‘So I will send someone to collect you at two-thirty for the formal engagement announcement,’ the Dowager said, setting down her own cup and consulting the ruby-studded dial of her wristwatch; though her style in dress was elegant, rather than ostentatious, Lori had never seen the Dowager wearing anything less than what must be an absolute fortune in jewellery. Pinned to the lapel of her jacket was a brooch as large as a saucer, shaped like a flower, the ruby centre vying to outshine the sapphires and diamonds which made up the petals.
‘Thank you,’ Lori said gratefully; she still got lost in the palace if left alone to find her way. There were just so many turret staircases, and they all looked exactly the same to the untrained eye.
‘We are all so very happy,’ the Dowager said, rising gracefully to her feet. ‘You have brought a wonderful new energy to the family, Lori.’
Not feeling it right now,
Lori thought ironically, trying valiantly not to yawn: the Dowager was quite right, sitting or standing still was much more tiring than working out.
‘You aren’t worried that it’s all happened so fast?’ she asked a little timidly, standing up too; she knew never, ever to remain seated if her future mother-in-law was on her feet. ‘Sometimes
I
feel that maybe it’s all been such a whirlwind, and—’
‘So romantic!’ the Dowager interrupted, clasping her hands together. ‘So beautiful and romantic! Joachim tells me that he knew you were the girl for him as soon as he met you.’ She tapped the clasped hands lightly against her heart, or rather the enormous, glittering brooch pinned over it. ‘After all these years, it happens so fast! Wonderful! To me, this says that it is true love for him. And it must be the same for you, because you accept him when he proposes so beautifully.’
‘Well, yes – that is – it’s just—’
Lori didn’t even know quite where she was going with this. She felt impelled to say it, however, to try to register some small – not
objection
, exactly – almost like a disclaimer, a clause you inserted into a sponsorship contract to say that you might need a cooling-off period. Not that you ever did that with a sponsorship contract, of course – not that she even wanted, really, to cool off . . . it was merely that, as she had tried to say, everything was happening so very
fast
, and it felt as if no one else remotely noticed or cared about the lightning speed of events, from meeting to engagement to marriage, and that she ought –
someone
ought – to at least register that speed, even just mention it in passing . . .
‘Oh, my dear!’
The Dowager, seeing Lori’s hesitation, hearing her voice tail off, stepped forward quickly to embrace her. The smaller woman’s head rested against Lori’s shoulder; Lori, hugging her back carefully, looked down at the Dowager’s meticulously tinted and sculpted ash-blonde hair, every strand in place, sweeping round her scalp in a perfectly smooth swirl.
‘You could not be more welcome here in Herzoslovakia,’ the Dowager assured Lori, taking a small pace back, hands sliding down Lori’s arms to grasp her just above the elbows. ‘Joachim is settling down at last with such a lovely healthy girl!’
I wish she wouldn’t keep mentioning me being healthy
, Lori found herself thinking.
It always makes me feel like she’s going to pull back my lips and check my teeth, like they do with horses.
‘I can’t help feeling a bit out of my depth,’ she admitted. ‘You know, two months ago I was living in a little two-bed apartment in Miami with a view of the beach if you leaned off the edge of the balcony and sort of squinted round the corner of the apartment block next to us. And now . . .’ She couldn’t move her arms, as the Dowager was still gripping them, so she rolled her head to signify the grandeur of their surroundings. ‘I mean,’ she blurted out, ‘don’t you wish that Joachim was getting married to a queen, or at least a countess, or something? Someone from Herzoslovakia? Even someone from
Europe
?’
The Dowager nodded sympathetically.
‘Frankly, Lori, that
was
my original hope,’ the Dowager said, smiling up at her sweetly. ‘I mustn’t lie to you, must I? You are going to be my daughter, the only daughter I will ever have, and we must always be honest with each other. I must admit that I
did
hope Joachim would find a girl from maybe Austria, Hungary, Germany, where there are many aristocrats who would understand all of our ways. But the heart must have what the heart wants, and my son is a man of integrity who would not marry just to please his mother and his country, but also to make himself happy. And he has chosen a beautiful angel of a girl, with a lovely sunny personality! Happy, smiling—’
Please don’t say healthy!
