To Catch a Prince Page 3

  “Oh, Helene, you’re all grown up. You’re so beautiful,” she said, kissing Helene on both cheeks. “But what on earth have you done to your hair! Pink! … Nichola, no ideas; don’t even think about asking me if you can do that.”

  Nichola, Helene’s younger cousin, seemed to approach reluctantly. Helene tried to say hello, but Barbara turned around and shouted to a short woman in a maid’s uniform who carried a little boy. “Come on, Basha, hurry up and show Richard his cousin, the lovely Helene, launcher of a thousand ships. Basha’s our nanny. She’s fabulous. And oh, my, you must be Alexis. What a stunning girl!”

  Ignoring Basha, who had approached with Richard, Barbara kissed Alexis and held her face for examination. “I last saw you at your father and Brenda’s wedding. You’d stained your white flower-girl dress with grape juice, and now look at you. You could model … Nichola, are you noticing her posture?”

  Nichola shrugged, and Barbara obliviously continued, “Dear me, Alexis, don’t tell me that’s all your luggage. Where will we put it? We’ll have to rent another flat! I’m so sorry Saheed couldn’t be here.”

  Suddenly she beamed and stretched out her arms. “Look! These are my delightful babies.”

  For the first time, Helene and Alexis examined their cousins. If Nichola was a baby, she was the grumpiest, gangliest baby ever. Helene remembered that Nichola was three years younger, making her thirteen, but she was so tall and, well, developed, that she looked to be the same age as the sisters. She was at least two inches taller than Barbara, and almost as tall as Alexis. And even her demure plaid pinafore and her sulky slouch couldn’t hide her rather large chest. But her face was still round and childlike. She bit her thumbnail and stood with one foot crossed in front of the other. Her dark hair fell to her waist in a thick braid that was tied with a large blue ribbon.

  She looked most unhappy to be at Heathrow. “Hullo,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Mum said I’d like to see American girls. I was picturing something more Britney Spears.”

  Aunt Barbara smiled, pretending not to hear her daughter. A reaction, the girls would learn, that was her trademark.

  Five-year-old Richard made up for his sister’s crankiness. He wriggled out of Basha’s arms and flung himself at Helene’s knees. She laughed and picked him up, carrying him to the car while wearing the backpack that held all of her belongings. Alexis, Nichola, and Basha followed, struggling with Alexis’s three Louis Vuitton suitcases. “Really, darling,” Aunt Barbara kept saying, looking back as she led the parade, “where did you imagine we would put all of it?”

  Outside the terminal a steady rain fell, and the sky, the buildings, and the cars were all shades of gray or black. Helene yelped and almost dropped her cousin. “It’s stellar,” she whispered to Richard, and then she screamed at Alexis, “Hurry up, it’s really London. I want to see everything immediately.”

  “Like what? It’s overcast, cold, and wet,” Alexis said, catching up. She was beginning to feel intensely worried about this summer. For one thing, it didn’t look or feel like summer. Maybe she should have stayed home and ridden her horses. Here she would freeze and her hair would frizz as she walked around alone, while Helene worked at her fabulous internship.

  Alexis seemed so honestly miserable that Helene let her have the front seat, and she crowded into the back with Basha and the kids.

  Aunt Barbara was a terrible driver. She drove very quickly, then stopped abruptly, and she never, ever stayed straight. At one point Alexis almost grabbed the wheel to keep the car in the right lane. Which over here was actually the left lane. She’d been prepared for cars driving on the opposite side of the road, but she didn’t realize how awful that was for the passenger. In America, if you sat in the front passenger seat, you could check your manicure or text someone to find out when the movie was. But here, you were stuck in the driver’s seat without a steering wheel. Every time the car turned right or left, it felt as if there might be a head-on collision—and there was nothing you could do about it. Not good for a control freak like Alexis. To make matters worse, Aunt Barbara had decided to take “a scenic route home.”

  “Look up, girls. Do you know what that is?” she kept saying.

  “No way! It’s really the Houses of Parliament! Can you slow down so I can see better?” Helene would shout from the backseat.

