My Best Friend's Royal Wedding (ARC) Read online

  When we finally rise from the table, and I offer to walk Khara back to her room, Max sends

  me one of his sidelong glances. “There’s the move I was waiting for,” he mutters smugly.

  I don’t deign to give him an answer.

  Like the gentleman my mother raised, I say a polite goodnight to her at her bedroom door,

  careful to keep a safe distance between us, to avoid all temptation. But by the time I reach my own room at the far end of the corridor, I could really use a drink, something much stronger than the dry, fruity local wine Max served during dinner.

  It’s only when I’m sipping on a Scotch, looking out at the city lights, that I realise with a jolt that I haven’t thought of Charlie or the memorial dedication all day. I raise my glass in a silent toast.

  #

  I’m woken by a sharp rap on the door. Yay, coffee.

  But it’s not a palace servant with my coffee. When I open the door, dressed only in my

  boxer shorts, it’s Max at the door.

  “Good morning!” He sounds way too chipper for this hour of the morning.

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  “Don’t you have better things to do than provide wake up calls for your guests?” I ask

  grumpily, roughing up my hair in an attempt to get the blood flowing to my sleep-deprived brain.

  “I didn’t want you to miss our meeting.”

  “What meeting?” I shut the door, and trail behind him to the sitting area of the room. God, I

  could kill for caffeine.

  “You promised me financial advice in return for bed and board, remember? This morning,

  we’re meeting with the finance steering committee to discuss how to improve public sector

  efficiency.”

  “Sounds thrilling.” I move to the table in the corner of the room, where there’s a kettle and

  mugs. It’s only instant coffee, but it will have to do. When the kettle boils, I make two cups, and carry them across to the sitting area, where I hand one to Max. He looks insultingly wide awake and put together. If I were to accept Uncle Lajos’ offer, would I also have to get up early and look as if I’ve just stepped out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue? Because I can’t do it.

  I flop down on the sofa, and drink the coffee as quickly as I can without scalding my tongue.

  “Though it breaks my heart to turn down such a tempting invitation, I have better things to do today.”

  “If those ‘better things’ include Khara’s etiquette lessons, you’re off the hook. The ladies

  have their spa day today, remember?”

  Damn. Now I have no other ready excuse to get out of what is likely to be a deadly dull

  meeting. A suspicion forms in my mind. “Did my sister put you up to this?”

  Because that would be just like Jemmy to recruit Max to both keep an eye on me and speed

  up my decision. Not that I’ve given Erdély or my uncle much thought since I met Khara. I suppress a twinge of guilt.

  “No, you did. You said your decision was easy because you don’t want to think about

  anyone but yourself. I figured you needed to see the flip side of that: the difference you can make in other people’s lives.”

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  I don’t bother to respond. He’s wasting his time. I’m not going to swap one deadly dull job,

  which at least offers me the perk of skiving off whenever I can, for another deadly dull job. Even if it’s the noble thing to do.

  Max empties his coffee mug and stretches as he rises from the armchair. “Get dressed.

  You’ll give my Minister of Finance a heart attack if you show up in boxers. I’ll be waiting

  downstairs for you in my office. You remember where that is?”

  I nod.

  Twenty minutes later, showered, shaved, and dressed, I walk into Max’s office. It’s a

  spacious, high-ceilinged room with tall sash windows that overlook the woodland area of the

  gardens. Aside from the view outside the window, it looks a lot like my corner office in London.

  His assistant brings us pastries and proper bean coffee, and I sip gratefully as I read the report Max gives me, on the increasing gap in fiscal sustainability, with population growth and increased welfare spending driving up government debt.

  The finance meeting is held in the adjacent cabinet room, and isn’t as boring as I thought it

  would be. The challenges the committee faces aren’t that different from those faced by many of our company’s clients, but the stakes are so much higher, affecting way more than just shareholder profits. If the government doesn’t make it’s spending more efficient, social services will need to be cut. Real people’s lives will be affected.

  When we leave the meeting five hours later, with some workable suggestions in place, I

  have to admit I feel a deeper sense of satisfaction than I’ve felt in a very long time. Not that I’ll admit to it.

  “Was that so bad?” Max asks smugly, as we grab a quick sandwich in his office.

  “You got my expertise for free,” I grumble. “Do you really need me to like it, too?”

  He laughs.

  The afternoon is no less intense. We sit through an environmental policy meeting to discuss

  preventing water pollution through pesticide and fertiliser run-off. There are two clear factions in

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  this meeting, those in favour of stricter environmental controls, and those who want to protect business interests. The meeting gets heated, and I admire how Max soothes, suggests and seduces the opposing factions into hammering out an agreement. Without ever appearing to pick sides, he steers the meeting towards greater environmental protections, which I happen to know is his

  personal mission.

