Are you a friend of hers?”
“Oh, yes. We grew up together really. Haven’t seen the old girl in a few years, but naturally I’ll go to the wedding. Her family and mine have been close for generations.”
He watches me, as if hoping I will be impressed. It might have been sweet, if only he wasn’t so pompous.
Just then the flight attendant, Tess, comes over with a trolley of drinks. She beams at Freddie and bats her eyelashes at him, and hands him a glass of champagne. He accepts it graciously.
“I see the celebrations are starting early,” he jokes. “I’ll have a brandy too.”
She gives a tinkle of laughter. “We’ve been told to give the guests whatever they like.”
“Oh, really?” he purrs. “Are you going to give me whatever I like?”
She giggles and places her hand on his arm. “Naughty boy,” she coos.
She walks away, swinging her hips as she goes, having completely ignored me. No glass of champagne for me. Not that I wanted one, having never drunk alcohol in my life.
Freddie frowns. He calls her back and she returns eagerly, asking him if he wants more already.
“You forgot my friend here,” he says.
Her eyes narrow. She gives me a scathing look, and purrs, “Her? She couldn’t possibly be your friend.”
She gives a confiding smile to Freddie, but he does not smile back.
“She’s Her Majesty’s guest,” he says. “Get her what she wants.”
The tone in his voice makes it clear that he is displeased. Tess keeps her smile plastered on her face, but I can tell she is fuming.
“I’ll just have an orange juice,” I say quietly.
“And champagne,” Freddie insists. “To toast the happy couple.”
Tess pours my drinks and hurries away.
I thank Freddie, but he waves it away. He raises his glass so that I can clink mine against his. He takes a deep swallow of his champagne, and I take a small sip of mine. It tastes different from what I expected. Drier. And the tiny bubbles tickle my lips and throat in a way I am not sure I find pleasant. I take a few sips of my orange juice instead.
Freddie tosses back his brandy, and his mood mellows.
“Can you believe she’s marrying Daxx?” he says. “No one knows where the man even comes from. A prince of nothing it seems. But Caro always did have a rebellious streak.”
I wonder what he’d think if he knew I was the Angel of Death. Laugh probably, and tell me I was mad.
He starts to tell me anecdotes from their childhood. Castles and horses and yachts and summers in exotic locales. It sounds like a fairy tale, a kind of life that I never even imagined was possible.
Eventually he moves on to talking about himself. He twists around in his seat so that he can look right at me. I don’t mind just listening. I prefer it that he doesn’t ask me anything about my life. I don’t want to have to tell him about growing up with the Coltons and see his disgust or pity. I like that he is treating me like a normal person.
And him talking gives me time to think, and to examine my fellow passengers. Everyone is dressed beautifully. I have no doubt that their luggage is full of equally impeccable belongings. Their outfits for evening parties will no doubt be magnificent.
What on earth am I going to do? I can’t wear Mrs Colton’s cast-offs forever. The shame I feel whenever anyone’s eyes land on me makes me want to strip out of them this very second and burn them. Patrick’s sympathy got me on this plane, but once I get off it, what about the next person who asks me for identification? To prove that the invitation really does belong to me? I don’t look like I belong.
By the way Freddie is looking at me I know that he would help me if I asked. But how would I pay him back?
“Would you excuse me a minute, Freddie?” I get up from my seat pretending that I need to visit the ladies room.
Freddie pouts a little as I walk off. I give him a reassuring smile. I don’t want him to be upset with me.
I go towards the ladies room but I am really looking for Patrick. I feel I could tell him anything. I need his advice. I spot him near a kitchenette area in the middle of the plane. I look at him almost pleadingly, and he waves me to come over to him. When I get there, to my embarrassment, my stomach growls loudly. I flush bright pink, and Patrick laughs good-naturedly.
“You must have been starving yourself to stay that slender, my darling,” he says. “But it’s celebration time! Let me get you something you’ll love.”
He disappears into the kitchenette and comes back out with an exquisite little cupcake. I have hardly any time to admire its beauty, because I end up stuffing it in my mouth and absolutely demolishing it.
