To Catch a Prince Page 11

  The weeks of waiting were especially excruciating for Helene. Every evening Alexis would come home with a new detail: what type of undershirt William liked to wear, how she had ordered German ham because it was his favorite. Helene just knew that as soon as William saw her sister, the bet—and Helene’s whole life—would be over.

  The day before the photo shoot, Alexis was on top of the world. She felt so warmly about everyone at Vogue that she decided it was time to dispel the nasty rumor circulating about her. On the way to work she stopped at a bakery and bought the most decadent chocolate cake available. Layers of hazelnut butter frosting, interspersed with slabs of rich flourless chocolate cake, topped by a cloud of whipped cream.

  That afternoon Lady Brawn—who’d been eager to go along with Alexis’s plan—spoke menacingly into the intercom. “Tabitha, Isabelle, Lucille, and Caro! Your presence is requested in my office. Immediately.”

  When the girls nervously entered, Lady Brawn attempted a smile. “Now, you may have forgotten, but today is my half birthday. And as I celebrate my full birthday with my senior staff members, I always like to have a smaller celebration on my half with the interns. Oh, don’t worry about gifts; a card will do. Alexis was kind enough to bake us her favorite dessert.”

  Alexis cut everyone a sliver of cake, and then treated herself to a large wedge. Of course, the thought of all that butter and egg made her gag, but she didn’t let on. She closed her eyes dreamily and bit down, with visions of William dancing in her head.

  At nine that evening Alexis was still at work, the only one left in the Vogue offices. She’d checked in with the caterers and the photographer. She’d talked some sense into the impetuous hairdresser who wanted to dye Will’s golden trusses black. She’d located the socks for the bedroom scene, ironed the seersucker shorts for the camel-riding outfit, and found a replacement for the wool evening coat that had been horribly mishandled by the tailor. She’d updated Lady Brawn’s BlackBerry down to the minute—and left a printout on her desk. In fact, every item on Alexis’s neatly handwritten list was meticulously crossed off. But something was not quite right.

  And that something was Alexis’s shins. They itched.

  Okay. So that’s not the end of the world, right? The perfectly-put-together girl has some itchy shins. Big deal.

  But this was no normal itch. Her shins itched like poison ivy. Or worse. They itched like an attack of fire ants. She looked down and saw that both shins were swollen and red. Without pausing, she wrote on her list: Wear boots tomorrow. Then she carried a vase of poppies from the reception area to her desk, just in case William happened to see her workspace. She wanted it nicely decorated.

  But suddenly she had to get rid of the vase, nearly dropping it on the floor, because her arms had lit on fire. They were hotter than sunburn. Large welts crisscrossed the length of her forearms. And they itched like crazy.

  Five minutes later it was her thighs. Then the skin on her belly. Then her lower back. Alexis sat on the floor of the bathroom, pressing wet paper towels to her skin. It would all be fine, she told herself. She’d wear tights. Long sleeves. Gloves, if necessary.

  But then she glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Her left eye was so swollen it looked bee-stung. Her jaw and cheeks were just beginning to turn crimson.

  Alexis called a cab.

  Later that evening, when Alexis was lying in bed, unable to bear even the lightest sheet as a cover, Aunt Barbara came in with the doctor.

  “I feel so stupid, Aunt Barbara. I usually check to see if there are hazelnuts in things, but this so clearly said, “chocolate cake.”

  Alexis thought of her blunder and tears ran down her face, but she lacked the energy to brush them away.

  “Oh, sweetie, don’t worry. Doctor Peterman will take care of you and get you a prescription for allergy medication. Saheed will go to the pharmacy on his way home. And the doctor promises that you’ll start feeling better in twenty-four hours.”

  Twenty-four hours! Alexis didn’t say anything until Barbara and the doctor left. But when she was alone in the room, she began to cry even harder. She threw a box of tissues against the wall and stomped her feet and swiped a stack of magazines onto the floor. “It’s not fair,” she wailed. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.”

