To Catch a Prince Page 2

  When Alexis had finished all of Elle and Vogue and W, and Helene had grown just the teensiest bit bored of Wuthering Heights (she knew Cathy was supposed to be a romantic heroine and all, but God, she was kind of a witch, too), Tony brought out the best treat. A cake-sized stack of British tabloids. “Really, girls,” he said, “if you plan to be in London, you must know London gossip. Enough of this Justin Timberlake. Who cares about Ashton Coochie, or whatever his name is? Let’s consider some real celebrities!”

  It was while Alexis was reading about British fashion (which according to Tony had its heyday during the punk-rock seventies) that Helene spotted him. The man who had secretly captured her imagination for the past two years: Prince William. He was outside, on a rugby pitch. The prince must have just stopped running, because his dirty-blond hair was sprouting up in all directions and his cheeks were flushed. His jaw was like the prow of a boat. But it was his eyes that did it. The blue of the Mediterranean. These eyes didn’t tease like her recent boyfriend Jeremy’s did, always darting the other way, never making contact. William’s eyes caught hers. She knew, Helene knew, that he was actually looking at a camera lens, like he’d been doing his whole life. She knew that he was just a guy, and so he was probably thinking about a hamburger and a beer. She knew this was a piece of paper. She knew she was suffering from a serious brain freeze. But still he spoke to her.

  You ’ve got things going on beneath your surface, Helene. You ‘re like the moors, wild and deep.

  Helene smiled. “Hey,” she whispered at the magazine, “I am?”

  Alexis, thinking Helene had said something to her, asked, “Huh? What?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Helene said. She smiled, embarrassed. What in the world was wrong with her?

  The girls’ decision to fly to London had been rushed (which was the only reason Hugo Worth hadn’t found them first-class seats to begin with). Helene had heard from the National Gallery in late April. She and Alexis had arranged to take exams early, meaning Helene would have to pass up the last-minute trip to Los Angeles to visit her father. And Alexis would have to pass up the yacht tour of the Bahamas with her mother. These might sound like sweet vacations, but it’s pretty hard to have a good time when you’re alone with a parent who forgets what grade you’re in. And even worse, since they were cramming for exams the entire month of May, the girls hadn’t spent any time together—and they were strangely out of touch.

  For example, Alexis still didn’t know why dreadlocked Jeremy had broken up with Helene the same night he declared his undying love for her in a poetry slam at the local coffee shop; a teary Helene had simply refused to talk about it. Nor did she know that the reason Helene’s tears disappeared as suddenly as they’d come was that her punky, gregarious, ever-popular sister had set her sights on none other than Prince William.

  For her part, Helene was honestly embarrassed about her crush. After all, he was a prince (duh), and she was just a high school girl who looked nothing like the wispy waifs the prince was seen with in the magazines she so religiously read. But she couldn’t help it. After Jeremy, she longed for a sophisticated guy. Someone who understood her and her feelings. Her father lived far away in California, and she knew it was a bit of a relief for him when she moved to the East Coast. She knew that her family life would seem like a cakewalk next to Prince William’s, but maybe he would stop pawing at her for two seconds to listen. Jeremy seemed to have just one thing on his mind at all times. She wanted someone who was more exotic than Scarsdale, not to mention more authentic than Jeremy’s dreadlocks. Plus William was gorgeous. He was stellar—her new favorite word.

  Helene had done all her research between exam cram sessions and by the time exams were over, Helene had a clear set of goals for the summer. She would lose five pounds by eating fewer carbs. (Good-bye, lovely muffins and bagels!) She would visit all the museums, going twice to the Victoria and Albert because it was so huge. She would run along the Thames to find inspiration for her new series of watercolors, which she called Motion. She would sit in cafés and sketch everyone who came in. But most of all, she would meet him, William. And seeing him in this magazine while on her way to England must be a sign, she thought. There would be a connection between them instantly; she just knew it. Given the right opportunity, she could do it. She could catch a prince.

  “I have something to tell you, Lexy. I have a crush on a guy in London.”

