by Romy Sommer
‘Lost myself in a club’ would be more accurate. Loud, pulsing noise in a place where nobody knew who I was, and where there was plenty of alcohol. I left the club alone, though.
“I’d like to take up your offer of a place to stay until after the wedding,” I say.
“Sure. As I said the other day, you’re welcome to stay as long as you need.” Max leans his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers. “But I’m going to ask for something in return.”
I nod for him to continue. Everything has its price.
“I need your expertise on a financial matter.”
Free financial advice in return for a place to stay seems like a pretty good deal, so I nod again. “Just not today. I have something else I need to do.”
Once Max and Jens leave, I ask the maid on duty to prepare a breakfast tray. She glances at the remains of my unfinished cheese and herb omelette, then heads off to arrange it without another word.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m at Khara’s door. Balancing the tray in the crook of my arm, I knock.
When she finally opens the door, she looks as if she’s just woken. Her wild hair sticks out at all angles, her make-up is smudged and there’s a pillow crease in her cheek. She’s also cradling her head in a way I know all too well. She groans. “Oh no, not you again. What are you doing here?”
“You missed breakfast, and I thought you might want to eat before your photoshoot. Especially since I imagine you’re nursing a massive hangover this morning.”
She eyes the tray I hold out to her, torn between temptation and nauseous revulsion. Another feeling I know only too well.
“Thank you,” she says, begrudgingly taking the tray.
“Might I suggest you change before you go downstairs? You might not want everyone wondering why you’re still in last night’s clothes.”
She glares at me and when she moves to shut the door in my face I block it with my foot. “I also have a proposition for you.”
“Give it a rest. It’s too early in the morning for this. I. Am. Not. Interested.”
I don’t budge. “Actually, it’s nearly ten, and you haven’t even heard what I have to say.”
She squeaks. “Nearly ten already? It’s going to take me at least half an hour just to straighten my hair!”
“You don’t need to straighten your hair, and this is more important.” Since she’s no longer actively trying to shut the door on me, I slip into the room. Aside from the wallpaper, it’s a mirror of my own.
“You have two minutes.” She heads for the sofa, perching on the edge of the seat and balancing the tray on her knees. I follow, closing the door behind me, and take the armchair across from her. She digs into the poached eggs, ham and orange juice. Good, plain, restorative hangover food.
I grin. “I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest that last night’s dinner was a tad … daunting for you.”
She nods, attention still focused on the tray.
“There are still a whole lot of formal events planned in the run-up to the wedding, and even more rules and protocols you’ve not yet been introduced to.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel even worse, you’re succeeding,” she says through a mouthful of egg. “And your two minutes are nearly up.”
“I want to offer to tutor you.”
Her gaze snaps up to mine. “Tutor me in what?”
“Etiquette. How to walk and talk and dress so you can fit in better.”
“I know how to walk,” she retorts, but the light in her eyes shows she’s intrigued. Looks like it’s my lucky day.
“But do you know how to walk like a princess?”
“I don’t need to be a princess; I’m only here for a few weeks. All I need is to make it through the wedding without embarrassing myself – or Phoenix.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Why would you do this for me?”
I concentrate on straightening out a crease in my neatly pressed trouser leg. “I’m bored, and this could be amusing.”
When she doesn’t answer, I glance up to find her scrutinising me. “Don’t you have a job?”
“I do. But right now I’m on an extended leave of absence while I figure out what to do with my life.”
“Isn’t that nice? That’s a luxury no one in my world can afford.”
I would laugh at her snarky attitude, except I know she’s speaking the truth. It’s no different from Jemmy calling me a coward. They’re both right, of course, but for some reason I want Khara to think better of me. Which is a scary thought I quickly suppress.
“Do you always say everything you think?” I keep my voice light and amused.
Her eyes hold a glimmer of mischief. “No. In fact, I think I’ve been very good at not saying what I’m thinking.”
I lean forward, intrigued. “What are you thinking?”
She leans forward too, to whisper. “I think that you’re wasting your time. I’m not going to sleep with you out of gratitude for your help.”
Well, there goes that idea. I shrug. “Would you believe me if I told you I wasn’t making this offer to get you into bed?”
“Only if you tell me the real reason you’re here, kicking your heels in Westerwald.”
I say nothing for a long moment as she nibbles on a slice of toast. I’m tempted to give her a glib answer, the same glib answer I’d give to the Elenas of the world, but as Khara eyes me expectantly, not letting me off the hook, I experience an urge to do something completely alien, something I almost never do: I want to be honest.
Well, at least partially honest.
“I have to make a decision,” I admit at last. “It should be a very easy decision, but everyone is pressuring me to do what I don’t want to do … what I can’t do. They all expect me to be someone I’m not.” I blow out a long breath. “They think I’m a better person than I am. And so I’m hiding here, hoping they’ll come to their senses while I’m away.”
In her expressive eyes I can see her imagination shift into overdrive. She’s probably thinking I was asked to donate a kidney to save the life of a loved one, and I’m too selfish to do it. Which isn’t that far from the truth.
But I’ve already been more honest than I’m comfortable with, so I change the subject. “If you don’t get moving, you’re going to be very late for your photoshoot.”
