Page 30 of The Heir Apparent
“My dear girl, I’m so glad you’re home,” she said. “Yes, you stand in for me at the reception. You’re the one they’re all curious to see anyway.”
She picked up the order of service pamphlet she had carried all the way from the Abbey, and Amira and I curtsied as she slowly walked from the chapel. A boom echoed through us as the doors closed behind the Queen.
Amira began unpinning her hat from her hair.
“Doyouneed to go upstairs?” I asked.
“What?” she said around a mouthful of bobby pins. “And leave you to face the hyenas alone?”
We walked around the middle ward at the heart of the castle grounds, heading for the state apartments where the reception for family and friends was underway. It was late afternoon, the drab day giving way to dusk. Our breath turned to twirling vapour in the winter air.
“What’s going on with Annabelle?” I asked while I had the chance. “Why isn’t she talking to anyone?”
Amira walked on, gathering her thoughts before she answered. “To be honest, I’m not really sure. But something happened around Christmas. That ashram trip was pretty hastily organised, and your father was acting strangely when he showed up in Zermatt.”
“Were they not happy anymore?” I asked.
She took a long time to respond. “They were upset about something before he died, but I’ve no idea of the details. Louis knew more, but we didn’t have a chance to talk about it.”
We were walking in the great shadow of the castle keep and I had the irrational thought that I must call Mum and tell her: Papa and Annabelle weren’thappyanymore. She had been my father’s first and only love. All buxom curves and bleached blonde curls, the divorced Catholic daughter of his horse breeder had enraptured him from their first meeting in 1980. They were forbidden to marry, but both assumed that like most kings, Papa would be able to keep a mistress on the sidelines of his life. He had been stupid to think that tabloid editors would be able to resist such a saucy storyline—or that my young romantic mother would be able to bear it. There was nothing quite like knowing my father’s heart was somewhere outside his family, that my very existence was not what he yearned for or imagined for himself.
Granny finally gave in and allowed Papa to marry Annabelle seven years after Mum died. A war council, including the archbishop and the prime minister, was assembled to make the wedding palatable to the British people, who were still resolutely Team Isla. The bride was required to convert to the Church of England. She could never be the Princess of Scotland, a title that was now inextricably linked to my mother. Instead, she was bumped down to one of Papa’s lesser titles and called the Duchess of Exeter. The mother of the groom could not attend a union of divorcées. Instead, she threw the newlyweds a lavish reception. Louis’s and my involvement in the wedding was considered a crucial endorsement. Louis probably agreed to go because it was the mature thing to do, while my presence was secured through bribery. I’d been in Australia for six years by the time Papa remarried and was drifting ever further from his grasp. In exchange for showing up in a nice dress and hat, I was given early access to some investment bonds that I had received from my grandfather as a christening gift. I used the money to buy myself a second-hand Corolla.
Papa and Annabelle’s civil ceremony was the first time she and I had ever really spoken. From the dark shadows she had cast over my childhood, I half-expected a bad fairy from a German folk tale. Instead I found Annabelle to be a busty countrywoman who liked a stiff drink and had trouble meeting my eyes. She was attractive for sure—what Granny would call a handsome woman. But Annabelle had the great misfortune to be publicly pitted against my mother, a five-foot-eleven stunner with a pre-Raphaelite complexion, bright-green eyes and the kind of lips many women paid for. No one—not the tabloids, not Granny, not even me—could fathom why Papa would spurn this perfect creature for a woman who was not a virgin, not young, and not in possession of the kind of beauty that could sell lipsticks and luxury cars.
The hushed conversations evaporated the moment Amira and I walked into the Crimson Drawing Room. Mouldering men in morning suits and women in 1960s vintage Chanel looked me up and down with unabashed curiosity. Richard was still stuffed into his ceremonial military uniform, draped in a gold braided aiguillette and his bright-blue Order of the Garter sash. How he’d earned the medals pinned to his breast after completing half of his basic training and then dropping out, I had no idea. He curled back his lips to expose his teeth, as natural as a row of china saucers, and raised his glass of scotch to us.