  Helene found no relief in Alexis’s missed chance. And when Lady Brawn called the next evening to tell Alexis how wonderfully the shoot had gone, thanks to all her preparation and foresight, Helene shared her sister’s grief. But when Alexis’s hives disappeared, and her father sent her the most scrumptious bouquet of pink roses, Helene allowed herself to consider Prince William. Now she had a chance again. But she had to hurry up. It was late July. The summer—and the bet—were halfway over.

  Emergency Procedures

  THE DAYS THAT passed after the missed photo shoot were the glummest since Hugo Worth found Alexis and Helene fighting like caged tigers over a bead necklace and didn’t let either of them attend a party at Six Flags Great Adventure. That is, these were the glummest days since back before Plan B. There’d been no clues to William’s whereabouts; the sun had been hiding for ten days; Simon and Laszlo, growing tired of the girls’ bad attitudes, stopped calling so often; and Nichola—after screaming, “He promised he’s not dating anyone named Genevieve. You’re the liars!”—had stopped speaking to them entirely.

  One dreary Saturday found the sisters sitting on a park bench in Russell Square, unenthusiastically debating where they should spend the day.

  Helene, as usual, opted for the wonders of the British Museum. And Alexis, as always, pointed out that artifacts hosted dust mites, and there was a midsummer sale at Theory, just down the block on Covent Garden. But neither sister cared very much where they went.

  They watched the au pairs and the divorced dads chase after each other’s kids. They watched the fountain rise and fall. They watched a homeless man wake up and then start snoring again. They watched a gaggle of skateboarders cut through the park, followed by four teenagers, two girls and two boys, giddy with each other. They were French. You could tell because the boys carried fluorescent backpacks and the girls wore strange scraps of sweaters and still looked ravishing.

  Of course, these couples had to sit on a bench directly across from Helene and Alexis. Of course, the girls had to giggle like the boys had said the funniest thing in the world. And of course, each couple had to start making out passionately.

  “I gotta get out of here,” Helene said. “I can’t watch this.”

  “I know. It’s killing me. But where should we go? I’m embarrassed to say this, but I don’t really feel like shopping.”

  “And I couldn’t really care less about art right now. God, we’re so pathetic. We don’t want anything.”

  “Well, I do want a Diet Coke. That’s something.”

  The girls fulfilled their meager desires at a newsstand down the street. Alexis was paying when Helene shrieked, “Oh, my god! Oh, my god!”

  “What?” Alexis whipped around.

  “Look!” Helene swept her hand over the spread of tabloid newspapers that covered three shelves of the newsstand.

  WILLIAM AT RACY YACHT RACES

  FREE WILLIE

  WILLS PLAYS YACHT-SY

  YACHTS FOR A FUTURE KING

  WILL WILLIAM SKINNY-DIP?

  MALTA MAKES WILLIE HAPPY

  “Who’s Malta?” Alexis asked bitterly.

  “Silly. Malta’s an island. William must be vacationing there.”

  “They’ll do anything to run a picture of him shirtless,” Alexis said, shaking her head like a seasoned member of the media.

  The girls bought all six tabloids and brought them back to the park to read. Thankfully, the making-out Frenchies had gone away, and Helene and Alexis could squeal undisturbed. The wind had picked up, and Alexis held the pages down while Helene read out loud; it turned out that you had to cooperate to compete.

  Tabloids are not known for their probing journalism, and
the papers were short on facts. They gave only the vaguest details of William’s itinerary, and none of them answered the most important question: Was he on the beach with a girl? But the articles did agree on one thing. William was “sure to turn up” at the yacht races off Malta in mid-August.

  “Malta,” Helene said wistfully, “in the blue Mediterranean. It’s the land of Homer, Alexis. Of course he’s going there!” Helene had a love for Homer that went beyond her encyclopedic knowledge of all things literary: She felt a strong bond with Helen of Troy.

  Alexis wasn’t jealous of Helene’s know-it-all-ness. This is where the sisters differed. Helene should know all about the Odyssey, just as Alexis should know exactly what to wear when they got off the plane in Malta. Because they had to go.

  “We totally have to,” Alexis said. “There’s no way around it. I don’t want to hear any excuses.”

