A Royal Mess (43 page)

It was such a mind-blowing kiss that even my brain stopped working. All I could do was feel and smell, and Malcolm felt and smelt lovely. Not like Freds, who always smelt of lemons. No, Malcolm smelt of boy, only in a nice way. If you could bottle Malcolm’s smell you’d make trillions, I promise you.

I had the most alarming wobbly feeling in my tummy and disorientation of my little grey cells. I even started raising my left foot off the ground without any sort of cognitive instruction whatsoever.

And then he dipped me.

Yes, I swear, he dipped me! All I could think was ooh-la-la, this is just like in the movies. And then I remembered. This was a movie – well, sort of like a movie. Malcolm was playing the part of the gallant selfless hero making the idiot ex-boyfriend jealous.

Malcolm lifted me from the dip and I opened my eyes, which I hadn’t even realised were closed. I knew boys liked you to close your eyes when they kissed you, but, well, I usually couldn’t help looking at their scrunched-up little
faces. Star says it’s one of the few moments in life you get to see a boy vulnerable.

So anyway, I came to from my ooh-la-la moment and looked at Malcolm and realised for the first time how green his eyes were. Obviously, I already knew he had green eyes. A lot of these strawberry-blonde types with ivory skin are prone to green eyes. Malcolm’s eyes were the colour of grass after the rain when all the positive (or is it negative?) ions are running rampant.

Then I looked around me like a blinking rabbit and saw everyone was staring at us. Everyone but Freds that is. He wasn’t behind me anymore. Typical, I thought. I get dipped by an older fit boy, right under his stuck-up nose, and he wanders off. We couldn’t afford to lose the evil prince at this delicate stage of The Counter Dump. So I asked the crowd at large, ‘Where’s Freds gone?’

Malcolm was still looking at me. He touched my chin and kissed me lightly on the lips.

‘Where’s who gone?’ he asked.

‘Freds!’ I repeated. ‘He’s legged it.’

Malcolm looked around then as if coming to from a dream, but by that stage I’d already spotted Freds. He was only a few yards away, but there were lots of boys and girls between him and me, all flirting outrageously with one another, so he was sort of hidden from view. As I got a glimpse of his face, though, he looked distressed rather than bored. Also, he was sort of wobbling near the edge of the bridge.

For a moment it crossed my mind that maybe he
had
witnessed our snog-age after all and really was jealous and upset! And that made me feel even more confused.

Malcolm looked rather magnificent and powerful and superhero-ish as he moved towards Freds, especially when he shoved a few of the film society guys aside. I followed in his slipstream.

Malcolm cried out, ‘He’s not falling off the bridge, is he?’

The next thing I saw was my prince disappearing.

Then we all heard an almighty splash as he hit the Thames.

TWENTY-THREE
The Drowning Dreams of a Teenage Egoist

Malcolm yelled into his megaphone, ‘Boy down!’ and panic ensued as the security guys went loopity loopy loo. It was like a game of skittles gone wrong, the way they were all bumping into one another. Because a grave and terrible accident had befallen the heir to the throne, no one was laughing at their mad rush to get down the tiny cobbled steps with their enormous fat feet. But there was something vaudevillian about it all.

By the time they had descended one set of stairs, Freds had been washed to the other side of the bridge, so they had to rush in the other direction to mount their chaotic rescue mission.

It wasn’t just Freddie’s security on the case either. All of the other buzz cuts were falling over one another in their eagerness to rescue the drowning prince. You could hear their brains thinking, I swear! They were saying, ‘Oh let
me be the one to save His Majesty, please, Lord, let it be
me!’

I say drowning because I’m prone to exaggeration, but actually, it must have been freezing in the Thames. The swans looked pretty chilly, and even outside the water, my legs were blue. I know people swim the Channel, but then they rub themselves with goose fat first, don’t they? I was fairly sure Freds hadn’t taken any such precaution.

The Eades Film Society and my own friends were all hanging off the bridge, yelling out, ‘Freddie! Are you okay?’

As if anyone flailing about in a Thames swill in January could possibly be okay.

Just the same I joined them, dashing from one side of the bridge railings to the other as we watched our liege being helplessly washed downstream. Tourists were taking pictures of him. It was très, très tasteless and made me feel sick to the core. Sometimes I really have to question the morals of my fellow humans.

Eventually, I pushed my way through to the front of the crowd, spotted Freds and yelled out something not very useful to him like ‘hang on!’

I don’t think he heard me, though. He was focusing on trying to swim in subzero temperatures, against the current.

There was a woman on the bridge calling out to a gaggle – or is that a signature? – of swans. She’s a bit of a Windsor fixture, actually. Mad as a pack of socks. She was wearing a
big old grubby mac and bobble hat with earflaps, and as usual she was chucking chunks of bread to the swans.

So while the heir to the throne was drowning and the security guys were being pointless, the mad old woman continued to lob lumps of bread at her swans until one of the wretched bits hit poor Freds on the head.

