To Catch a Prince Read online

  Why had she agreed to this bet? It used to be that Helene and Alexis would do totally different things on a Friday night, and Alexis never worried. Alexis would be at a movie with one group of friends, and Helene would be at a party with another, and jealousy never crossed their minds.

  A group of guys passed, almost stumbling over their own feet when they saw her, so dark and brooding in the rain. One of them looked like Simon—same hair, same shy grin—and she almost ran after him. That was silly. Why would she think of Simon at a time like this?

  The next day at work, Tabitha started a rumor that Alexis had an eating disorder. Caro swore that she’d never seen Alexis eat more than an apple. And only half of that.

  “She’s a classic anorexic,” Caro whispered to every Vogue staffer she saw.

  Alexis felt she couldn’t eat her customary yogurt and sandwich in the staff dining room because everyone would be watching. She stormed out of the office with her head high. Why did people always want to cut her down? Girls believed that everything was so easy for Alexis, so effortlessly flawless. They had no clue how much work—how much anxious planning—went into her calm exterior. She studied, worked, and dieted like the rest of them. Maybe she just tried harder.

  Her hands were shaking as she spooned her yogurt while standing under a dripping awning down the street from Vogue. She knew she could return to the office and tell them the truth. Yes, she dieted. She’d been dieting since those awful weeks when she was eight and her mother fed her only grapefruit and cottage cheese. But she’d never starved herself. So why didn’t she confront the rumors? Alexis had no idea.

  She began to unwrap her peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Maybe she didn’t want to tell the truth because she liked the attention—even if it was negative attention. What a terrible idea! Alexis set half her sandwich on a window ledge and leaned against the glass, contemplating. Could she stoop so low?

  But why not? Helene was getting all the attention at home. Every evening Aunt Barbara begged for more details of the Royal Ball. Are there lilies in the floral arrangements? Will you decorate the crudités with kale leaves? Who RSVP’d? And tomorrow William himself would be fawning all over Helene.

  Luckily Alexis’s phone rang before she could sink into the whirlpool of jealousy that consumed her at night. “Hey, Simon. What’s up?”

  “Alexis, hi! I was just wondering if you wanted to come to a rave with me this Friday. It should be cool.”

  Alexis looked out at the passing traffic. Friday night was the Royal Ball. She’d be so preoccupied by Helene’s adventure that she’d be in no mood to party. Besides, since William would be attending the ball, there was no chance he would be at the rave.

  “Sorry, Simon. I have some, um … some things to do that night. Some other time, okay?”

  When Alexis returned to Vogue, Caro told her with a smug smile that Lady Brawn wanted to see her. “Immediately. She sounded rather huffy.”

  Alexis entered the editor’s lavish office. Lady Brawn watched her silently. She didn’t speak as Alexis sat in her customary chair, and she didn’t answer when Alexis asked how she could be helpful.

  Finally, taking a deep drag on her cigarette, Lady Brawn spoke. Alexis expected to be reprimanded for an imaginary eating disorder, but instead she heard Lady Brawn speaking about Prince William. William!

  “You see, my dear girl, Vogue hasn’t done a photo spread of our nation’s most eligible bachelor since before the dark days of his mother’s death. We tried to keep our distance, didn’t want to stoop to the tactics of the hungry paparazzi. But now William is a pinup. He is an icon. He is a monarch-in-training. And he is a sweet, sweet boy. I want Vogue to show the world these many sides of William. What do you think?”

  Stunned, Alexis could only nod.

  “I spoke with his people this morning, and they are very interested. Very interested. He’s been so misrepresented by the press, you know.”

  Alexis shook her head in sympathy with William’s plight.

  “Now, I hope you’re not too busy for the next few weeks, because we’ve scheduled the shoot for three weeks from this Friday. And I want you to be the point person. William will need to know where his clothes are kept. He’ll need to be fed. And you’ll be in charge of all these details. Is that understood?”

  By now Alexis had abandoned her calm facade. “Oh, yes, Lady Brawn,” she squealed. “I can’t wait!”