  “But—”

  “Nope,” Alexis interrupted. “Fm sick of moping. Remember, this is summer vacation. We’re supposed to have fun. We’re Helenalexis. We can go to Malta. We can go anywhere.”

  “It’s just that—” Helene looked unpersuaded.

  “Not a chance.” Alexis was folding up the papers.

  “But, Alexis,” Helene spit out, “how can we go to Malta? I actually have no idea where it is.”

  At that, Alexis burst out laughing. “Well, I thought Malta was a person. Okay, all we need to do is find out where Malta is. Then we’re buying plane tickets for the weekend of the yacht races.”

  “If it’s reasonable. Should we look in a book?” Helene asked. “The British Library is a few blocks away.”

  Alexis yawned. “I’m much too excited for some dumb library. I know how we’ll find out. And she proceeded to text both Laszlo and Simon: Impt. question. Russll Sq. ASAP.

  “Malta?” Simon asked incredulously. “That was your urgent question?”

  Alexis smiled her most winning smile. “We’re naturally curious about geography.”

  “Well, be curious no longer, fair ladies,” Laszlo said, doing his best impression of a sexy tour guide. “Sitting in the middle of the Mediterranean, Malta may be small, but its historical significance is significant indeed. The Knights of Malta saved Europe from the Ottoman Empire, and then in the Second World War—”

  “He did a report on Malta in fifth form,” Simon whispered conspiratorially. “He even, if I remember correctly, tried to join the Knights of Malta himself.”

  “Well, you did ask,” Laszlo complained. “I was only trying to help.”

  “We just want to know things like, Can you fly there? Do they speak English? How do you get on a yacht?” Alexis explained.

  Simon noticed the newspapers that covered the bench like a blanket. A headline caught his eye: WILL’S SUMMER VACATION IN MALTA. “Aha!” he yelled. This was no mere history lesson. “So that explains the sudden interest.”

  “He must have chosen Malta because of its history,” Helene said eagerly. “I mean, he must want to go somewhere that was in the Odyssey!”

  Laszlo eagerly explained why William would go to Malta. “This race you’re talking about—the Smarties Grecian Mediterranean Cup—is usually, well, in Greece, of course. But when William said he’d like to be the extra man on the Blueblood crew, they had to move the entire race to accommodate the crowds. And I hate to tell you this, but William may be the first heartthrob to sail there: Odysseus bypassed Malta entirely.”

  “Actually,” Helene piped up, “you’re totally wrong. It is believed that Odysseus spent seven years in Malta. That’s where he was imprisoned by Calypso in her cave. You know, she promised him immortality if he’d stay with her.”

  “Right!” Laszlo smiled. “Calypso’s cave. That’s where Odysseus was a prisoner of love” He widened his eyes when he said this.

  Helene blushed, trying to think of a witty retort. Luckily, Alexis grabbed her arm and shrieked, “He’s participating! We’re going to see William sail a boat!”

  Laszlo caught Simon’s eye and frowned. So this was how it would always be with the girls. He would chase Helene, who would chase William. He shook his head. That kind of sub-servience was not for him. “Simon, don’t we have to get back to our video games?” he asked.

  “You’re going to …?” Simon asked, ignoring Laszlo. Desperation made his voice crack. “To Malta?”

  Alexis looked at Helene curiously. “Aren’t we?”

  Helene saw William, her William, steering a boat to safety while the waves crashed on the sides. (She imagined it was a dangerous voyage, not a mere yacht race.) She saw him gallantly calming a scared child and maneuvering a careening craft away from a breaching whale. With this image in her head, she reached into her messenger bag and pulled out Hugo Worth’s American Express card. “If anything qualifies as an emergency,” she said with a grin … How much can a trip to Malta possibly cost? she thought with a twinge of worried guilt.

  The Grand Gesture

  ON THE FRIDAY night before the yacht race, Helene and Alexis sat at the dinner table. Helene asked Aunt Barbara to pass the peas, and then she mentioned with a totally straight face that she and Alexis were going to the Glastonbury Festival all weekend. Nichola, who had been ignoring them for weeks, finally showed some interest.

  “Oh, lucky you. All the best bands are going to be there. Mummy, can I—,” but she stopped herself, remembering that she was no longer friends with her cousins.

