My Best Friend's Royal Wedding
Page 23
We wander around the room, pausing to look at the display of photographs on the carved stone mantel. They’re almost all of Nick. There’s one of us, taken years ago at a polo match. “My cousin,” I tell her.
“And the other man in the picture?”
“My friend Charlie.” I set the frame back down and turn away. She looks at me strangely, as if I’m a puzzle that needs to be solved.
When the door reopens I expect to see János, but it’s my aunt Sonja. She hurries across the room, arms open in welcome. “Adam, thank you so much for coming!”
I give her a hug.
“I’m sorry we missed you at the wedding,” she says. “We didn’t stay for dinner, for obvious reasons. But I’m sure you were busy anyway.” She spots Khara, who is hanging back shyly. “You brought a friend – how lovely!” Sonja crosses the room to Khara, who stands awkwardly as if wondering whether she should curtsey. I give a subtle shake of my head. Our family have never stood on ceremony.
“This is Khara Thomas. Khara, my aunt Sonja.”
They shake hands and Sonja invites us to sit, then rings for refreshments. “Your uncle will be with us shortly. He’s in a meeting with the trade commission.”
She pats the seat beside her for Khara to sit, and Khara throws me a nervous glance as she moves to perch on the edge of the antique gilt-edged sofa.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” she says.
Sonja nods, then her smile brightens. “You looked gorgeous at the wedding. Just as beautiful as the bride. I can see why my nephew is smitten.”
Khara coughs, and I realise it’s to hide a laugh. “I don’t think smitten is the right word, and I hope he sees more in me than my looks.”
Sonja casts me an amused glance. “I would hope so too, but Adam hasn’t shown much depth in his taste in girlfriends in the past.” This time Khara doesn’t even bother to hide her laugh. I’m starting to regret inviting her. I did not intend for all the women in my life to gang up against me. On the plus side, Sonja is looking happier and more composed than the last time I saw her. It’s good to see her smile.
The women chat about our journey until a servant arrives with a tray. It’s not tea, as I expected, but juice. “Apfelschorle,” Sonja explains. “Apple juice mixed with sparkling water.”
Soon after, Uncle Lajos joins us. It’s as if a tornado has arrived as three dogs erupt into the room with him, tails wagging, barking their excitement. They’re tall and slender, with long bodies and sturdy frames, their fur brown and white. With a curt command, Lajos sends them to lie in front of the unlit fireplace. His bearing is still straight and proud, but his eyes betray strain. I rise to greet him.
“When you cancelled the plane we were worried you were no longer coming,” he says, and I immediately feel remorse for having added to his stress. I also hope Khara didn’t catch that reference to the private plane.
“We came via the scenic route, by train from Graz.”
We make polite small talk as we sip our Apfelschorle. Khara holds her poise, conversing as easily as if she’d been born to this. That’s my girl.
“I’ve never seen dogs like these,” she says when one comes to sniff around her feet. “What are they?”
“Magyar Agár hunting dogs.” Lajos looks as proud as if he were talking about his own children. “They’re sighthounds bred long ago to be good long-distance runners, to run alongside horses for many miles.” He scratches the head of the dog that has now come pushing its nose into his hand, smiling indulgently at it. “Loyal and very affectionate, but they need daily exercise so I take them out with me every day when I go riding. At least they keep me active.” He glances up at Khara. “Do you have dogs?”
Khara shakes her head, her body suddenly tense. “Where I live, we’re only allowed one small pet, so we have a cat.”
Uncle Lajos asks about the wedding and as the conversation swings away Khara’s posture eases. If anyone notices that talking about her home makes her defensive, they don’t betray it.
Sonja shows us to the suite where our suitcases have already been brought up. Our suite. János assumed we’d be sleeping together and put us in the same room, but Khara sends me a doubtful glance as if trying to gauge my reaction. I picture waking up beside her every day for the next week, not having my own bed to run away to. The image is strangely appealing.
As soon as Sonja leaves us alone, I sweep Khara up and deposit her on the bed, to show her just how much I don’t mind sharing this bed with her. She stretches out, looking up into the canopy of the four-poster and letting out a deep sigh, as if she’s just survived an ordeal.
“It’s not that bad, is it?” I ask. This isn’t London or Paris – or Vegas – by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s not as rustic as Nick always made it out to be.
She rolls onto her side to face me. “Not so bad. Actually, I like your family. Your uncle was a little intimidating at first, but your aunt is so … motherly. I was expecting to be greeted by one of those matriarchs you see in all those made-for-TV movies – you know, the regal, manipulative queen who’s determined to get rid of the new girl because she’s not good enough for the precious heir.”
I can’t help myself. I burst out laughing. “My family clearly doesn’t watch enough television. But I’ll suggest to Sonja that she needs to up her game in that department.”
She smacks my arm and I roll on top of her, pinning her to the bed. Then I kiss down her collarbone and she moans, pressing her body up against me. “I’ve always wanted to sleep in a four-poster bed.”
“Sleeping isn’t what I plan to do with you in this bed.” I slide my hands under her tank top and for the next hour show her just what I do intend to do with her in this bed for the next week.
