stainless-steel
galley kitchen.
As she waited for the kettle to boil, Beatrice strove to calm herself down. Florrie had been out with the prince. But so what?
The prince had taken lots of girls out. It was not a serious gesture, nor was Florrie, Beatrice was fairly sure, seriously
interested in him, whether as a person or a prince. And particularly the latter. Social class was not a subject that interested
Florrie. Duke, dustman, it was all the same. All that mattered was whether they amused her. Or whether she wanted to sleep
with them.
Besides, making an effort, pursuing something, was not Florrie’s style. She never made a play for anyone. Not even her worst
enemy – which was what Beatrice frequently felt like – could accuse her of man-eating. The far more depressing truth was that
Florrie just attracted men like jam drew wasps, simply by virtue of existing. She never tried in the least, which of course
made her all the more irresistible.
Beatrice poured the water into two mugs and carried one through to Florrie, who had now left the sitting room and was settled
happily in Beatrice’s bed. ‘Mine’s all unmade.’ She smiled beseechingly.
‘Your trouble is that you’re lazy, Florrie,’ Beatrice grumbled as she passed the tea into her sister’s frail hands. ‘You really
must be the idlest girl in Britain.’
‘I know!’ Florrie beamed, her smile lighting up her face and showing a row of small, even pearly-white teeth. ‘Aren’t I awful?’
Chapter 7
It was a few days afterwards, and in the sitting room of the flat, the telephone was ringing. Beatrice dived between the antique
furniture to answer it.
‘Darling!’ exploded the other end.
‘Mummy!’ Beatrice beamed, relieved that her mother had finally responded to her frantic texts and answerphone messages transmitting
the triumphant news. Ned Dymchurch had proposed at last, which meant that Lady Annabel, whose organisational skills were as
formidable as the rest of her, could finally sink her teeth into the wedding.
‘It’s fantastic, isn’t it?’ she burst out, unable to stop herself.
‘Amazing!’ cried Lady Annabel.
‘I can’t believe it!’ Beatrice exclaimed. It had indeed been a close-run thing. The sommelier, tiptoeing purposefully towards
their ice bucket, had almost done for it this time. Only Beatrice seizing the bottle herself and sloshing it violently into
both their glasses had saved the moment.
‘Me neither, darling. All my dreams have come true!’ There was a little yelp of ecstasy at the end of Lady Annabel’s sentence.
‘So, is our princess there?’ she added.
‘Princess?’ Beatrice frowned. Her heart began to hammer. ‘Princess who?’
She realised in a flash that they were talking at cross-purposes. Of course they were, she chided herself bitterly. What had
shebeen thinking of, to imagine her mother was remotely interested in her?
‘Oh
really
. Princess who do you think?.’ Lady Annabel’s tone was scornful. ‘Just a mo, I’ve got it here . . . yes . . . ahem . . .’
Lady Annabel cleared her throat as if preparing to address the nation. ‘Lady Florrie Trevorigus-Whyske-Cleethorpe . . . seen
dancing cheek to cheek with HRH – and we’re not talking faces . . .’
‘Oh God!’ groaned Beatrice, clasping her forehead with an icy hand.
It was too cruel. After what seemed like years of working on him, Ned Dymchurch was finally going to take her up the aisle.
But now Florrie looked set to steal her wedding thunder, as she had always stolen everything else. Shoes, earrings, attention
most particularly.
‘Awfully funny, don’t you think?’ Lady Annabel gurgled. ‘Cheek to cheek and we don’t mean faces!’
‘What else does the article say?’ Beatrice asked miserably.
‘Now where was I, oh yes . . . Lady Florrie, blah blah . . . deep in intense conversation . . .’
Beatrice relieved some of her feelings in a hot, savage snort. ‘Intense
galley kitchen.
As she waited for the kettle to boil, Beatrice strove to calm herself down. Florrie had been out with the prince. But so what?
The prince had taken lots of girls out. It was not a serious gesture, nor was Florrie, Beatrice was fairly sure, seriously
interested in him, whether as a person or a prince. And particularly the latter. Social class was not a subject that interested
Florrie. Duke, dustman, it was all the same. All that mattered was whether they amused her. Or whether she wanted to sleep
with them.
Besides, making an effort, pursuing something, was not Florrie’s style. She never made a play for anyone. Not even her worst
enemy – which was what Beatrice frequently felt like – could accuse her of man-eating. The far more depressing truth was that
Florrie just attracted men like jam drew wasps, simply by virtue of existing. She never tried in the least, which of course
made her all the more irresistible.
Beatrice poured the water into two mugs and carried one through to Florrie, who had now left the sitting room and was settled
happily in Beatrice’s bed. ‘Mine’s all unmade.’ She smiled beseechingly.
‘Your trouble is that you’re lazy, Florrie,’ Beatrice grumbled as she passed the tea into her sister’s frail hands. ‘You really
must be the idlest girl in Britain.’
‘I know!’ Florrie beamed, her smile lighting up her face and showing a row of small, even pearly-white teeth. ‘Aren’t I awful?’
Chapter 7
It was a few days afterwards, and in the sitting room of the flat, the telephone was ringing. Beatrice dived between the antique
furniture to answer it.
‘Darling!’ exploded the other end.
‘Mummy!’ Beatrice beamed, relieved that her mother had finally responded to her frantic texts and answerphone messages transmitting
the triumphant news. Ned Dymchurch had proposed at last, which meant that Lady Annabel, whose organisational skills were as
formidable as the rest of her, could finally sink her teeth into the wedding.
‘It’s fantastic, isn’t it?’ she burst out, unable to stop herself.
‘Amazing!’ cried Lady Annabel.
‘I can’t believe it!’ Beatrice exclaimed. It had indeed been a close-run thing. The sommelier, tiptoeing purposefully towards
their ice bucket, had almost done for it this time. Only Beatrice seizing the bottle herself and sloshing it violently into
both their glasses had saved the moment.
‘Me neither, darling. All my dreams have come true!’ There was a little yelp of ecstasy at the end of Lady Annabel’s sentence.
‘So, is our princess there?’ she added.
‘Princess?’ Beatrice frowned. Her heart began to hammer. ‘Princess who?’
She realised in a flash that they were talking at cross-purposes. Of course they were, she chided herself bitterly. What had
shebeen thinking of, to imagine her mother was remotely interested in her?
‘Oh
really
. Princess who do you think?.’ Lady Annabel’s tone was scornful. ‘Just a mo, I’ve got it here . . . yes . . . ahem . . .’
Lady Annabel cleared her throat as if preparing to address the nation. ‘Lady Florrie Trevorigus-Whyske-Cleethorpe . . . seen
dancing cheek to cheek with HRH – and we’re not talking faces . . .’
‘Oh God!’ groaned Beatrice, clasping her forehead with an icy hand.
It was too cruel. After what seemed like years of working on him, Ned Dymchurch was finally going to take her up the aisle.
But now Florrie looked set to steal her wedding thunder, as she had always stolen everything else. Shoes, earrings, attention
most particularly.
‘Awfully funny, don’t you think?’ Lady Annabel gurgled. ‘Cheek to cheek and we don’t mean faces!’
‘What else does the article say?’ Beatrice asked miserably.
‘Now where was I, oh yes . . . Lady Florrie, blah blah . . . deep in intense conversation . . .’
Beatrice relieved some of her feelings in a hot, savage snort. ‘Intense
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