  Distracted as usual, Aunt Barbara merely smiled at the girls. “You have a nice time now. And dress warmly. I hear it gets terribly damp and chilled in that part of the country.”

  “Definitely,” Alexis said, although at that moment she had a suitcase filled with new bikinis, halter tops, and sundresses. Average August temperature in Malta? Ninety degrees.

  Perfect for tanning. Perfect for swimming. Perfect for meeting a prince.

  Only one thing was not perfect: their strategy for finding William. In fact, after taking a cab to Heathrow and boarding Air Malta flight two at seven in the morning, Helene and Alexis’s plan was extremely foggy. They had no idea where they were going to stay. They didn’t even know the names of the towns.

  Alexis wasn’t concerned. “It’s an island,” she told Helene as they got in the cab. “How large can it be?”

  But as the airplane rushed east and Alexis slept peacefully, Helene clutched her coffee. Alexis believed that because they were rich and cute, everything would work out for them. Well, someday that would stop being true. What if that day was today?

  “Newspaper, miss?” the flight attendant asked, refilling Helene’s coffee.

  Helene clutched the paper as if it would give her some answers. And it did. There was William on the front cover. He was in a café. And he was also drinking coffee! William enjoys the view in the Maltese town of Valletta before the big race, read the caption.

  Hi, Helene whispered.

  Hey, Helene. I knew you would come visit me here. After all, you ‘re Helene of Troy. Launcher of a thousand ships. Well, at least launcher of my yacht. Tomorrow morning, that is. I can’t wait to see you, William whispered back, and Helene’s anxieties sailed away into the blue Mediterranean waters.

  Alexis did believe that good things would happen to her. But this wasn’t simply because she was rich and drop-dead gorgeous. After all, her looks and money had done nothing to soothe the pain when her mother up and left her. Alexis believed that the future would turn out wonderfully because she did absolutely everything right. She wore the right clothes; she dated the right boys; she did well enough at school; she definitely had the right internship this summer. Because of this, she’d go to the best college, meet the most gorgeous husband, land the coolest job in the fashion industry. It was an equation: If you did the right thing, then good things happened.

  And so while Helene downed her third cup of coffee, Alexis woke up and stretched her arms, contented as a kitten. After all, meeting the future king of England while she was wearing a Juicy bikini would clearly be th
e right thing to do. When the plane landed, she marched off to claim her two Louis Vuitton suitcases (yes, all for one weekend) and find her way to the prince. It was Helene who dawdled, taking in the adorably small airport, the immediate smell of sea air, and the concern that there was no map of the island available at the gift shop—because there was no gift shop. When Helene (who hadn’t needed to check her backpack) caught up to her sister, Alexis had donned a sunhat and shades and was impatiently trying her cell phone.

  “It doesn’t work. I can’t believe we don’t have service here. How will we call the concierge?”

  “Concierge?”

  “Of course,” Alexis said hurriedly. “The concierge of the hotel will dispatch a taxi for us.”

  “But, Lexy, we don’t have a concierge. We don’t have a hotel. We don’t even have a phone number to call.”

  “Oh,” Alexis said, stunned. She’d been so certain about the end result of this trip that she’d forgotten the details. She’d forgotten to do everything right! She felt her throat constrict as the airport cleared out; all the other travelers had remembered to book a hotel.

  Helene threw down her backpack. It was heavy with books she thought she would read on the yacht. It was just as much her fault as Alexis’s that they had nowhere to go, but she felt angry at her sister for looking so rested and put-together.

  Alexis, for her part, was annoyed with Helene. What’s the use of having a know-it-all for a sister if she doesn’t do the research to find you a place to stay in a foreign land? Alexis put up with Helene continually throwing facts at her: when the Great Fire destroyed London, why Picasso broke with the impressionists, where the Sistine Chapel was located. It was time for Helene to come up with some useful information.

  “Go ask that guy for the number of a concierge,” Alexis said, pointing with the tip of her sunglasses at the burly man who had single-handedly brought all the luggage out to be claimed; the airport was too small for even one luggage carousel.

  “No, you ask him,” said Helene.