To Catch a Prince Read online

  “You made a fool of yourself,” Simon said. “I’m getting tired of it, Laz.”

  Then, in an uncharacteristically forward move, Simon ran up the escalator, pushing mothers and babies out of his way. “Wait,” he screamed. “He’s a real wanker! He was just joking.”

  At the top, Alexis and Helene found themselves trapped. Pretty Boy was overtaking them, yet the floor they’d reached was swamped with teenagers. They saw no other option than to step onto the down escalator, with Simon following close behind. Laszlo, seeing an opportunity to redeem himself, sprinted up the down escalator, further infuriating every single Harrods shopper. When he reached the girls, he bowed and said gallantly, “I was kidding. I speak English. Really I do. And I have never kissed a girl. Don’t plan to. Don’t think I’d like it at all.”

  Simon, out of breath, reached the step behind them. “You both seem very nice. As a rule, Americans are dying to see the tourist spots, and it just so happens that we’re on our way to Piccadilly Circus. Won’t you come?”

  Alexis’s resolve melted when he spoke. He sounded exactly like Hugh Grant. She turned to Helene. “Plan C?” she asked.

  Authentic Experiences

  “IT’S A FINE idea in theory, but you have to admit that in practice it’s a bit damp,” Simon said. Helene had insisted they sit on the top floor of the open-topped double-decker bus. She wanted to experience as much of London as possible now that she had a day off. But this being London, the meager sun had been subsumed by a swath of deep purple cloud, and it had begun to rain. Pour, rather. The girls hadn’t even thought to bring umbrellas.

  “No umbrellas?” Laszlo asked in horror. “But this is England. An umbrella is as essential as water. Or rather, an umbrella is essential because of water.”

  “Well, where are your umbrellas?” asked Alexis, trying to keep her packages dry by shoving them under the seat. She wanted to stay with the boys, but she also wanted to protect her new suede skirt—folded in tissue inside her purse—from the ruinous rain.

  “We’re blokes,” said Laszlo. “Rain only makes us stronger.”

  “Or rather, we know better than to ever go outside. Come on. Let’s go somewhere warm and have a pint,” Simon said, gathering Alexis’s bags.

  “But we’ve only gone one block on the bus,” Helene complained. “It’s an authentic London experience!”

  “Helene, you can have your English experience when you buy an umbrella,” Simon said in a motherly reprimand. “Till then, it’s off to the pub with you.”

  They ran into the first open door they found. It turned out to be a Starbucks, with exactly the same green-uniformed servers and photos of coffee beans in various stages of roasting as at the Starbucks on Boston Post Road in Mamaroneck. Simon brought four espressos to the table. “Here’s to London!”

  They dispensed with the specifics right away. The girls learned that Simon and Laszlo were eighteen, just done with Eton, and off to Oxford and Cambridge, respectively. The boys learned about the fortuitous romance of Hugo Worth and Brenda Masterson, the fabulous summer internships, and the hallway of poodle paintings at Aunt Barbara’s house.

  “Aunt Barbara’s current obsession seems to be Chechen orphans,” Helene said, smiling.

  “Is she going to collect photos of them to line a new room?” Laszlo asked.

  “Maps of the Balkans on the wall,” Helene added. “A statue of a child as a centerpiece.”

  Suddenly worried that she and Helene were being insensitive, Alexis asked bluntly, “What about your families?”

  “Royal,” Laszlo said. Alexis, quickly remembering the bet, gasped and leaned forward in her seat. “Do you mean that as an adjective or a noun? Like are they royal, as in cool? Or royal as in royalty?”

  “Well,” Simon began, “my father is, uh, employed by the royal family—by Her Majesty the Queen, if you must. And Laszlo—”

  “I have royal blood in me. Almost enough to fill my right thumb. Although I might have gotten rid of it in my last donation of blood for the war effort. I’m related to the now-deposed monarchy, but then so was about half the country. It’s great, because it means my parents are dirt-poor immigrants.”

  “Well, at least you went to Eton,” said Alexis, thinking practically.

  Helene laughed. “I think your life sounds fascinating. Where we live—Westchester County in New York—driving a Toyota counts as poverty. I plan on broadening my knowledge while I’m here.” She said this with great satisfaction. She glanced at Laszlo. She didn’t know what to make of him. He looked almost like a man, definitely more grown up than her friends. He had wide shoulders and a round face with cheekbones that angled out like wings. His eyes were the palest blue, nearly gray, the down of a bird, and his forehead was clear as porcelain. And at times he seemed calm and assured. But more often he acted like a smart-aleck fourteen-year-old. He was constantly moving, jiggling his leg or stacking the red stirrers or unscrewing the sugar container so its contents would spill out if someone tried to use it. He seemed at odds with himself.

