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Authors: Hester Browne
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thing?”
“He’s real enough.” She groaned, reaching for her tea. “Although strictly speaking, Rolf exists in his own version of reality that the rest of us aren’t invited to. Just like he wasn’t actually invited last night.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“Amanda Hastings’s first wedding.” Jo prodded the tray with a finger to indicate something outrageous was coming. “When the vicar asked if anyone had any just cause or impediment, Rolf stood up and coughed, and then sat down again. Then he laughed. The best man punched him on the nose at the reception, he bled over a bridesmaid’s Vera Wang, and Amanda sat him next to
me
at dinner because she said I could talk to anyone.”
“Well, you can.”
Jo looked wounded. “That’s not something you should
punish
your friends for.”
“But he seemed really keen to see you.”
Jo took a big gulp of tea. “Well, he can carry on looking. I’m not at home to Rolf Wolfsburg.”
“Why?” I was really interested now. “Have you two got history?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
“Ted would.” I added a raised eyebrow for good measure.
“Well, there’s no need for that. Not that Ted … I mean, he doesn’t …” Jo fiddled with her eye mask, then pulled it off crossly. “Listen, even if Rolf wasn’t a party-crashing egomaniac who thinks he’s constantly appearing in his own James Bond title sequence, I wouldn’t touch him with someone else’s barge pole. My dad only gave me one piece of advice when it came to relationships.”
I’d listened to enough of Jo’s stories about her parents’ various marriages to be surprised her dad’s advice could be boiled down to just one thing.
“Do tell,” I said. “I’m agog.”
She put her mug down on the bedside table and pressed her lips together. “He said, ‘Jojo, you can marry into any family in the world—except a royal one. They’re all crazy.’ Well, until I met Rolf, I thought he was just being pretentious, but now I know how right he was.”
“What, Rolf’s royal?” My eyes widened. Jo’s social circles were glittery, but I hadn’t realized they were
that
glittery. “What? As in … a prince?”
Jo nodded, then shook her head, then did a sort of squinty-eyed halfway head-wobble. “Well,
ish
. His family’s from Nirona. He’s one of the Nironan Wolfsburgs.”
I hadn’t heard of Nirona. But then, I’d thought the Kardashians were an area of Russia until quite recently. My family weren’t big readers of
Hello!
magazine.
Jo clocked my blank expression. “It’s one of those island tax-haven principalities off the coast of Italy, all yachts and casinos and gold shoes. Jake Astley had his stag weekend there last November. He said you couldn’t move for hedge funders having shady meetings with their accountants.”
“Oh,
there
,” I said. “I’m always popping over to Nirono.”
“Nirona. You might have heard of Rolf’s mum, though—she’s an American model? Liza Bachmann?” She made a pouty fish face, and it was a sign of how long I’d been living with Jo and her glossy fashion mags that I knew immediately whom she meant. “With the signature cheekbones?” she mumbled, pulling her skin on her face back to demonstrate.
“Yes!” I pointed at her. “I know who you mean. She wrote that awful vegan cupcake cookbook Grace Wright gave me for Christmas. The one with the website that tells you how to make your own yogurt out of—”
“Don’t remind me! That’s her!”
“And she produced Rolf? She’s so … dignified.”
“I know,” said Jo. “Genes are a funny business, aren’t they?”
Despite myself, I was quite awestruck. Who knew we’d had a royal person in our flat? Even if he had kicked my seedlings off the balcony, trodden a load of olives into the carpet, and goosed Mrs. Mainwaring.
I blanched, thinking of all the inappropriate things I’d probably said to him. Should I have curtsyed? It wasn’t as if he’d
behaved
like a
“He’s real enough.” She groaned, reaching for her tea. “Although strictly speaking, Rolf exists in his own version of reality that the rest of us aren’t invited to. Just like he wasn’t actually invited last night.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“Amanda Hastings’s first wedding.” Jo prodded the tray with a finger to indicate something outrageous was coming. “When the vicar asked if anyone had any just cause or impediment, Rolf stood up and coughed, and then sat down again. Then he laughed. The best man punched him on the nose at the reception, he bled over a bridesmaid’s Vera Wang, and Amanda sat him next to
me
at dinner because she said I could talk to anyone.”
“Well, you can.”
Jo looked wounded. “That’s not something you should
punish
your friends for.”
“But he seemed really keen to see you.”
Jo took a big gulp of tea. “Well, he can carry on looking. I’m not at home to Rolf Wolfsburg.”
“Why?” I was really interested now. “Have you two got history?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
“Ted would.” I added a raised eyebrow for good measure.
“Well, there’s no need for that. Not that Ted … I mean, he doesn’t …” Jo fiddled with her eye mask, then pulled it off crossly. “Listen, even if Rolf wasn’t a party-crashing egomaniac who thinks he’s constantly appearing in his own James Bond title sequence, I wouldn’t touch him with someone else’s barge pole. My dad only gave me one piece of advice when it came to relationships.”
I’d listened to enough of Jo’s stories about her parents’ various marriages to be surprised her dad’s advice could be boiled down to just one thing.
“Do tell,” I said. “I’m agog.”
She put her mug down on the bedside table and pressed her lips together. “He said, ‘Jojo, you can marry into any family in the world—except a royal one. They’re all crazy.’ Well, until I met Rolf, I thought he was just being pretentious, but now I know how right he was.”
“What, Rolf’s royal?” My eyes widened. Jo’s social circles were glittery, but I hadn’t realized they were
that
glittery. “What? As in … a prince?”
Jo nodded, then shook her head, then did a sort of squinty-eyed halfway head-wobble. “Well,
ish
. His family’s from Nirona. He’s one of the Nironan Wolfsburgs.”
I hadn’t heard of Nirona. But then, I’d thought the Kardashians were an area of Russia until quite recently. My family weren’t big readers of
Hello!
magazine.
Jo clocked my blank expression. “It’s one of those island tax-haven principalities off the coast of Italy, all yachts and casinos and gold shoes. Jake Astley had his stag weekend there last November. He said you couldn’t move for hedge funders having shady meetings with their accountants.”
“Oh,
there
,” I said. “I’m always popping over to Nirono.”
“Nirona. You might have heard of Rolf’s mum, though—she’s an American model? Liza Bachmann?” She made a pouty fish face, and it was a sign of how long I’d been living with Jo and her glossy fashion mags that I knew immediately whom she meant. “With the signature cheekbones?” she mumbled, pulling her skin on her face back to demonstrate.
“Yes!” I pointed at her. “I know who you mean. She wrote that awful vegan cupcake cookbook Grace Wright gave me for Christmas. The one with the website that tells you how to make your own yogurt out of—”
“Don’t remind me! That’s her!”
“And she produced Rolf? She’s so … dignified.”
“I know,” said Jo. “Genes are a funny business, aren’t they?”
Despite myself, I was quite awestruck. Who knew we’d had a royal person in our flat? Even if he had kicked my seedlings off the balcony, trodden a load of olives into the carpet, and goosed Mrs. Mainwaring.
I blanched, thinking of all the inappropriate things I’d probably said to him. Should I have curtsyed? It wasn’t as if he’d
behaved
like a
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