Within a microsecond he was being mobbed by hundreds of frenzied swans. It was a horrifying sight! I’m normally quite fond of swans. I’ve spent many a happy moment watching the Windsor swans glide serenely down the Thames. But there was nothing serene about the way they were mobbing Freds. Seriously, they were all over him, wings and beaks lashing out in all directions in their feverish attempt to retrieve the lump of bread, which must have become wedged under Fred’s collar.

He was utterly helpless to escape the ferocious force of flapping, hissing swans dragging their prince down into the depths of the current. I’m sure the irony wasn’t lost on him either. It was just so wrong to see the monarch’s own birds – which no one else is allowed to touch or eat apart from some odd college up at Oxford or something – attacking the future king.

‘Leave him alone!’ I screamed at the swans.

But would they listen? No. Daft birds. And the mad old woman was egging them on. ‘Git him, my dearies! You git him! Trying to steal thee bread. You git him my dearies!’

Thee
bread? Who talks like that? Proper loons, that’s who.

The whole situation was just too dreadful. What if the tabloids got a shot of the swans trying to drown the prince? Everyone would say I was responsible. And they’d be right. If I hadn’t attempted the stupid Counter Dump, Malcolm wouldn’t have pulled me, and Freds wouldn’t have fallen in the Thames and been flapped to death by ducks.

The prince’s death would be on my hands.

I wouldn’t be surprised if I was banished from England forever after this. Poor Bob and Sarah, imagining their beloved daughter happily floating on a blissful cloud of royal love, when actually I was a horrible prince killer.

Then I saw a flash of orange. It was Siddhartha diving into the Thames – and a truly magnificent sight it was. Seriously, he was like some wonderful orange-robed Olympian swimmer. What’s more, he succeeded where the scrambling, bumbling, buzz cuts with their guns and wide boy attitudes had failed. He reached Freddie and bravely fought the swans off with his prayer wheel. He didn’t hit them or anything unpeaceful like that, just sort of spun it around so it made a noise.

Anyway, taking the heir to the throne in one of his finlike arms, he swam powerfully to the banks where the other security guys were eagerly waiting to take the glory. Oh yes, they threw their jackets over Freds and led him off to a fleet of waiting ambulances as if they’d been the heroes of the hour. The tabloid press was out in force by now, but I was too worried about Freds to bother death staring them. I tried to get through the crowd to the ambulance,
but I was too late. Malcolm wrapped his own jacket around Siddhartha and led him off.

I just stood there alone, useless and embarrassed. ‘Darling, are you all right?’ Honey asked. ‘Thank goodness my man had the presence of mind to rescue Freds or he might have died and you would have gone down for manslaughter, darling. You must feel terribly grateful and guilty.’

As numb as I was, I actually did feel grateful, and guilty. Honey was right. It was my fault.

‘Darling, I couldn’t bear to think of you languishing away in cold Old Chokey. Of course I’d send you care packages, although in my position you must realise our friendship could never continue. A girl of my social standing couldn’t be seen associating with a con.’

‘No, of course not,’ I said, not really listening. Now was not the time to listen to psychobabble.

Star threw her arms around me and gave Honey a poke. ‘Leg it, Honey, before I push
you
off the bridge,’ she warned. ‘Calypso didn’t push Freddie in; he fell.’

Honey tried to raise her eyebrows but the Botox had paralyzed her brow so it just looked like her eyes were popping out of their sockets. ‘Fine, I was just trying to be supportive.’

‘Siddhartha was brilliant, though,’ Star conceded. ‘Malcolm’s taken him back to Eades for a hot shower and a change of clothes.’

Honey went off on one. ‘Well that’s highly illegal. A security guard should never leave his or her principle.
Malcolm should have asked me before taking my man away.’

‘The guy had just been dragged out of a freezing river, Honey,’ Star pointed out. ‘I think you should be grateful that someone had the semblance of mind to treat the hero of the hour.’

I could see it killed Honey to agree with Star, but after a short battle with herself she replied, ‘Of course, I suppose under the circumstances I’ll let it pass. He’d better dress him in orange, though. I don’t want people mistaking him for a common security guard,’ Honey warned. ‘It’s all been most distressing for me. Tell Siddhartha he can collect me at the pub. I’m going for a nice relaxing vod and ton. I’ll see you back at the asylum, peasants,’ she said, and flounced off.

Star put her arm around me. ‘By the way, that was some kiss you had with Malcolm, darling!’

I knew she was just trying to lighten the mood and take my mind off Freds, but it only made me feel worse. And more confused, because it had been
some
kiss, even if it was just acting.

TWENTY-FOUR
A Severe Attack of the Mea Culpas

There were no girls lining the driveway to Saint Augustine’s on our return. No banner-waving nuns skipping about triumphantly. No cheering house spinsters. Not even Misty – Miss Cribbe’s incontinent spaniel – was there to lift a leg in salute. No, the drive was as empty as a desert. Bad news travels quickly in the royal county of Berkshire, I can tell you that much.

Operation Counter Dump had been a spectacular failure, and Saint Augustine’s is feverishly keen to hush up spectacular failures. Instead of supportive, hopeful looks,
everyone
was giving me disappointed looks.