  “And what is that?” asked Aunt Barbara, narrowly missing being rear-ended by a double-decker bus.

  “Big Ben! I can’t wait to hear it.”

  “And that?” Aunt Barbara asked, as she jerked the car out of the way of an oncoming taxi.

  “We’re driving along the Thames, just like the view Monet painted. It’s all hazy and lovely.”

  Alexis’s skin felt chapped and badly in need of moisturizer. The rain hitting the windshield made her think about being cooped up in Aunt Barbara’s flat all summer while her friends back home played tennis and lounged by the pool. What was she thinking? Alexis despised rain. So far, she despised London. She was so unbearably tired; her head became too heavy to hold upright. As she closed her eyes, she heard Helene say, “Could you just drive by Trafalgar Square? That would make me sooo happy.”

  Just as Alexis drifted off to sleep, she thought, At least I’m not here on my own. At least I have Helene. And—she remembered with a jolt—one of us will have William.

  Alexis didn’t worry about competition at all. In fact, she thrived on it—tennis tournaments, horse shows, student council. Catching William would be just another contest. May the best girl win, she thought with a smile.

  Puppies and Ducks and Horses, Oh My!

  JET LAG WORKS in mysterious ways. Earlier that day they’d been so exhausted they could hardly sip the watery soup offered them before collapsing in the twin beds of the immaculate guest room. They’d awoken for periodic attempts at unpacking before landing back in bed. Now, at five in the morning, Helene whispered to her sister, “Alexis, are you awake?”

  Usually it was dangerous to talk to Alexis before nine A.M. Unless she’d taken her shower, applied her makeup, dried her hair, and drunk her first Diet Coke, she might throw a pillow at you. But this time Alexis answered cheerily, “Totally awake—and totally starving.”

  “To the kitchen, to the kitchen,” Helene commanded, and as they snuck out in their pajamas, closing the door quietly behind them, they laughed at how funny it was to sneak around Aunt Barbara’s house. For one thing, they had no idea where they were going. Where was the kitchen? They had been led like sleepwalkers to their room yesterday by Basha, and nothing looked familiar. Helene turned left, down a hallway that was lined with green-striped wallpaper and jutting oil lanterns flickering mysteriously. The walls were covered with portraits of poodles, hundreds of them, all in oil paint and set in heavy gilded frames. The girls didn’t dare try the four closed doors along this hallway, so they continued straight until the hall opened into a living room, its lamps dimmed. The room was done in peach. A gray couch with peach flowers. Two peach settees. Over the fireplace, a huge still life of peaches. And on the coffee table, a bowl of frosted glass peaches. Talk about overkill.

  Through its arched doorway they expected the kitchen but found instead another living room. And after that, yet another living room. Both were dimmed. One was in teal (“a terrible color,” Alexis whispered), and the other in mauve (“possibly the worst color ever,” smirked Helene). Of course, the mauve room sprouted silk lilacs and a still life with an eggplant and a magnifying glass, and in the teal room, teal ducks glided across the coffee table and into the oil paintings. Alexis, turning in circles to take everything in, gasped in awe of the grandeur. Sure it was hideous, but it took a lot of courage (not to mention a lot of money) to create such deluxe ugliness.

  “Come on.” Helene tugged at Alexis’s sleeve. “Let’s try this way.” Alexis took her hand and followed her down another hallway, and for one second they felt like they were back in Camelot.

  Camelot was the name of the kingdom the girls invented when
they were ten, shortly after they’d met Madonna. It was inhabited only by queens (the girls themselves), princesses, horses, and one evil stepfather who lived on a yacht. Helene was Queen of the Princesses and Alexis was Queen of the Horses, and they ruled the land—which conveniently fit inside their living room—for a full two years. One day, in sixth grade, Helene asked to play Camelot, and Alexis said, “Don’t you know we’re too old for pretend lands? Daddy’s going to buy us real horses.” And then the game was over. Alexis wasn’t trying to be mean. She was just practical that way.

  They each let the other’s hand drop when the hallway opened up into a dining room. It was a stunning tribute to polo. An iron statue of a horse pranced as a centerpiece, and on two walls hung framed watercolors of polo players. “Sheer opulence,” Helene said. “This family is filthy rich.”