Chapter 24
Khara
Erdély’s magic is very different from Westerwald’s. Max’s Archduchy felt like a fairy tale version of Vegas, with its traffic, commuter hustle and skyline of high-rise offices contrasted against the ancient churches and quaint, tree-lined squares. But Erdély is like climbing through the looking glass into an entirely new world.
It is utterly quiet in the palace at night. The thick stone walls absorb all sound, and when I step out onto the ornately carved wooden balcony that links our suite to the next I breathe in fresh mountain air which is rich with the dark aroma of wet earth. High above the silhouettes of the mountain tops, the Milky Way glitters against the velvety sky, breathtakingly clear. There is no constant rumble of traffic, no sirens to break up the night, just the night song of crickets. An honest-to-goodness owl hoots, and Adam laughs when I jump at the sound.
When I wake in the morning, Adam is still asleep. I watch him, tempted to lean forward and kiss his eyelids, rub his stubble across my cheeks, but I hold myself back. I don’t want to wake him just yet, don’t want this moment to end, as if I can somehow freeze time.
In six days, I’ll be on a plane back to Vegas. In six days, the fairy tale will be over.
To avoid temptation, I slide out of bed, pull on my pyjama shorts and favorite sleep shirt, and let myself out onto the balcony. This side of the palace overlooks the forest, and the peace and stillness is absolute. After the craziness of the last few weeks, this quiet moment to do nothing but stop and breathe, to smell the lush vegetation, feels glorious. But it can’t last.
I need to start thinking about the life waiting for me back home, about my final semester and finding a new job, about my mother and her no doubt ill-fated romance with her latest boss, about my new niece, who is due any day now. Yet that life seems more like a dream than where I am right now. Vegas feels like a mirage on the horizon.
A maid brings a tray of coffee and pastries to our sitting room, her knock waking Adam. Since I know all too well that he’s still naked beneath the sheets, I hurry to get the door. She greets me in what I can only assume is the local dialect, and doesn’t even bat an eyelid at my skimpy pyjamas. If I made the bed here, I suspect she wouldn’t turn up her nose at me.
After breakfast, Sonja gives us a tour of the castle. With its massive stone hearths, high beamed ceilings and suits of armor, it looks more like a movie set than a home. The main part of the palace seems to have been designed for entertainment. There’s a great hall, drawing rooms, a music room, a billiard room, and even a small theater, but everything is under dust covers, closed-up and silent. It’s a place where there should be parties and people, where kids should play hide-and-seek. Instead, it’s the dogs that chase around us in circles. My initial nervousness around them quickly eases. They’re very eager to roll over on their backs to let me scratch their tummies.
“You’ll never get them to stop now,” Adam says with a laugh. “They clearly know a sucker when they see one.”
That’s me – the sucker who’s let herself be sweet-talked into the playboy’s bed, and into believing that maybe fairy tales really do exist. I’m an idiot, right? But a strangely happy idiot.
In the portrait gallery which connects two wings, Adam pauses for a moment. “I remember this room. Nick and I played here together. We turned it into a bowling alley until my mother found us and made us go play outside instead.”
It’s such a normal memory, the kind of memory any kid could have.
Sonja smiles sadly. “Yes, there are good memories too.”
The formal rooms have wood-panelled walls decorated with portraits and tapestries, and the library is barely half the size of the one in Max’s palace, but there’s a private family wing which is far more modern, complete with a den with a big flat screen TV (“Lajos is addicted to European football,” Sonja says) and a private gym. The way Adam’s face lights up at the sight of the gym tells me how he manages to maintain that gorgeous physique.
I’ve never been a gym bunny. I prefer the outdoors to air-conditioning and piped music. But a few hours later I’m regretting that thought, because the one form of outdoor exercise I never in a million years pictured myself doing was horse-riding. It’s like dance lessons all over again, except that in place of stepping on Adam’s toes and bumping into him, I’m bouncing up and down on the back of a big, scary horse, going around in circles. Thank heavens the only two people there to witness my awkward attempt are Adam and the groom.
The other thing that dancing and horse-riding have in common is that when I wake the next morning I ache all over from using muscles I didn’t even know existed. “You are so lucky that sex with you is pretty good,” I groan. “Because I can’t think of any other reason why I’d let you sweet-talk me into doing that.”
“Only pretty good?” He nudges his morning erection against me. “Perhaps I need to give you another chance to re-evaluate that opinion.”
As he reaches to pull me closer, I slip away with a giggle. “Not now, you won’t. At the moment I feel like I was kicked by the horse instead of riding it.” And if I’m suffering, he can suffer too.
I stand in the shower, resting my forehead against the cool tiles as the water beats down on my back.
Only five days left.
***
There are bicycles in the royal garage, alongside a handful of discreet luxury vehicles. There isn’t a flashy sports car or Rolls Royce in sight, so Lajos and Sonja clearly don’t do ostentatious displays of wealth. As we follow the cycle path along the river into Arenberg, we’re joined by more and more cyclists, schoolkids and commuters on their way to work. Cycling seems to be a major form of transportation here.