  “No way! You’re so smart! Tell me all about him.” Alexis assumed that Helene had met a guy in a chatroom; Helene was smart enough to snag the one cool guy on the Internet and weed out all the creeps. If Alexis had thought of finding a boy ahead of time, she’d have something specific to look forward to. It’s not that she wasn’t excited about London. But think about it: She’d be spending the days with her dad’s credit card, while Helene met talented, fascinating—not to mention hot—artists (in Alexis’s imagination, all painters were male, gorgeous, and wore only spattered Carhartt’s). It was a little depressing.

  “Well, I’ve only seen his picture. He’s tall. And he has these amazing blue eyes. He’s outdoorsy. He likes to be in nature and all. Definitely not like Jeremy.”

  Realizing she was describing William exactly as he was pictured in the magazine, Helene closed it swiftly.

  But Alexis noticed. “Hey, let me see that.”

  She flipped open to the picture Helene had been gazing at. She looked at William. Then back at Helene. Then at William again.

  “Helene … no!”

  Helene nodded sheepishly.

  “Prince William? The-son-of-Diana-and-Charles Prince William? The-heir-to-the-throne-of-England Prince William?”

  “Well, technically Charles is the heir apparent—”

  “People magazine’s sexiest-man-alive Prince William? That Prince William?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  Alexis’s pointed questions were starting to intrude on Helene’s fantasy, and she half wished she’d never said anything. Luckily, Tony arrived just then with a fresh round of milk shakes. She picked up hers and sipped at it in stony silence for a moment. But this was Alexis, and before their drinks were halfway gone, Helene had confessed everything. How it had started as a stupid fantasy. But how as she’d learned more about him, she’d realized they were perfect for each other. Really, if he weren’t so far away, she thought they’d have hit it off already. But now Helene was on her way to London, and she’d recently received a piece of amazing news: In late June, the National Gallery would hold its inaugural Royal Ball. Prince Charles was a dedicated patron of the arts, so there was no doubt in Helene’s mind that he would attend. And knowing what she knew about Prince William, he surely wouldn’t pass up the chance to go to a ball filled with beautifully dressed ladies!

  “So William will be there,” Helene finished breathlessly, “and I’ll be there. And I’ll wear some gorgeous dress—please please please tell me you’ll help me pick it out—and he’ll be in a tux, of course, or a morning suit. You know, with a plaid cummerbund or something, and tails, and those funny little shoes.”

  “Spats,” Alexis said, correcting her sister. She sipped at her glass, but it was empty. “They’re called spats, and they’re not technically shoes but gaiters that cover the shoes.”

  “Well, whatever they are,” Helene said, “he’ll be wearing them, and well, I made a promise to myself. I’m going to get a kiss from Prince William that will make me forget Jeremy ever existed.”

  Maybe it was all that sugar. Maybe it was that Helene had never bothered to confide to Alexis why she and Jeremy broke up. Or maybe it was that Helene had an internship and a crush and a plan for the summer, and Alexis had nothing but a stack of silly magazines on her lap and Hugo’s credit card in her wallet. Whatever it was, Alexis soon found herself telling Helene that she could never score a hottie like Prince William. She knew she should be asking sensitive questions about Jeremy and the breakup, but instead she felt like screaming. Why should Helene get everything? The grades? The job?
The guy? And not just any guy, but Prince William? It was just too much.

  “Listen, One-Three-One,” Alexis heard herself saying, using the name she called Helene only when she was really annoyed with her (it referred to the number that had appeared on the scale beneath Helene’s feet, followed immediately by a scream of despair). “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’re just not his type. I happen to know that royalty in general, and the prince in particular, doesn’t like bookish, nerdy girls.”

  Helene stared at Alexis in disbelief. She’d seen this jealous, haughty side of Alexis only occasionally. Often it covered up Alexis’s true shyness and came out only at school, especially around guys. But it had never been turned on Helene quite like this before.

  Alexis wasn’t finished. “And I’ve been meaning to tell you, One-Three-One, you’re getting sort of zaftig again. Not exactly the right look for the girlfriend of the future king of England.” To emphasize her point, Alexis stuck a hand over the armrest and pinched Helene’s stomach.

  Helene giggled, though she was also a little annoyed.