  Even Lady Brawn allowed a hint of a smile on her otherwise implacable face. “Perhaps you’ll spend this evening doing a little Internet research on his coloring. We’ll need to pick at least six or seven outfits for him. Or do you have other plans?”

  “Nothing I can’t cancel,” Alexis said.

  Thank God It’s Friday Night

  “TWO PEACOCKS SOAKED in rum.”

  Laszlo felt extraordinarily small next to the truck-sized bouncer who barred entrance to a warehouse in East London. He hadn’t thought much about the password that had shown up in his e-mail, but it sounded pretty silly now that he was saying it out loud to a man who seemed wider than he was tall.

  “All right. You’re in,” the bouncer said, moving aside.

  Inside, the rave was well under way. Laszlo spied a group of girls he and Simon had hung out with the previous summer.

  “Should we go say hello?”

  Simon shrugged. “Maybe in a bit.”

  Laszlo understood. He’d totally lost his interest in flirting since he’d met Helene. This was strange. Even when he was dating Katrina, he loved talking to other girls. He’d never cheated—but he enjoyed the game of it. Now he wasn’t even going out with Helene, but he didn’t want to meet anyone else. “We’ll talk to them after we have a drink.”

  “Or two,” Simon said, handing Laszlo a plastic cup of Red Bull and heading to an old tattered couch in an empty corner of the room where they could sit amid the thunk-thunk of the beat and not talk to anyone.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Helen is your name? Well, Helen, you look simply ethereal, waifish, celestial …”

  The man in front of her was a self-proclaimed famous poet. That’s how he introduced himself: “Let me make your acquaintance. I’m T. P. Bradford. Yes, I admit, I’m the famous poet.” Helene had only said her name and he’d begun his monologue. The Famous Poet was skinny and giraffelike: His neck was preternaturally flexible. Helene tried unsuccessfully to peek around him to see if William had made his entrance. But every time she adjusted her head, she was staring again at the pimples on the Famous Poet’s neck.

  “That dress is gossamer, and your form is serpentine, statuesque. The way you look amongst the artwork is resplendent, effulgent…. Oh, silly me, you are but a child. Do you even know these words? Shall I teach them to you?”

  Helene, whom Alexis called “The Walking Dictionary,” saw her escape. “Actually, sir, I have no idea what you are talking about. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think Ms. Ming is calling for me.”

  Helene had been avoiding Ms. Ming’s beseeching gestures all evening, but now she felt compelled to search out her boss at the drinks table. The gallery did look stunning. Ethereal, in fact. Even resplendent. But Helene didn’t like how the art was ignored. These pieces—by Monet, Velasquez, da Vinci, van Gogh—were never intended to be backdrops to a social scene. They spoke of love and torment, the end of the pastoral life, and the beginning of modernism. Tonight, however, they were just accessories to all the beautiful women.

  Like herself. Something had changed when Helene put on Drew’s dress. Helene was beginning to realize that this was how her sister must feel every day. With each step Helene took through the gallery, men’s eyes flashed toward her, like a school of fish all turning together. Even if a man was speaking to a woman, a graceful woman in a slinky dress, Helene noticed, his eyes adjusted ever so slightly to take in the sight of Helene crossing the tile floor.

  “Quick,” Laszlo said, “look deeply involved in conversation.”

  “About what?”

  �
��Anything at all. Nigel and Chaffen-Rawley are headed our way, and I can’t bear hearing his voice tonight.”

  No such luck. “Scoot over,” Nigel said, as he pushed his way between the two friends and sank onto the couch. “Bugger off for a few minutes, Genevieve,” he said. “Be a good girl and bring me a drink.”

  “Is there anything you were wanting, Nigel?” Laszlo asked. “Because we’re having a rather urgent conversation.”

  “Oh, really?” Nigel cackled. “Were you relaying fantasies about loose American girls?”

  “Please,” Simon said, “it’s really none of your business.”

  “Well, a certain girl I hang out with from time to time happens to be the cousin of your American friends. And she happened to ask me yesterday if I had another girlfriend. One by the name of Geneviève. Now where do you think she got that information?”

  When no one replied, Nigel answered himself: “Perhaps she heard it from her American cousins? And perhaps they heard it from you, their escorts?”