With a guilty start, she sets the tray on the coffee table, grabs clothes out of the wardrobe and heads for the bathroom. I pace to the windows and pull open the curtains, letting in the bright morning sunshine, and sit on the wide window seat. The sound of the shower starts and, just like that, I imagine Khara standing beneath the spray, naked, eyes closed and face turned up to the water, the gentle curves and dips of her body, her smooth skin … What can I say? We men may not be the most imaginative creatures, but there are certain things we can imagine very well.
Fortunately, she takes her time before she comes out of the bathroom, enough time for me to exercise the willpower needed to suppress my arousal. Her hair is still wild, her face is completely bare of make-up, and she’s dressed in ripped jeans that mould to her curves, beige pumps, and a dusky pink sweater with a deep V-neck that gives just enough hint of cleavage for my body to instantly tighten with desire again.
“That’s a vast improvement over that hideous dress you had on,” I say. “Let’s go.”
“But I haven’t even done my make-up or hair yet,” she protests.
“You don’t need to. I arranged a stylist, since I don’t trust Phoenix’s stylist not to dress you like a sister wife.” I hold the door open for her. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, lost for words, and I smile. Making Khara speechless could be my new favourite hobby.
Chapter 9
Khara
“I haven’t agreed to anything yet!” I protest when Adam pitches his idea to Phoenix.
I give him the side-eye while a make-up artist paints my lips. I’m seated in a chair in the center of Phoenix and Max’s spacious living room, which might look like a regular l
iving room except for the ancient tapestry hanging on one wall and the blue and gold rug on the floor. Aubusson, Phoenix called the rug the first time I admired it. I had to Google what that meant. Turns out they’re made in this little village in France – by hand.
“It’s a great idea,” Phoenix says. Then she glances at me, noting my clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. “I’m not suggesting you’re not good enough as you are, but when I first came to live here in the palace I was clueless about so many things and embarrassed myself on more than one occasion.”
I can’t imagine Phoenix ever being embarrassed. She’s always so poised and confident.
She shakes her head. “But I had Max to help me, and the palace protocol secretary.”
The make-up artist stands back to admire her handiwork.
“Great, then the protocol secretary can give me lessons.” I’d rather spend my time with him than with Adam.
Phoenix pulls a rueful face. “Unfortunately, he’s all tied up with wedding stuff.”
“I could just hide out here in the palace and keep out of sight,” I say hopefully. After all, there’s that lovely big library I could lose myself in. The only Disney princess I ever wanted to be was Belle, and the Beast’s library was the reason why.
“Nonsense!” Phoenix laughs. “Just think how useful your new social skills will be when you graduate and start going for job interviews.”
Ugh. Of course, she’s right. I’m a realist; I know how competitive the job market is, and if I don’t want to be a waitress forever I need every advantage I can get. I throw up my hands in surrender. “Fine, I’ll do it.” I pin Adam with an icy stare. “But I’m agreeing to lessons only. You keep your hands to yourself.”
The make-up artist makes a spluttering noise. I can’t work out if she’s laughing or in shock.
“Yes, ma’am.” Adam keeps a straight face, but amusement lights up his eyes.
Next it’s the turn of the stylist. She’s a local woman, with a Germanic accent that I’m learning is the local Westerwald accent. The puppy dog look in her eyes every time she looks at Adam leaves no doubt how well he knows her. I’m going with ‘in the biblical sense’. I feel sorry for her when I remember Adam’s disdain as he told Elena he never comes back for seconds.
She wheels in a rail of clothes, and Adam flicks through the hangers while Phoenix and I look on, bemused. Neither of us has ever been big into fashion. Since there’s nothing on that rail resembling my usual uniform of jeans or hot pants, I feel lost just looking at it.
“No, no, no.” Adam discards one outfit after another, then he takes one hanger off the rail and holds it up. It’s a baby-blue suit with a knee-length skirt and looks very chic. I can imagine myself wearing it to a job interview. If I were interviewing for a job as a school principal.
I glance at Phoenix and she stifles a chuckle.
For a laugh, I try the outfit on. It makes me look like a politician’s wife. “I’d rather be photographed in my pyjamas,” I tell Adam. Fortunately, he realizes I’m serious.
By the time I try on the fourth outfit, I remember why I hate clothes shopping. The gray jersey dress makes my figure look stunning, but “too funereal” Adam says. The pretty dusky-pink, feminine floral dress is discarded too.
“But I like that one!” I object.
“We’ll save it for Saturday’s polo match,” he says. “That’s going to be your first public outing when everyone knows who you are.”
I try to ignore the sudden anxious flutter in my stomach.
He and the stylist finally settle on a plum-colored pencil dress with a wide collar. I scrutinize the stranger’s reflection in the portable mirror. I don’t feel like myself at all, but I suppose that’s the point. The make-up is so subtle it’s barely there, my hair has been tamed and pulled back into a neat French twist and the dress makes me look taller, more sophisticated.
“There,” Adam says, giving me a critical head-to-toe evaluation. “Now you’re ready.”