  “Oh, and I suppose you think someone like you would be perfect for him,” Helene snapped back. “Perfect body, perfect hair, no zits ever. Well, Pinocchio, William would never have you. You’re … you’re … you’re …” She hesitated, trying to find fault with her flawless sister. Finally she belted out, “You’re surgically altered. What do you think the prince would say if he saw some before-and-after pictures of a certain nose job?”

  Alexis cringed. They never mentioned the nose job in public, and Alexis had told friends at school that she’d broken it while riding a horse.

  “At least I’m not some grungy wannabe punk rocker.”

  “Yeah? Well, Leo still liked me better,” Helene shot back, grabbing the magazine out of her sister’s hands.

  “That’s only because I wasn’t there,” Alexis said.

  It was true. The Saturday Leonardo DiCaprio had stopped over to have an emergency image consult with Hugo Worth, Alexis just happened to have an equestrian show, and Helene alone got to sit poolside with the star, sipping iced tea in her new tankini. Before he left he signed a picture for her: To heavenly Helene, a true friend. You’re admirer, Leo. Alexis wouldn’t leave her room for a whole day when she found out. Helene had the photo framed.

  “I’m just saying,” Helene repeated, “Leo liked me a lot.”

  “Don’t even mention his name,” Alexis said, holding up her hand. “Besides, he’s just an actor. He doesn’t even know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you are’—he doesn’t exactly have the refinement of a prince.”

  Helene found herself thinking of Plan B—Plan B and a good nap to soothe the sugar-induced headache that was pounding her temples. But instead of calling a truce, she heard herself saying, “Care to make it interesting, Pinocchio?”

  Alexis, who looked about as bleary as Helene felt, still managed to pout her perfect lips and blow an enchantingly errant lock of hair off her face. Then she said, “Explain yourself, One-Three-One.”

  Helene spat the words out quickly, before she could think better of them: “One of us has to catch Prince William by the end of the summer.”

  Alexis found herself wishing for the security of Plan B just as much as Helene was. But instead she stared into Helene’s hazel eyes and said, “Three months to catch a prince? Where’s your sense of pride, One-Three-One? I bet you I can kiss him inside six weeks.”

  Now Helene sat up straighter. Leo or no Leo, everyone thought that Alexis was simply gorgeous. But Helene was determined not to give this one to Alexis so easily. She had just as good a chance as Alexis.

  “Okay, Alexis, let’s be serious. We have to find and capture Prince William’s heart by the end of the summer. And this means true love, not fluttering of eyelashes and pursing of lips.”

  Alexis frowned and looked deeply into Helene’s eyes. She knew something had gone terribly wrong between Helene and Jeremy, and she wanted more than anything to know what it was. But Helene had her wall up, and Alexis knew better than to think she could get anything out of Helene now. Helene would tell her only when she was ready.

  Helene gulped. She knew Alexis expected something from her. An explanation of things. But Helene just couldn’t face it. She had let herself forget for a little while that Alexis didn’t know what happened between Jeremy and her. For years they’d discussed even the smallest details of the boys they were interested in, from first dates, to first kisses, to the great unknown: losing their virginity. Both Alexis and Helene agreed they wouldn’t do that until they were married. It was a pact they had struck back in eighth grade, when Angela Harmon’s older sister Kelly had gotten pregnant. She’d never thought things would be so difficult though. That decisions could be so complicated.

  “True love,” Helene said. She watched as Alexis’s eyes fell to her lap, and Helene felt her friend’s disappointment at her choice not to confide. But then it was gone.

  “So it’s a bet,” Alexis said, taking a deep breath and smiling.

  Helene’s heart was tight with anticipation and dread. She and Alexis had never been like this before. Plan B, Helenalexis, the MasterWorth Sisters—their teamwork had always fixed things. Even Hugo and Brenda had commented on how strange it was that the girls didn’t compete. In fact, Brenda once wanted to send them to a therapist for their complete lack of sibling rivalry, but luckily Hugo said he could think of better ways to spend three hundred dollars an hour.

