Marrying Up (40 page)

Out of the second coach, helped by liveried footmen,
descended a beautiful, slender woman in a flowing lace gown with glossy blond hair under an enormous tiara. Another huge cheer
rose from the crowd. ‘The princess-to-be conquers Sedona with her glamour, style and charm,’ a woman with an American accent
screeched excitedly into a microphone.

Florrie had changed, her sister thought, squinting to see better. Her hair was shorter. And
what
had happened to her face? She looked older, much older, and not all her features seemed to be in the same place. The strain
of the occasion – and Florrie never usually felt the strain of anything – had obviously taken its toll; her formerly peachy
sister looked as if she hadn’t slept for a century.

‘
La bella principessa’
. . .
‘la princesse la plus chic du monde
. . .’ came the whispering voices from the monitor. In response to some unseen sign, the heralds raised their trumpets to
their lips; there was a gasp and a rustle amongst the pews, and then Monsieur Hippolyte quickly materialised and whispered
something to the chief herald. The instruments were lowered again, and the whisper swept through the cathedral. ‘It’s not
her, it’s her mother.’

The pieces to camera were quickly abandoned ‘What? Her mother?’ exclaimed the American as the news reached her. ‘
La madre’
. . . ‘
la mère
. . .’ gasped the others.

Mother? Beatrice had come straight to the cathedral from the airport; that her mother would be interested in seeing her today
of all days was out of the question. She gawped in amazement at the figure on the screen. The blondness was new, of course.
But there
was
something of Lady Annabel about the face, albeit with a completely different nose and enormous, fish-like lips. This impression
was confirmed now that her father heaved out his big morning-suited body and stood clutching his top hat, frowning under his
bushy brows at the unaccustomed bright weather. Unlike the Sedona monarchs, Beatrice noted, her parents stood a good six feet
apart and did not even glance at each other. She wondered if, throughout the journey, they had exchanged a single word.

‘Your mother,’ hissed Honoria, ‘saw this as a simply marvellous advertisement opportunity.’

‘Advertising what?’ Beatrice could not tear her eyes from Lady Annabel’s almost unrecognisable visage.

‘Herself, of course,’ Honoria answered placidly. ‘There are millions watching on TV, and of course all the press coverage.
There’ll never be a better time to bag another husband, although of course it’s a shame the surgery’s so recent . . .’

Another coach drew up, the crown on top flashing in the sun. Florrie? Beatrice watched carefully as a pretty brown-haired
girl in cream got out and the crowd erupted again, but her excitement switched to curiosity as she recognised Prince Maxim’s
girlfriend. The crowd kept cheering; the young Englishwoman, widely credited with putting a smile back on the elder prince’s
face, was clearly very popular.

More huge cheers as Maxim himself, tall in a dark suit and tie, emerged from the carriage and took his girlfriend’s hand,
his face split in the broadest beam Beatrice had ever seen. She felt a brief, disastrous wave of envy. Oh, to be with someone
you actually
loved
. . .

Finally, Florrie arrived. She looked stunning, Beatrice saw, excited despite herself at the sheer spectacle. Her sister, descending
from a fairy-tale carriage in a cloud of white satin and tulle, her tiara flashing in the sun and her smooth pale hair gleaming
beneath the veil. As her foot touched the red carpet, the press contingent exploded into action and the crowd into ecstasy.

Perhaps Florrie would make a good princess after all, Beatrice found herself thinking. She certainly looked the part, turning
and smiling dazzlingly in every direction. The crowd adored her, waving and calling her name. The press were fascinated, crouching,
shooting, exclaiming superlatives. Beatrice could hear, behind her, Topaz excitedly wondering if Florrie’s dress was Victoria
Beckham. ‘You know, caught in at the waist like that, then flowing out full length, fabulously simple.’

She would never know, Beatrice suspected, exactly how this
unreal – and yet entirely actual – situation had come about. She suspected sleight of hand on the part of her mother. Lady
Annabel was, after all, Lady Annabel.

She could hardly believe how utterly at home Florrie looked on the red carpet with the carriage behind her. She stood there
in the sunshine, tall, white and lovely, basking in the adulation. She seemed instinctively to understand that it was show-business.
And yet there was a dignity about her too, her sister saw. A poise, a seriousness, an almost royal aura. Where the hell had
that
come from?