The town is small enough that it can be explored end-to-end in just a few hours. The historic centre of town is pedestrian only, with quaint storefronts, cobbled streets and little squares. Apart from a few high-end stores, there are no big name brands here – not even a McDonald’s.
On either side of the main square are the town’s two most impressive buildings, the parliament building and the main church, surrounded by street cafés, bars and souvenir shops.
“This is where the parliament meets?” I ask, incredulous. It’s only three stories high and, though the windows have fancy pediments and there’s a coat of arms painted beneath the high gabled roof, it looks like any other building. The flag hanging at half-mast reminds me that this is a country in mourning for its crown prince.
“The senate only consists of twenty people. They don’t need a whole lot of space.”
“But where are the soldiers to guard it?”
Adam laughs. “Erdély doesn’t have an army. It has always relied on diplomacy to keep it safe.”
The church of St József’s is a medieval building, its domed interior decorated with colorful frescoes that surpass those I saw in Westerwald. The church has a vaguely eastern look to it, with a bulb-shaped bell tower that reminds me that this area was once the borderland between Europe and the Ottoman Empire.
We wander the streets and pop into the art museum, housing the amazing collection gathered by a former Fürstin, an Austrian princess who was a great patroness of the most famous artists and musicians of her time. Adam tries valiantly to hide his boredom, and after an hour I show mercy on him and let him take me to lunch in one of the local inns.
***
Four days left.
The castle’s gardens are a fraction of the size of those at the palace in Neustadt. There is only one formal garden, with neat paths, trimmed hedges and color-co-ordinated flower beds and a couple of lawned terraces.
“Is this where we have the obligatory archery scene?” I ask as we wander across a stretch of lawn mown in neat patterns.
Adam looks at me as if I’ve asked where they keep the elephants. “What?”
“You know, bows and arrows – like in the movies? There’s always a scene where the heroine accidentally shoots someone in the ass.”
“In which case, I’m not letting you anywhere near any bows. I don’t fancy an arrow in my arse.”
I giggle. “I’m flattered that you think I’m the heroine of this story.”
“Aren’t you?” He pulls me up against him and kisses me so thoroughly that I’m breathless and panting. “For the record,” he says as we resume our walk, “I don’t think I’ve fired an arrow in my life.”
***
Pre-dinner drinks are served on the fountain terrace each evening. “Or in the library, when the weather’s not so good,” Sonja says. The sun sets behind the mountains, turning the sky blue-gray as it darkens.
This evening we’re joined by guests, a dynamic, dark-haired man with sharp eyes and his young wife, a pixie-haired woman not much older than me. They’re both wearing jeans, so I relax and chat easily with them until Adam whispers in my ear: this is Erdély’s prime minister, Yannik, and his wife.
He laughs at my shock. “You expect all government ministers to be old men with white hair?”
They stay for dinner and the conversation flits from hobbies and favorite foods, to skirt the forbidden topics of politics and money. Seems the etiquette rules can be broken. The men dance around the more contentious subjects, keeping the conversation light but feeling each other out, no one wanting to give away too much, or come out and directly ask the question that hovers, unspoken: will Adam step up and be this nation’s next leader?
It’s exhausting, and a tension headache builds in the base of my neck. Maybe this is why everyone avoids stressful topics – because it’s stressful.
But then I discover that the prime minister’s wife, Lena, is an art history professor at the university in Arenberg and a local history buff and, like me, she too waitressed her way through her college years. We
swap funny stories, and I’m able to relax again. She tells me some of the more outrageous exploits from their nation’s history until we remember that the same spoilt royal whose shocking behavior we’re laughing over is an ancestor to two of the people at the table.
“Oops,” she mouths at me, and we burst out laughing.
I like her. If we’d been together in school, we might have been friends.
“Our department runs a part-time history course in English you might find interesting,” she suggests. “How long are you here for?”
“I leave on the weekend.”
“Maybe when you come back, then.”
I don’t bother to tell her I won’t be back. I can barely bear to think about it, let alone say it out loud.
After dinner, when the men head off to catch the end of a football match on TV, Sonja gives Lena and me a tour of her personal passion: her antique porcelain figurine collection.
Westerwald may have its fancy jewelry vault, but I think I prefer this display. The figurines are delicate and intricately detailed, and vary from early eighteenth century Meissen figures to art deco ballerinas.
Sonja picks up one of a mother with a child in her lap, both dressed in white, and cradles it lovingly. “This one isn’t very valuable. It’s a nineteen-eighties soft paste piece in the Capodimonte style. Nick gave it to me one Mother’s Day.”
She sets it down and turns to us, her face composed but her eyes haunted. “Would you please excuse me from joining you for coffee?”
I recognize her smile. It’s the same one I use on customers when I’m not really in the mood, but have to maintain appearances. “Of course.”
Lena and I head back downstairs to the drawing room where after-dinner coffee is always served.
“I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” Lena says softly as we head downstairs, “but now that I’ve met Adam, I think Prince Nicholas’s death might have been a good thing for this country.”