  “Well, it’s true, Nigel,” Laszlo said. He was scrunched up against one arm of the couch. “You are going out with Genevieve. It’s not like a secret or anything.”

  “I denied it, of course. I like to keep my girls separate. And I’d appreciate you not messing with my system.” Nigel spread his legs and leaned back into the couch, making himself more comfortable. “By the way, isn’t it a bit sad the way you’re chasing after Helen and Lexy or whatever they’re called, what with the bet and all.”

  “What bet?” Simon asked, practically falling off the cushion to make room for Nigel’s legs.

  “Come on, don’t tell me you didn’t know.” He looked right and left to see their reactions.

  “We have no idea what you’re talking about,” Laszlo said, despising himself for speaking with Nigel at all.

  Nigel beamed. Apparently, nothing made him happier than relaying awful information. “Don’t you get it? Your little girlfriends aren’t interested in you. They’re just using you to get to Prince William. They’ve made a bet.”

  Simon looked at Nigel suspiciously.

  “What kind of bet?”

  Nigel sneered. “What kind do you think?” He laughed then. “Whatever. I’ll catch you two losers on the flip side.”

  Before Helene reached Ms. Ming (who had drunk too many cocktails to care where her intern was), she was intercepted by a short man with a crooked toupee. “You must be Dame Carlton’s youngest. All grown-up now! Don’t you remember me? Peter Roberts? I dandled you on my knee when you were just a little girl.”

  “Sorry, I think you’re mistaken. My name is Helene.”

  The man scratched his head, causing his toupee to fall toward his left eye. “Ah, yes. Helene Van Wyck. I haven’t seen you since you wore pinafores. I was a great favorite of your late father’s.”

  Luckily this man was so short that Helene could peer over him to watch the door. But William didn’t enter. “Listen, sir. I don’t think I’m anyone you know. I’m not a Van Wyck or Carlton or anyone like that. I’m an American.”

  “Nonsense, child. I’ve never seen a more typical British beauty. An English rose. A perfect English rose. Peaches and cream. Stop putting on that American accent this minute and stand up for your country and your queen.”

  “But it’s not an accent. This is how I speak.”

  The man nearly shook with rage. “Oh, you British girls all want to be American these days. You have no sense of pride in our great nation. I cannot bear to talk to you any longer.” With that, he huffed away.

  Alone in the center of the room, Helene realized with a shock that she was totally bored. The other interns were all giggling together in a corner, hoping some guy would come and ask them to dance. She looked around the gallery. Here were the richest people in all of London, and they looked silly, like mannequins in a store window, like dogs at a dog show. The women wore bows where nothing needed tying. They wore more layered ruffles than a wedding cake, and hats that resembled pincushions. Cleavage fell out when it shouldn’t. Dark foundation failed to cover up the pasty skin of a sunless city. She wished she had someone to make fun of it with. Laszlo would have a field day. He’d be imitating the penguin walk and dress of the men in tuxedos. He’d put on an accent to break the decorum of the dour women. He’d ask Helene to dance and waltz her around, Fred Astaire to her Ginger Rogers. He’d stand silently, breathlessly, in front of the Rembrandt with her, forgetting there was a party.

  Helene didn’t feel like herself. She wanted to wash the goopy makeup off her face and exchange the gold strappy heels for her red cowboy boots. I see why you wore this dress only once, she told Drew. It’s gorgeous. But it’s not me.

  Classic summer complexion, Alexis wrote in a notebook. Would look good in all shades of blue. Stay away from oranges and browns. Green could work. The color of fertilized grass in Westchester. No earth tones—those are for commoners. Purple is regal but perhaps a little too much for his skin. Could try pink!

  There was a commotion by the door. The violinists interrupted whatever concerto they were playing and struck up “God Save the Queen.” Guests from all parts of the gallery headed to the entryway. William? Helene asked. Is that you?

  She ran in a most unladylike fashion toward the forming crowd and found herself next to Ms. Ming. A few Royal Guards entered, looking like Russians in their black fur hats. Next came the more traditional security guards, hefty men in black suits wearing an earpiece in one ear. Finally …

  “Is that Prince Edward?” Helene asked Ms. Ming, unable to contain her disappointment. The doors had closed; the entire entourage had entered.