A waiter quietly approached and took our drink orders: a dirty martini for Amira, gin and tonic for me. Richard’s wife, Lady Florence, a tiny sparrow of a woman, waved both hands at me and then wrapped them around my waist. She was so small her head was practically buried in my breasts.
“Lovely Lexi,” she said, rocking me back and forth. “I am so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” I said, relieved to see the waiter return with my drink so I could escape her embrace.
“Did Granny go up to bed?” she asked with an exaggerated, child-like frown.
Richard and Florence married the same year as my parents. She had been born into the kind of nobility that was all name and no money. The family’s great hope was an offer of marriage from the Duke of Clarence. When Richard lost interest in the union, Florence had no choice but to hold on. Unlike my mother, who waged all-out war against my father, Florence made herself smaller and meeker. She did not make demands, and she did not ask questions. In the crater left by my parents’ divorce, Richard saw an opportunity: He could be the brother who held on to his wife. And so, with Florence’s permission to do as he pleased, he remained married in name only. I could never understand why she would endure such indignity, but in more ways than one, a royal family is like the Mafia; you never truly leave it behind.
“Come and see the girls!” she squeaked, digging her nails into my wrist and pulling me across the room.
Amira reluctantly followed as we approached Demelza and Birdie, who were standing by themselves, smirking and whispering to each other as their eyes roamed the room.
My cousins looked at me warily. In such a meeting of royal women, there were rules to follow. They were meant to curtsy before me, and Amira was meant to defer to them. But we dispensed with such formalities when Granny wasn’t around. The dynamics were supposed to shift as we got older. If things had worked out and Amira had gone on to be queen, they would have been forced to bend at the knees for a woman they’d continually snubbed. Despite my howling objection to Louis and Amira’s marriage, this image was one of the few future perks I had relished.
They clutched their glasses of sauvignon blanc and made no move to acknowledge us, so I deployed one of Isla’s classic moves. In the face of scepticism, the only option was to beguile. I smiled warmly and kissed them on their cheeks.
“Hello, cousins,” I oozed. “How are you holding up?”
“You’re looking so… well, Lexi,” Demelza said, her gaze raking me up and down.
Demelza was four years younger than Louis and me. The tabloids, who loved to compare us, often declared her to be the prettier one. But she was not so much beautiful as devoid of flaws. I could not tell you a thing about her face except that it was neat and forgettable. Her hair was an expensive creamy blonde. She was naturally a size six, with tiny breasts and the sort of narrow hips that would have killed her in childbirth a century ago. Our parents’ distaste for each other meant we had spent very little time together growing up. She had always struck me as the kind of girl who spent her life sulking in the passenger seat of a boy’s car.
My leaving London was the best thing that had ever happened to Demelza. She sauntered out of her brunches at Scott’s with a copy of theSunday Timesheld up to shield her face from photographers. She dated interchangeable Greek polo players and Kate Kennedy club members. She spent four nights a week at the Connaught, where she suspiciously drank nothing but managed to stay awake until 2 a.m. She had a job assisting the window dresser at Harrods, but still spent a third of the year on vacation. Now and then, she’d put on one of her padded headbands to accompany Granny to a flower show, and theDaily Postwould declare her a modern fashion icon.
But there was a bitterness in Demelza’s eyes that gave her away. Being born fifth in the line was the worst thing that could happen to a person like her. The crown was right there, just beyond her grasp. She saw what life could have been if it had landed on her head, but she would never, ever feel its weight. Now fate had finally gifted her a small chance, and the only thing standing in her way was me.
“Shall we take a picture?” Flo brightly suggested, pulling her phone out of her purse. “All the girls together at last.”
“Jesus Christ, Mum,” Demelza said, but she was already fluffing her hair up. “Don’t be naff, just take one while we’re chatting.”