Lori crossed her fingers.
‘ – blonde, like a true queen, a true Herzoslovakian, who will give him lovely healthy children, and me lovely healthy grandchildren . . .’
Gah, I knew she wouldn’t be able to avoid saying it . . .
But the mention of children softened Lori instantly. She did want to have children, always had, the more the merrier, the sooner the better; she couldn’t wait to get started with Joachim, fill the royal palaces with a whole brood of – yes, healthy little rug rats, tumbling down the staircases, sliding along the polished marble floors, bringing some life and noise and much needed chaos to the perfectly organized formal atmosphere that presently reigned in Schloss Hafenhoffer.
‘I want to have
loads
of kids,’ she said to the Dowager, who beamed approvingly.
‘And you won’t lose your lovely figure, even if you have many children,’ she said reassuringly. ‘You have a nice long waist – that is a
very
good shape for having babies! You must be careful not to put on too much weight, though, so you don’t get the stretch marks . . .’
So after her nap, standing next to Joachim in the Throne Room, posing for photographs as journalists eagerly called out questions about when they were planning to start a family, Lori found herself remembering this comment from her future mother-in-law and smiling with such genuine amusement that the photographers cooed in pleasure at how beautiful she looked.
It’s just the kind of thing that Mom and Grandma would say. They’ve got that same bluntness. If they think something about you, they’ll just come out and say it. Grandma even worried that I’d turn into a lesbian if I played volleyball!
Well, I’ve definitely proved her wrong there,
she thought, smiling.
Not just engaged to a guy, but a king to boot! They couldn’t believe it when I rang to tell them – oh, I can’t wait till they come to visit next week—
‘Miss Makarwicz, please to raise your hand so we see better the ring?’ one photographer asked, and Lori obediently placed her left hand on Joachim’s uniformed chest, turning it from side to side slowly to give different angles, make the diamonds blaze in the flashes of the cameras.
Last month I was showing off the Duplex watch, this month it’s my engagement ring,
she found herself thinking ironically.
What is this selling, though? The happy monarchy of Herzoslovakia, safe as houses for all your tax haven needs?
The cynicism was utterly unlike her; she had no idea where it had even come from. Shaking her head to dispel it, she leaned against Joachim and smiled happily at the ranked mass of media.
‘Miss Makarwicz, are you going to compete playing volleyball in future?’ a journalist called. ‘Maybe competing for Herzoslovakia!’
Laughter greeted this, and Lori, smiling, waited for it to die down before she said: ‘No – I couldn’t do better than taking a medal at the Olympics! I hope to coach and work with children in my new country to promote the importance of health and sport, but I don’t think it would be appropriate as a queen to be jumping around in the sand. Besides, I want to settle down in my new country, not be travelling around the world.’
‘May I say, Miss Makarwicz, you would look very attractive in a volleyball costume in the Herzoslovakian colours!’ called a brave man, who was immediately shushed by a volley of disapproving hushes from the other journalists.
‘Ugh, a Communist!’ Joachim hissed crossly in Lori’s ear. ‘I am very sorry.’
But Lori was looking in the direction of the ‘Communist’ and smiling even more beautifully, her perfect teeth on display as she said easily: ‘You know, I was never happy competing in that small outfit. Joachim has handkerchiefs that are bigger than that!’
She let them laugh at this, and then added: ‘But seriously, no, I won’t be playing in any future tournaments. As your future queen, I will be putting my new country and my king first, I promise you that! My family are going to be visiting me soon from America, and I am very much looking forward to showing them my new home, of which I am very proud.
Erçe
ŝ
s Herzoslovakia!
she finished.
Long live Herzoslovakia!
The journalists broke into applause. Joachim’s arm, around her waist, squeezed her tightly in approval at the perfect way she had handled the press conference.
‘
Erçe
ŝ
s Kirá Lori!
’ he said proudly.
Long live Queen Lori!