  “You know,” Alexis said, fiddling with the antique riding tack and saddle that rested on an end table. “They’re not so different from us. You should realize that.” Helene sometimes forgot that her mother had married Hugo Worth, one of the wealthiest men in America. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t used to being wealthy. Alexis, on the other hand, was quite used to being rich, and she was always pointing out to Helene the ways their wealth wasn’t something to be ashamed of. That is, if you used it responsibly. And if you decorated responsibly.

  “No, Alexis. You don’t get it. Look!” Helene said, pointing at a glimmering gold-green painting of a haystack covering one wall. “It’s a real Monet. Look at the signature. And it matches the room!”

  Alexis, so impressed she lost her voice, nodded her agreement. The Worths were rich. They were even rich, rich. But they weren’t rich rich rich. Not like the Husseins.

  The girls’ stomachs were grumbling loud enough to wake the family, so thank God the kitchen was on the other side of the dining room. Only it was surprisingly bare. There was nothing on the walls except a few crayon drawings of lines and squiggles that must have been Richard originals—framed, of course. And there was little in the cupboard besides tins of biscuits. Helene picked up a tin of especially dry crackers and thought about her vow: low carbs in London. But what was she supposed to do? Starve?

  Just as she pulled open the tin, a horrendous yelping began, and startled, she dropped the can of crackers. It clattered noisily against the metal shelf. Alexis was doubled over, laughing so hard she could only point. Under the kitchen table, on a round mattress embroidered with bones, was a dog. A poodle no less. It was not pleased at all to have been woken up, and it was headed for Helene’s bare ankles.

  Then they ran. They ran past horses and ducks, past lilacs and peaches, past rows and rows of blissfully silent poodles, Helenalexis, the MasterWorth Sisters, the two queens of Camelot. It was a blissfully innocent moment—but unfortunately it wasn’t going to last.

  When the girls heard someone banging around outside their room, they decided it was safe enough to leave again. They’d been dressed for hours, Alexis in hip-hugging jeans, a white button-down, pearls, and sling-backs, and Helene done up for her first day at work in pale blue cowboy boots, a pinstriped mini, a black hoodie, and a pink rhinestone belt. Alexis, carefully applying mascara, complimented Helene on perfectly matching her belt to her hair.

  The clamor turned out to be Aunt Barbara dropping a briefcase and scattering files across the hall carpet. They crouched to help gather the papers, and she began chattering as soon as she saw them.

  “I’m so sorry I won’t have time this morning to show you around the place, such as it is; we’re almost living in squalor these days. But I have a meeting, planning another benefit. This time for the orphans. The Chechen orphans. Poor dears. They’re remarkably fruitful, benefits. Do you like them? Your mother does work for them, I’m sure. But do come to breakfast now. I’ll sit for just one minute before I go.”

  Helene and Alexis were ushered to the kitchen by Aunt Barbara after she’d gathered all her papers. The dog began barking as soon as they entered. Ohhh, little Mitsy-pooh,” Aunt Barbara squealed. “She’s my poodle-baby,” she explained to the girls. “Have you met her?”

  Helene stared at the refrigerator, and Alexis became very interested in her fingernails. If they looked at each other—or the dog—they’d lose it.

  Breakfast consisted of toast and butter. For once Alexis ate more than Helene, who was too excited about her first day at the gallery to stop talking long enough to eat.

  “I mean, it has everything, from da Vinci to Renoir to Turner. And lots of artists use the collection for inspiration. Who do you think I’ll meet today? Lucian Freud? Damien Hirst? I hope I’m not too in awe to talk to them.”

  Alexis listened glumly. First of all, Helene was never too in awe to talk to anyone. Second of all, what was she supposed to do for ten hours while Helene met famous artists?

  As if reading her mind, Aunt Barbara interrupted Helene to ask Alexis how she’d spend her days. “I assume you’ll be at the shops. I mean, Helene’s an artist and you love shopping. Isn’t that correct?”