“That’s what I like to see!” Patrick looks pleased. He brings me two more cupcakes, and by the time I am done I feel slightly sick from the sugar rush.
I thank him gratefully. “I was famished,” I confess.
By now the other flight attendants are looking at us and frowning. They are busy piling meal trays into trolleys. I realize Patrick has work to do. He looks enquiringly at me, but I cannot bring myself to burden him with my troubles.
I give him a grateful hug for feeding me, and he is blushing when I pull away.
“We’ll bring your
dinner out soon,” he says. “Do you want the lamb or the chicken, pet? I recommend the lamb.”
I nod, and he winks at me. I return to my seat feeling a little better. Hunger from the healing must’ve addled my brain. My mouth is watering for the lamb already and now that I know it is coming, I can hardly bear the wait.
I need to prepare myself for the party events. I take out the little booklet containing the schedule of events, intending to read it to find out a little bit more of what to expect, but Freddie doesn’t stop talking. And then the flight attendants begin to serve the meals, and after that they dim the lights. The darkness makes me sleepy. Exhausted, and grateful that Freddie has finally quietened, I find myself drifting off.
I sleep blissfully free of the dream, and wake up to the sound of the captain’s voice announcing that the plane is descending into the airport. Suddenly I am wracked with nerves. I thought I had more time than this. I look around for Patrick, but he is busy preparing the flight for the descent.
The safe little haven of the plane is about to be stripped away from me. At the beginning of this journey I had anticipated being excited on arrival, not a ball of nerves.
Everyone else on the plane seems to have been up for hours, and no wonder – it is already afternoon in English time. Freddie is pleased that I have woken up, and begins talking again. When the plane has landed, he gets his overhead baggage out, and is surprised that I don’t have any. I shrug, as if all my luggage has been checked in.
We get out of the plane and are met by staff who guide us through the arrivals area and towards private cars. All sleek and shiny, many with dark-tinted windows. I don’t have a car booked. I don’t know where I’m going. I eye up the group of gorgeous girls from earlier who are all climbing into two long limousines, and wonder if I could tag along with them.
“Best not to,” Freddie says. “You don’t want to fall in with a bad lot and start off on the wrong foot.”
“What wrong foot?” I say, feeling slightly offended.
He seems not to notice. He puts his arm around my shoulders. “You can come in my car. And we’ll make sure to get a room for you next to mine.”
The limousines drive away. Freddie’s arm stays around my shoulder. Suddenly I am worried that I have given him the wrong idea.
Chapter 9
DIANA
As Freddie points the driver towards his luggage, I hear someone calling my name. “Ms Bellona? Ms Diana Bellona?”
To my astonishment I see it is one of the chauffeurs. I wave him over, but Freddie frowns at him and says, “We already have a car.”
I interrupt. “Are you my driver?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Someone has arranged a car for me! I can’t believe it. Freddie looks disappointed as I say goodbye, so I promise to see him again later. The chauffeur looks confused at the state of my attire and at my lack of luggage. I shrug casually as if this is not a problem. He doesn’t question it. He leads me to my car and opens the door for me.
I get into the plush back seat and soon we are driving to an unknown destination. I want to get the schedule booklet out of my pocket and read it, but I see the driver glancing at me in the rear view mirror, and I worry he will see how crumpled it is and think I have picked it up out of someone’s rubbish.
I lean back against my seat and close my eyes. This is the first quiet moment I have had to think. One precious week is what I have. I want so badly to make the most of it before having to face reality again. If only a fairy godmother would appear and magic me up some beautiful clothes and everything else I will need to be able to relax and enjoy the parties.
Whoever has booked me a car must surely have booked me a hotel room? When we arrive at our destination, perhaps they’ll mistake me for an eccentric in this awful outfit. And I can tell them my luggage got lost. Freddie can vouch for me. And then maybe I’ll make a friend who will lend me her dresses. If only…
But if wishes came true, people would never die or hurt or do bad things, and I’d never dream of them.