The photographer is waiting for us in the Yellow Drawing Room, which has been cleared of all evidence that it hosted a party last night. I walk there in bare feet, dangling the high-heeled, strappy sandals the stylist gave me from my fingers.
For half an hour the photographer makes me pose in at least a dozen different positions, while her assistant runs around tweaking the lights. I’m exhausted by the end of it, even though I’ve done nothing but sit and smile or stand and smile. All this for just one photo?
When I see the pictures, though, I agree the fuss was worth it. The woman on the laptop screen looks like a supermodel. My own mother wouldn’t recognize me. “Can I get one of these to send home?” I ask.
“You have someone special back home you want to send it to?” the photographer asks with a knowing wink.
Is it my imagination, or does Adam tense, like a dog sniffing the air?
“My brother Calvin. He’ll get such a hoot out of this.”
Adam relaxes, and I know it’s not my imagination. I’m flattered at his interest in me. Then I remember the way the stylist looked at him and it’s as good as any cold shower.
When we’re finally done I sag back on the antique sofa. “I could murder a coffee.” I’d also love to get back into my jeans and pumps. Just standing in these heels has killed my calves.
Phoenix looks apologetic. “I have to meet with the press secretary to go through the press releases for tomorrow, but I’ll see you later. We’ll have a nice quiet dinner en famille in our apartment, so I’ll see you then.”
She leaves, followed closely by the photographer and her assistant, and Adam uses the internal house phone to order us tea and coffee. Then he moves to sit in the armchair across from me. “What are you studying?” he asks, casually crossing an ankle over his knee.
“Accountancy and finance.”
His eyebrow rises. “An unusual choice for someone with a passion for history.”
“There’s not a lot you can do with a degree in history.”
“How close to graduating are you?”
“One more semester.”
“Your brother – is he older or younger?”
“Older.”
“Any other siblings?”
“No.” Where is this game of twenty questions going?
“The weather has been warm and clear this week.”
And what is it with this obsession everyone in Europe has with the weather? I’m saved from having to respond by the arrival of a maid with a tray filled with cups and saucers, two teapots, milk and sugar, all in the same dainty floral-patterned porcelain. She sets the tray on the coffee table between us.
I lean forward. “Thank you, but I asked for coffee.”
Adam uncrosses his long legs. “The coffee pot is the taller, thinner one. Tea is the shorter, rounder pot.”
Yet another thing I’m clueless about. The maid sends me a sympathetic look, then leaves, and I hide my embarrassment by shifting forward to pour. “Tea or coffee?”
“I’ll have tea.”
I pour tea into one of the dainty cups and pass it to him, before pouring my own coffee. “So when do we start my first lesson?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“But all we’ve done is chat.”
“Exactly. Your first lesson is how to make small talk. Conversation is like a game of tennis. I lob a ball at you, and I expect you to pass it back. When I ask if you have a brother, I’m not just looking for an answer, I’m giving you an opening to ask me back. Each question is an invitation. Try to avoid dead-end answers. Expand your answers, or ask a question in return.”
“How is talking about the weather supposed to start a conversation?”
“It’s an icebreaker, a neutral topic, something that affects everyone. So your response could have been, ‘Yes, it has been lovely weather for sightseeing.’ That gives the person you’re talking to the opportunity to respond with, ‘Oh, are you new to Westerwald? What sights have you seen? What did you think of the cathedral?’
And that opens another whole avenue of conversation.” He sets his teacup down. “Let’s start again. Pretend I’m the complete stranger sitting next to you at dinner. So you have a brother – is he older or younger?”
I try to imagine Adam as the rather dull young man at dinner who only wanted to talk about the weather. I can’t. “He’s a few years older. Do you have any siblings?”
“One younger sister, but she acts like she’s the older one. What does your brother do?”
“He’s a lawyer.” I say it with pride. Calvin was the first person in our family to go to college, let alone graduate.
“My little sister’s a lawyer too. She heads up the legal affairs and HR departments in our family firm.”
I imagine his sister’s job is a whole lot more glamorous than Calvin’s. He works for a small non-profit that mostly handles divorces and maintenance battles for women who can’t afford legal help. He’s overworked and underpaid. I’m going to guess those are both completely foreign concepts in the Hatton family.
Adam grins. “See, that’s not so difficult, is it?”
Actually, it is. Making small talk requires a great deal of concentration, as I try to think of ways to keep the conversation flowing without digressing into the forbidden topics of politics and religion (and money), all the while trying hard not to divulge more about myself than I need to. I’m not ashamed of where I grew up or my family but, remembering Adam’s Lesson Number Two, I don’t want to give him any information that can be used against me. And it turns out direct questions along the lines of “What do you do?” are also considered gauche and American – who knew? There are more things we can’t talk about than we can.
An hour later, I’ve not only learned how to make bland conversation with strangers, how to listen and make eye contact, how to sit right (without crossing my legs, keeping my back rigid as a plank), but also the correct way to pour tea if I’m the hostess (milk first, then tea). And I learn that here cookies are called biscuits.
“What’s so funny?” Adam asks when I laugh.
“I’m imagining myself serving tea and biscuits back home. We don’t get a lot of guests.” We don’t even own teacups.