It was time to go into the cathedral. Florrie bowed and waved one more time to the snapping, exclaiming press corps and to
the exultant crowd.

About bloody time, Jason thought, an hour and a half later, as, veil flung back, smiling all over her beautiful face, the
new Crown Princess came out of the cathedral to a fanfare of silver trumpets and a tumultuous peal of bells. As her husband
Prince Giacomo, Crown Prince of Sedona, now appeared, handsome in his braided cap, sword and medals blazing in the sunshine,
another, even greater cheer went up.

Even Jason, hard-bitten man of the press as he was, could not quite hold back a gasp of admiration. The television crews sent
by at least twenty different countries now began to shout twenty different pieces to camera, all right in Jason’s ear. ‘Ze
new princess conquers Sedona viz her glamour, style and charm,’ a woman with a German accent yelled into a microphone.

‘This princess-to-be fully deserves all the adjectives that have been piled on her in recent weeks,’ a British reporter bawled
at the same time.

‘
La plus belle princesse du monde
,’ shouted a hysterical Frenchwoman.

After the Royal Sedona Air Force roared overhead and released slipstreams of red, white and blue, a hand-picked group of twenty
schoolchildren threw pink and white petals over the newly-wed
royal couple. Florrie, helped by her prince into the Sedona state coach, was conveyed to the reception at the castle.

‘Frightfully moving, the service,’ Honoria quavered.

‘Wasn’t it?’ said Beatrice, and she realised that she actually meant it.

The sun was setting over the chateau of Sedona, and it was a command performance. A deep red sea of cloud was edged by brilliant
gold, behind which the yellow sky turned to duck-egg blue and then to purple. It resembled an amazing celestial experiment
in the laboratory of a flamboyant God. Ranged before it like the foreground of a stage set were the fantastical spires, turrets
and decorative rooflines of the chateau.

As the music tinkled and boomed throughout the castle – the flown-in-from-lbiza DJ Florrie and Giacomo had wanted clashing
with the piano trio Queen Astrid had insisted on – a couple could be seen stealing through the darkening castle gardens.

‘Here,’ whispered Max, pulling Polly on to a small balcony that jutted out over the very edge of the terrace. There was room
for just two people.

Polly looked down to the wrinkled gold sea far below. Then she closed her eyes and drew in a deep, happy breath scented by
Queen Astrid’s roses. It was a moment she had never dared dream of, would never have thought possible even a mere few weeks
ago.

‘You asleep? Am I boring you?’ he was murmuring into her neck.

She opened her eyes; he looked up. His expression was intent, serious.

‘Will you marry me?’

Thousands of miles away, another young couple were embarking on another great adventure. Seeing on the TV news monitor in
the Air China first-class lounge the brilliant spectacle of the Sedona royal wedding, Alexa scowled into her half-full glass
of Dom Perignon. ‘Could have been me,’ she muttered.

‘Until your parents turned up,’ Barney, beside her, said easily. ‘But never mind, darling,’ he added, as the waitress topped
up their complimentary tipple. ‘We’ve got our lovely new best friends Mr Lu and his wife, and they’re very kindly flying us
out to Beijing to show them how the English upper class lives. With any luck you’ll find yourself a newly minted components
billionaire, and I’ll hook up with a rich widow with a chain of power stations. Here’s to us,’ he grinned, chinking his glass
with Alexa’s. ‘Onward and ever upward.’

She knocked it back in one.

Wendy Holden, a former journalist, is the author of ten acclaimed bestsellers. She is a regular on TV and radio and writes for a wide range of publications. She is married, lives in the country and has two small children. Visit her on her website
www.wendyholden.net
, or follow her on Twitter @Wendy_Holden

Author photograph © Laurie Fletcher

‘This is an author guaranteed to lift your spirits’
Grazia

‘Up there with the best of Jilly Cooper’
The Times

‘A modern-day Jilly Cooper, Wendy Holden has made the raunchy romp her own’
Glamour

‘Hilariously outrageous’
Cosmopolitan

‘Sparkling ****’
Daily Mirror

‘The perfect page-turner’
Sun

‘Another sure-fire hit ****’
Closer

‘Tasty and explosive ****’
Heat

‘Fiendishly witty’
Marie Claire

‘Holden writes with delicious verve and energy. Lie back and enjoy it’
Mail on Sunday

‘Fun and irrepressible, Holden claims Jilly Cooper’s crown’
Woman & Home