  It’s not unlike schmoozing clients, and though this topic is widely outside my area of

  expertise, I find myself absorbed. Four hours later, with the beginnings of a new policy in place, Max and I are at last alone. His assistant leaves for the day, and Max pulls a bottle of Scotch and two crystal tumblers from his desk. “I think we earned this,” he says, pouring generous shots into each glass.

  “I didn’t realise your job was so hands on.” I take a sip. It’s damn fine whiskey, but what

  else would one expect from a man who used to make wine for a living? This new job is so far away from his old life in California, and I wonder if he misses it, if he regrets having taken on this responsibility.

  Max shrugs. “I can’t enact any changes without parliament counter-signing, but all new

  policy and legislation has to pass through this office. I do what I can. Since I don’t have to follow a party agenda, or worry about my political career, I can focus solely on this country’s future. That’s what makes our system of government work.” He leans back in his chair, cradling his glass. “Our constitution is very similar to Erdély’s.”

  I should probably know that. But I’ve never read Erdély’s constitution.

  “And you do this every day?” I ask.

  “Not every day, thank heavens. I get time off for good behaviour. Tonight’s the bachelor

  party, and I thought tomorrow we could head to the polo match a day early. Take the ladies on a slow drive into France, and stop in at a few wine farms along the way.”

  Now that sounds more like my idea of fun. “As long as someone else is doing the driving.” I

  plan to have a massive hangover tomorrow.

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  Chapter Twelve

  Adam

  When we set out on our little road trip, I’m nowhere near as hungover as I’d like to be.

  Firstly, because Max’s bachelor party was so tame we might as well not have bothered (yet

  more proof, if I needed it, that being royal is deadly dull), but more importantly because I’m sharing the back seat with Khara. And
because she’s wearing another of those cropped tank tops that flashes tanned skin at me. My fingers itch to reach out and touch, to find out if her skin is as soft as it looks.

  So I lounge in the rear of Max’s luxury SUV, pretending to sleep behind my sunglasses, but

  I’m aware of every movement she makes, aware of her subtle perfume, a light rose scent that

  reminds me of my mother’s garden on a summer evening, when the sun pricks out the fragile

  scents.

  Max drives, and Phoenix is seated beside him, turned in her seat to chat to her friend. If I

  didn’t know there was a car full of Max’s security people trailing behind us, this would almost feel like the road trip across Europe Charlie and I did the summer after we graduated university. I try not to remember those times too often, but I allow myself a wry smile at the memory.

  Khara flashes me a glance when I smile, as if she’s as in tune with my every move as I am

  with hers.

  Once we’re clear of the city, the road winds along the Wester River, up into the southern

  hills of Westerwald, where the slopes are dotted with vines. Khara’s excitement as she gapes at the

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  view through the windows is contagious. I give up my pretence of sleep and listen as Max, proud monarch that he is, tells us all about the landmarks and his country’s history. Perhaps that’s why we became good friends; it’s not just a shared love of polo and parties and fine Scotch, but the fact that we were both raised on folk tales and history. And we’re both pretty good at hiding that geekiness.

  Mid-morning, we stop at our first wine farm. The farmhouse looks like a small chateau, a

  long low double-story building with half-timbered architecture and a grey-tiled mansard roof. It’s too early in the day for wine, even for me, but it’s soon apparent that Max isn’t here to sample the produce but to talk shop with the winemaker. While he and Phoenix tour the cellar with the owner, Khara and I wait on the terrace that overlooks the steep-sided river valley, and sip on strong German coffee.

  “How was your spa day?” I ask, in an attempt to make polite, civilised conversation.

  “Weird.”

  Not the answer I expected. I raise an eyebrow.

  “You don’t really want to know, because any honest answer is probably going to be on the

  list of forbidden topics.”

  I grin. “Now I really want to know.”

  She sips her coffee, looking out at the view rather than at me. “They do this thing called a

  body exfoliation, where a complete stranger rubs body scrub all over you while you’re practically naked. After you shower the scrub off, the same person then rubs lotion all over your body. And I mean all.”

  She’s just described every one of my fantasies, except that when I imagined her naked in a

  shower, I imagined my hands all over her.

  She catches my eye, and sends me a withering look, as if she can read my X-rated thoughts.

  “Where I come from, they have a word for that - and it comes with a jail sentence if you’re caught taking money for it.”

  I laugh. “You Americans are such prudes about your bodies.”

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  She bristles, indignant. “That’s what the beauty therapist said when I didn’t want to strip off my bra.”

  “I would have paid good money to see that.” My grin may be cheeky, but my voice comes

  out a little rough. She sends me another look that could cut through steel.

  “But wasn’t it worth it?”

  “I guess. The facial wasn’t bad. My skin does feel softer and fresher.”

  “You sound surprised. Surely you’ve had facials before?” Even my workaholic sister has a

  facial every few weeks.

  She shrugs. “I had one once when I was in my teens and my mother worked at a beauty

  shop. She got staff discount, but after she changed jobs it wasn’t worth it any more.”