She smiled at him, tilting her head slightly back at the angle which she knew, from her years of press conferences, sports channel interviews, photo shoots, sponsorship material, was the one best way to present her face: the line of her jaw was perfectly smooth like this, the slight bump on her nose blurring to straight. Her king, the man for whom she was changing her life, was looking his absolute best in the dark blue uniform of an honorary colonel in the Herzoslovakian army, its high collar, with its gold flashes, concealing the soft little bulge of flesh under his chin, the dark red sash and rows of medals adding to his authority, the custom-tailoring of the uniform narrowing his waist and lengthening his legs.
My king,
she thought happily, seeing the pride in his eyes as he gazed at her.
He’s chosen me, out of all of the women he could possibly have had – me, Lori Makarwicz from Dorchester, New York, from a blue-collar family about as aristocratic as a sack of potatoes. He’s lavished me with jewels –
around her neck she was wearing a multi-strand turquoise and pearl necklace with a diamond and pearl clasp, and in her ears diamond and pearl stars –
welcomed me to his country, his home, his family, asked me to be his wife and the mother of his children . . . his mother’s already treating me like the daughter she never had . . . I’m the luckiest girl in the world!
Joachim’s arm was warm around her, his breath fresh on her cheek. She turned into him and reached up to stroke his cheek lovingly, careful now not to scratch him with the enormous rock on her hand; it was a source of perpetual anxiety to her, that ring. She couldn’t bathe or shower or sleep while wearing it, but she had to keep checking that it hadn’t rolled off the shelf or the bedside table she’d put it on; she was still waking up several times in the night to touch it before falling asleep again.
All alone in the enormous four-poster bed, of course. Because King Joachim didn’t think he should be sleeping with his fiancée before the marriage.
Lori couldn’t get her head around that. OK, he hadn’t thought it proper to have sex before they’d become engaged, she got that, but now that they
were
– well, didn’t it seem like a really good idea? Even if he didn’t want it known, they didn’t have to flaunt it. There were a couple of months to go before the wedding . . . they had plenty of time to sneak off somewhere and get on with it . . .
I’m going to have to seduce him,
she told herself determinedly, as he held up a hand, signifying the end of the press conference.
It’s the only way. I’m sure he’s holding back out of some scruple, because he thinks he should wait until the wedding night. Well, that may be how they do it in Europe, but everyone here keeps telling me how healthy I am, and they’re right. I’m a healthy, red-blooded American girl, and I’m not going to marry a man I haven’t had sex with! I’m going to pick my moment, get Joachim back to my rooms, and show him how we roll back home in the States.
Lori smiled at her unsuspecting fiancé, who was beaming at her as fondly and protectively as if she were an angel come down to earth.
Well, he’ll find out I’m not
that
much of an angel.
Twenty years ago
The woman who had, until earlier that day, been Princess Belinda, stepped slowly out of the helicopter, steadying herself on the outstretched hand of the co-pilot, who had jumped down to help her out. Her legs were wobbly, and she was very grateful for the instinctive courtesy that kept him standing there, waiting politely as she gathered herself, found her balance. It wasn’t the long ride in the helicopter that had made her so shaky; she was used to travelling by this mode of transport, and had been too dazed to even notice their route, the frequent stops for refuelling on the journey from Oukaïmeden.
They had crossed Morocco, landing briefly in Algiers, then buzzed over the Mediterranean to Cagliari, right at the base of Sardinia; from there it had been another jump over the bright blue Tyrrhenian Sea to their final destination. If Belinda had looked out of the small window of the military helicopter during the journey, she would have seen nothing below her at all; no islands, and barely any boats apart from the occasional ferry taking passengers from Naples to Corsica. In the summer, there would have been many more ferries, carrying tourists from one beautiful Italian island to another; but it was the beginning of March, far too early in the year for sunbathing or swimming, and the boats were on their winter schedule, the islands inhabited only by their year-long residents, a fraction of the people who would swarm to them in the summer.
Which made the tiny island on which the helicopter had landed an ideal location where one of the most famous women in the world could take refuge after having faked her own death.
It was the shock of what she had done that morning which was making Belinda’s legs tremble. Everything had gone exactly as planned. So much so, in fact, that she had had nothing to do but follow the meticulous instructions which had been drummed into her for weeks beforehand, once the entire plot had been constructed.