  What her mother and stepfather didn’t know was that Helene hated competition, so she’d grown adept at wanting things that Alexis would never want. Alexis liked to ride horses, so Helene spent her school hours volunteering at the animal shelter. Alexis had been playing tennis on the backyard clay courts since she could walk. So Helene hiked, sailed, and rode her mountain bike through the streets, and recently on a trip to the Shawangunks, Jeremy had taught her to rock climb (which she discovered is as close to flying as a person can get). Alexis signed up for AP math and chemistry (which she would kill to get a four on), while Helene took AP English and history (if she got lower than a five, she’d die).

  They had their own spheres, their own niches, like the two species of ocean birds she’d learned about in biology: One fed on fish in the surf, the other on bugs in the sand.

  Still, Helene had always wondered: What if one day she wanted exactly the same thing as her stepsister? What if she wanted what Alexis wanted? What would they do then? But in her wildest dreams she’d never thought that thing would be a boy, because boys—well, every boy wanted Alexis. In her heart of hearts she believed that if Alexis had been there the day Leo came over, she would have gotten the autographed picture, not Helene.

  “And the loser,” Alexis said, interrupting Helene’s thoughts, “the loser, One-Three-One, will call the winner Your Highness for the rest of her life.” She settled back in her chair. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  Helene gritted her teeth.

  “I dunno, Alexis. ‘Princess Pinocchio’ doesn’t exactly have a royal ring to it.”

  Grim-faced, the girls raised their empty, sticky glasses and were about to clink them together when Tony appeared. He had an amused expression on his face, and both girls blushed when they realized that he—and everyone else in first class—had probably heard every ridiculous thing they’d just said.

  “No, no, no,” Tony said. “A bet is something you shake on. Glasses are for toasting. Now put down your drinks, and shake hands like men. Or rather, like princesses-to-be.”

  Alexis extended her right hand. Helene giggled as she grasped it in hers, but inside she was nervous, and she could tell Alexis was too. For better or worse, the bet was on.

  London Calling

  TONY WOKE THE girls fifteen minutes before the plane landed so they would have time to freshen up. They’d fallen asleep midsentence like they usually did, and he’d tucked them into blankets, removed the magazines from their laps, and put soothing masks on their eyes to preve
nt circles.

  “Good morning, princesses,” he said as he took off their masks. But it was morning neither in London nor in Scarsdale, and Alexis was in no mood to be woken up. She sighed and grumbled as she switched her first-class cashmere socks for her own ankle socks and combed her hair. Helene, on the other hand, felt full of expectation. They were finally in London! She wanted to run off the plane and bound into the streets and take it all in. True, somewhere beneath her exuberance, she remembered something somewhat daunting had happened midflight, but she didn’t want to ruin her mood. There were no signs of what had transpired earlier: The milk shake wreckage was gone, and of course, the magazine was too. But as she was leaving the plane and kissing Tony on both cheeks, Helene thought she heard him whisper, “Good luck.” When she turned around to acknowledge him, he was already calling out “Goodbye” to all the departing passengers, and she was being shuffled off the plane.

  Helene shook her head to clear it. She needed to focus on her main concern of this moment: recognizing her aunt Barbara and her cousin Nichola, neither of whom she had seen for eight years. Yet as soon as the girls had passed through customs and claimed their baggage, a much more glamorous version of Helene’s mother came running—or what approximated running when wearing high-heeled mules and a Chanel suit—toward the girls.

  Helene’s mother, Brenda, appeared at times to be the exact opposite of her sister. Before she met Hugo, Helene’s mother had taught classics—that is, old stuff—at Purchase College and wore the clothes of a professor or a therapist: flowing skirts and gauzy blouses, all in dark, muted colors, with sensible, back-friendly shoes and little makeup. Now she dedicated her time to improving the lives of those less fortunate, while augmenting her wardrobe with more expensive flowing skirts and gauzy blouses. But Brenda’s sister, Barbara Hussein, had lived in London for the past twenty years, ever since she fell in love with Saheed, an Omani businessman, during her college semester abroad. Over time she’d picked up British mannerisms, grown used to upper-class life, dropped her Brooklyn accent for an English one, banned wrinkles with Botox, coiffed her hair like Jackie Onassis, and developed a close personal relationship with Giorgio Armani, Gianni Versace, and Marc Jacobs. But recently Barbara had started giving back to her community. Perhaps her sister had rubbed off on her a little. And, just like her sister, Barbara talked a mile a minute.