  The drive from Neustadt to the polo ground in Chantilly is only four hours, but it takes us

  the better part of the day as we stop in at another half dozen wine farms before we even cross the border from Westerwald into France. I listen in on some of Max’s conversations with the

  winemakers. Mostly, the discussions revolve around marketing Westerwald’s wine produce

  globally, but Max also encourages the winemakers to introduce new grape varietals rather than

  sticking to the usual Riesling grapes.

  I wonder, fleetingly, if Erdély has any wine farms, and whether Uncle Lajos visits his

  farmers.

  Once we’re across the border, we hit the Eastern autoroute and make up time. Max is still

  driving, but I’m in the shotgun seat now so the ladies can chatter in the back. I mess with Max’s GPS, changing the accent of the voice every few miles, but it’s just an excuse so I can eavesdrop on the conversation in the back seat. They talk about climate change, legislation affecting women’s rights, and the books they’ve read recently. For a barmaid, Khara is surprisingly well read. Or maybe a lot of barmaids are well read. Truth is, I’ve never stopped long enough to chat to any; I’ve always been rather pre-occupied with other things. Like getting them into bed. That’s an

  uncomfortable realisation.

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  I also discover that Khara is very fond of her brother, who she mentions at least three times, and not so fond of her mother who, according to an over-excited text she receives while we’re

  circling around Soissons, has just started a new job as a receptionist in a GP’s office. I gather her mother frequently starts new jobs.

  The down side of getting to understand her better, is that it’s hard to think of her as a just another woman to shag. This is why I prefer not to talk to women. It’s easier to walk away in the morning when you don’t know anything about them beyond their bra size. Another uncomfortable

  thought.

  No wonder Khara looks at me like she doesn’t much like what she sees. I’m starting to not

  much like what I see either. And that niggling fear is back.

  Less than an hour north of Paris lies the elegant old town of Chantilly. Though it’s better

  known for its horse racing and its imposing, heavily-renovated chateau, on a large farm carved out of the ancient royal forest, is the polo club. Max and I drop the ladies at the hotel on the edge of town, then drive on to the club to check on our ponies. They’re already settled in their stables by the time we get there, and I make a fuss of Bonney, feeding her carrots and even sneaking her a sugar lump when the groom’s back is turned. We take the ponies out for a quick run, and the exhilaration of being back in the saddle, with the wind in my face, wipes away all my disturbing thoughts. It’s hard to think too much when Bonney and I are flying.

  Max is smiling too when we return to the stables, though for him that’s a default expression.

  I bet he’s never had to face the unwelcome realisation that he’s a much shittier person than he thought he was.

  I only see Khara again that evening, at the informal cocktail party in the hotel’s main salon.

  I’m late to the party, as usual, though not for any of my usual reasons. I’d actually started

  reading Erdély’s constitution and lost track of the time. And now I know that Erdély does have a handful of wine farms, though they only supply domestically.

  Max and Phoenix are already mobbed by arse-kissers and attention seekers, so I grab a

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  champagne cocktail from a waiter and go in search of my protégée. I find her when I step through the French doors into the hotel courtyard. It’s a warm evening, but gooseflesh rises on my arms as I look at her.

  She is seated at one of the wrought iron tables dotted around the deserted courtyard. Her hair is tied up, pulled back in
to a bun so only the barest hint of blue is visible. I miss its wild abandon.

  Her make-up is still a little more nightclub than cocktail party, and she’s wearing a plain black dress which hugs her breasts and waist, and black knee-high boots. Not standard cocktail party wear, but she looks more attractive than any other woman at this party. She looks unique. Something tugs in my chest, which is certainly unusual. That tug is usually far lower down in my anatomy.

  “Have we tempted you over to the wild side?” I indicate the bright pink, cherry-decorated

  cosmopolitan she’s holding.

  She laughs. “Don’t tell anyone, but it’s a virgin cocktail.”

  That’s my sister’s trick. She can drink all night and still be sober at the end of it.

  Khara frowns. “I should be wearing that pink floral dress from the stylist. I stick out in there like a lump of coal in a box of jewels.” She nods back towards the salon.

  “You look gorgeous,” I assure her, and I mean it. “And it’s better to save that dress for

  tomorrow, when there are cameras around.”

  She stiffens, and I reach out and lay a reassuring hand over hers. “Don’t worry, those

  cameras will be pointed at Phoenix, not at you.”

  “That only makes me feel marginally better.”

  I laugh. “Are you ready to go mix and practice your new conversation skills?”

  She sucks in a breath and squares her shoulders. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do this.”

  I hold her gaze. “Remember: poise is, more than anything else, a result of self-confidence.

  All you need is to have faith in yourself. You can do this.”

  For nearly an hour we circulate the room, and I introduce Khara to some of the other guests.

  She makes me proud. She stands the way I taught her, looking assured and at ease, and I think I’m

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  the only one who can tell she’s faking it. She makes polite small talk, without mentioning money or politics or religion, and listens carefully, her whole attention focused on the person she’s talking to.