  “Yes,” Ms. Ming gushed. “Edward. Isn’t he handsome!”

  “Isn’t anyone else coming? Like William or Harry or Charles or someone?”

  Ms. Ming shook her head without looking at Helene. She was unable to keep her eyes off Edward. “Of course not. Edward is our royal patron this year. I thought I told you. I couldn’t be more pleased. He is, you know, the queen’s youngest son.” Ms. Ming tugged up her slipping-down strapless dress, and furiously batted her eyelashes as Edward approached, stiff as an undertaker in his dark suit.

  “And the baldest,” Helene whispered, just as Edward reached over to shake Ms. Ming’s hand.

  “So pleased to meet you, Your Royal Highness,” she cooed, extending her hand. “This is such an honor.”

  But Edward wasn’t angling for Ms. Ming’s hand at all. He locked eyes with Helene and grabbed her hand in both of his.

  “And then,” Helene told Alexis later that night, her dress thankfully hung back on the closet door, “Edward told me he was delighted to meet me. And he’s William’s uncle? So, Ms. Lexy. I hate to say it, but technically I’m winning the bet.”

  “Congratulations!” Alexis gushed. This was without sarcasm. She was truly happy that her sister had had a little fun. Tomorrow Helene would learn what she was up against.

  Can You Have Your Cake and Eat It Too?

  AT NOON THE next day a very tired Simon and Laszlo argued as they ate cold pizza in Laszlo’s kitchen. The rave had gone on until the wee hours of the morning. “He’s a liar,” Simon said. “You know that. Nigel’s blagged since the day he walked into Saint George’s Primary School and told us he was Superman’s son.”

  But Laszlo wasn’t so certain. The girls did seem a little too excited every time they heard about William. “If this is true, I’m going to tell Helene I can’t hang out with her,” Laszlo said. “I may be only one one-hundred-twelfth royal, but I have a little pride.”

  Simon nodded and the two boys sat there, pondering a summer without Alexis and Helene. Even though they’d known the girls for only two weeks, this seemed impossibly bleak and awful.

  “The thing is,” Simon finally said, “I just like hanging around them so much. I wouldn’t mind still playing the role of London tour guide just for that pleasure. Even with their stupid obsession with William.”

  “You know, we’re never going to get
anywhere with them,” Laszlo said, sounding like a man sentenced to prison.

  “I thought you actually liked Helene,” Simon spat back. “As a person.”

  “Yeah, as a gorgeous, adorable person who is totally not into me.”

  “Well, you can’t have her,” Simon said sullenly. “So the question becomes, Do you still want to hang out with her?”

  “Every single day,” Laszlo sighed.

  Simon jumped up so quickly that his chair fell over. “Listen!” he demanded, although Laszlo was already listening. “We can’t give up. We’ve barely tried to win these girls. Let’s forget the bet. Nigel’s probably making too big a deal out of it. We’ll show the girls London…. We’ll get to know them…. They’ll start to forget the bet. And then, we’ll do something really big. Some grand gesture that will show them how much we like them.”

  Laszlo raised his eyebrows. “What will this grand gesture be?”

  Simon shrugged. He had no idea, but it sounded romantic. “Only time will tell.”

  Laszlo thought about it. Maybe with someone as interesting as Helene, you just took what you were offered. Maybe. But maybe not. Only time would tell.

  Laszlo stood up and reluctantly raised his slice of pepperoni. “To the grand gesture!” he said.

  Simon and Laszlo took the girls out every weekend. They sat with them in the swinging capsules of the London Eye, a giant Ferris wheel that offered sweeping views of the city. They drove the girls to Cambridge and punted down the river. They showed off the street markets of East London and had dinner in the curry houses of Brick Lane.

  Helene and Alexis enjoyed themselves, but their minds—and hearts—were otherwise engaged. After the party at Jont’s, they’d vowed never to kiss the boys again—it went against the spirit of the bet. Now they were both waiting to see what would happen when Alexis turned her blue eyes on William and led him to his changing room.