The drive to wherever we are going seems both too long because I want to get the next part over with and also to be passing horribly quickly because I don’t know what will happen when I get there. I gaze out side of the window, barely able to admire the beauty of England rushing by, with all its greenery and tall trees, and the blue shadow of some mountainous hills in the distance.
Soon the car is passing through an ornate gateway, and down a long magnificent drive lined with beautifully landscaped trees. When we get near enough I can see a magnificent castle. This must be Wintersdeep! My mouth drops open in sheer delight. It looks like something out of a fantasy drama, more a striking medieval fortress than the turreted fairy tale one from Cinderella. It even has a moat.
We drive beneath a big portcullis and arrive in a large cobbled courtyard. My car is the last in a long line of cars which has been carrying the other passengers from the airport. My chauffeur opens the door for me, and I climb out, looking for where to go. He points me to the direction of the arched entrance that everyone else is going into.
Inside, suitcases are being scanned by x-ray machines and invitation cards are being checked before guests walk through airport-style body scanners.
I head there with my heart in my throat. It seems like we are all staying at the castle. I join the queue, my mind scrambling for an excuse for why I have no ID. What are the chances that they will find me believable? The queue moves quickly. When I reach the front, I give the security guard a confident smile that hopefully disguises how I am quaking inside. He barely glances at my face. He scrutinizes my invitation card and then waves me in.
Once inside, my relief quickly turns to amazement. I am in a large circular lobby with glorious mosaic stonework on the floor, and huge paintings and tapestries on the walls. Standing on plinths nears the walls are statues of men and woman who others seem to recognize and are remarking on. I don’t have a clue who they are. I raise my eyes to the ceiling and gasp out loud. It is a gilded dome with ornate intricate carvings and designs. It is mesmerizing.
So absorbed am I, that I don’t notice a porter with a trolley of luggage until he nearly knocks me over. Apologizing, I take some hasty steps backwards and bump into a woman. And then I have to apologize all over again to her. Her uniform tells me that she is a member of staff, not a guest.
I’m about to ask her for directions and what to do, but the outraged expression with which she is looking at me makes me hesitate. She scowls first at my clothes, and then at my face, as if I have done something wrong.
“Why are you still here, girl?” she snaps. “I’ve already sent the others on their way.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, confused.
“It’s a good job you girls have been provided with appropriate attire if that is what you were planning to wear,” she says.
Her sharp manner surprises me for some reason. She isn’t that old, late thirties maybe, but her dark hair is pulled back in a stark bun that lends her face a severity beyond its years. She takes my arm and hurries me through a wooden side door. We go along a narrow corridor that is nowhere near as grand as the main lobby area.
Her eyes assess me. “You’re pretty girl, prettier even than the others. Not that your kind would be anything else. But that costume is completely unacceptable.”
She rushes me along the corridor and up and down several confusing flights of stairs. I follow her, curious to see more of the castle, and it’s not like I have anywhere else to be. She mentioned that whatever type of girl she thinks I am is being provided with clothes, and boy do I need clothes! Even a uniform is better than nothing. I wonder if she would agree to let me borrow one.
We arrive at another long corridor with numerous doors lining both sides. It reminds me of a dorm. A few of the gorgeous young women I had seen on the plane earlier are loitering in the corridor, talking to one another. She frowns when she sees them.
“Don’t dawdle, girls! Go and get ready. You have gue
sts to welcome.”
She opens one of the doors and takes me into a room. A four poster bed dominates one side, and a plush rug is underfoot. I want to take my shoes off and sink my feet into the rug. I want to throw myself onto that luxuriant bed and revel in the comfort. I have never been in a room so wonderful before. She sees me looking at the bed and sniffs.
“It wouldn’t have been my choice to put you girls in these guest rooms,” she says. “But management thought some of the guests might prefer to come to your rooms rather than be seen dallying with your kind near theirs.”
The room is luxuriant. The wallpaper is patterned with embossed velvet. The furnishings are of gleaming dark wood, and the art on the walls looks expensive. If these are rooms for staff, I cannot imagine what the rooms for guests must be like.
Psychic for Hire Series Box Set Page 6