  Nichola, who had her face buried in a magazine, snickered, and Alexis didn’t think she was laughing at what she read. She glanced over though, just in case. The magazine in Nichola’s hands was some garish punk-rock thing—much more up Helene’s alley than Alexis’s. What was the perfectly tartanensconced girl from the airport doing reading such a magazine? Not exactly Vogue, in other words. With a start, Alexis remembered the little story she’d made up on the flight to impress Tony.

  “Lexy?” Aunt Barbara said.

  But Alexis just smiled mysteriously and reached for another piece of toast.

  “Oh, my god,” Helene shrieked suddenly, jumping up from the table. “I have to go, or I’ll be so late. See you. Love you.” She ran out the door, leaving Alexis staring at the piece of toast in her hand, the mysterious, determined smile still playing on her face.

  Ten hours later, a black cab dropped a tired Helene back at 46 Whittington Place in the posh Kensington district. She stayed outside to savor the moment: She was coming home from work for the first time! The Hussein house was large, white, and stately, on a block of other large, white, stately houses. Up and down the street, gardeners were trimming hedges in the setting sun, nannies were herding their broods in strollers home from Hyde Park, and black cabs let out impatient men in suits, each with the newspaper under his right arm.

  Feeling understandably proud, Helene walked into the house and rushed into the bedroom to find Alexis. She planned to describe her day to her sister, beginning with the tour of the gallery, ending with her very own desk and phone and Filofax in a subterranean cinderblock office. She’d met the other interns (all British girls), but she hadn’t met any famous painters. And the job they had her do—learning how to make a cup of British tea for the boss—wasn’t exactly artistic. Still it was only the first day.

  But Alexis wasn’t in the bedroom. Nor was she in any of the living rooms. And she wasn’t in the dining room where Barbara and Basha were running around setting the table. Each place had three forks and a stack of three plates arranged smallest to largest. “Saheed,” Barbara whispered while adjusting the tulips in the vase, “is actually going to be home for dinner. This is an event. We will all sit down together in precisely twenty-three minutes.”

  Twenty-two minutes later Saheed arrived home, hungry and tired. Barbara had convinced Nichola to take off her shorts and tank top and put on a long black dress, and Helene felt herself ready to burst with news of her day. But Alexis was nowhere to be seen.

  “There’s absolutely nothing to be done about it,” Barbara proclaimed. “We must eat immediately. It is time.”

  Despite the fineness of the china and Saheed’s three-piece suit, despite the Monet painting shimmering on the wall and the care with which Basha placed each item on their plates, the food sucked. There was no other way to describe it. The soup managed to be both watery and clogged with stringy meat. The salad swam in oil. And the meat pie was, well, a meat pie (Helene didn’t even w
ant to know what the meat was, due to a certain joke Hugo had made about steak-and-kidney pie shortly before the girls left). Helene thought about announcing her commitment to vegetarianism, but she never got a chance to; through the first three courses, Aunt Barbara held forth nonstop on her latest accomplishment on the charity circuits. “The orphan benefit will have entertainment from an orphaned boys’ choir! We arranged for a conductor to begin working at the orphanage, teaching the boys how to sing in chorus, and what do you know? These children are gifted! Well, except for one poor soul who sings dreadfully out of key and can be heard above the rest—he rather reminds me of a balloon losing its air, but that’s no matter. It’s the work and effort that count. And we’re putting him in the back away from the mikes.”

  And on and on until Helene started to despair that anyone would notice the change in her. How she sat in her chair with the posture of a young woman with a job. How she crooked her pinkie like a woman with responsibilities. Thankfully, as Basha cleared the meat pie, Saheed interrupted Barbara. “Dear, your orphan bash sounds enthralling. But I think that our niece just had her first day at work. Helene, how did it go?”

  “Well,” Helene began, suddenly unsure how to present the momentum of her day. It felt huge, but nothing had really happened. “I have now seen all the back rooms of the National Gallery and—”

  Just then Alexis stormed in, carrying a Selfridges bag in each arm. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said, tossing her bags against the wall and taking a seat. Her face was as calm and serene as ever. She looked neither apologetic nor in a rush.