  Not Simon. Simon, Helene figured, was the most authentically English thing she’d seen that day. Everything about him was equal parts proper and slouchy. His dark hair was tousled in a faux Mohawk, his blue oxford shirt was torn on one sleeve, and the laces of his Campers were undone. Just the kind of dishevelment that smacks of wealth. She wondered what exactly his father did for the queen, and glancing at Alexis, who was telling him about her skill at jumping fences while sitting on a horse, Helene could see that her sister wondered the same.

  Just then an American family wearing matching We Escaped the Tower of London T-shirts walked in and started shouting, “One decaf, double cap with skim milk.”

  “One iced chai latte, one frappuccino, extra caramel syrup.”

  “Da-ad, tell them I want extra caramel syrup. Extra syrup!”

  “Are you sure you’re American?” Laszlo asked. “Because it seems as if all Americans scream. Come on, scream unpleasantly.”

  “It’s ridiculous that this is all you’re seeing of London,” said Simon, gathering their empty cups. “Here.” He handed them each a section of newspaper to cover their heads and grabbed Alexis’s bags. “Follow me.”

  Simon led them to the Brazen Head Pub, which was much more like it, if by “it” you mean bottle-glass windows, dark wooden tables, a barmaid who calls you “luv,” and Guinness on tap. Laszlo showed Helene how to lose pound after pound (money, unfortunately, not weight) on a fruit machine—a pinballlooking lottery game that, according to Laszlo, you had to be either a genius or a professional alcoholic to figure out. Alexis and Helene ordered Red Bulls and took it all in. Alexis talked about horses with Simon, discussed the latest on the Olsen twins with Laszlo, and laughed and laughed with Helene. Usually her days were a series of goals. There was something she wanted, so she worked to get it. Then she moved on to the next item on the list she kept in her head. But since she’d arrived in London, she’d felt free of all that. It was like the feeling she got riding a Ferris wheel. Whatever she wanted was somewhere on the ground, but she was too distracted by the pretty passing lights to care. Very unlike Alexis Worth.

  Helene, who always had an easier time having fun, was now forcing Laszlo to put Milli Vanilli on the jukebox and was trying to convince him that the new American dance craze was the electric slide. Alexis smiled and admired her sister; while she herself took great pains to look like someone who felt free, Helene just was. But Alexis could tell that something was missing from Helene’s normal joie de vivre. Her eyes weren’t shining as they always did. Alexis had the feeling it had to do with their little bet, and she couldn’t understand it. She would never admit it to Helene, but if Prince William walked into this pub right now, he’d without a doubt choose Helene over Alexis. That was a fact.

  Noticing how distracted Alexis was by what he thought was her thoughtful staring at Laszlo, Simon worried he was boring her. There was something about Laszlo that he didn’t have. A certain carelessness. S
ure Laszlo could be a total goof and overcompensate for whatever shyness he had, but in the end the girls always laughed. With his delicate looks and runner’s body, Simon didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would be insecure around girls. And he’d had girlfriends before, but Eton made it so annoyingly difficult. You got to know someone over the summer, and she sent you a letter or photo every day in September, but by Christmas she’d moved on. His mother called him a catch. His father, when he was around, told him to skip all of the in-between stuff and go straight for home base. His aunts dubbed him the Heartbreaker. So why did he feel like he’d spent his whole life waiting for a real girlfriend?

  “I know,” he said too loudly, nearly knocking over his pint trying to get Alexis to look at him again. “Let’s do something totally touristy and cheesy and buy T-shirts. Big Ben or the Tower or Madame Tussaud’s.”

  “That’s it,” Alexis said, her cheeks flushed now from the sudden warmth of the room. She was thankful to Simon for interrupting her worries. She hated to feel anxiety about this stupid competition; she should be having fun. “I’ve always wanted to go to Madame Tussaud’s. Imagine, all my favorite people in one place.”

  Waxing Poetic

  BRITNEY SPEARS. MADONNA. Cher. James Dean. Arnold Schwarzenegger. Kylie. Each one required oohing and aahing, tempered by a good deal of wisecracking. It was possible that they made Britney’s butt too small. Tom Cruise’s nose was less crooked. Madonna’s arms were actually more muscular in person (the girls spoke from authority on this point). Alexis wanted a photo with Posh Spice; Helene wanted one with Nelson Mandela. Out in the faux English countryside, Arnold Schwarzenegger dined with Jean Paul Gaultier, and inside on a spiral staircase leading to a ballroom, Saddam Hussein saluted in the general direction of George and Laura Bush.

  The four nonwax kids had kept together as they toured the museum, but in the Great Hall they were separated by throngs of tourists. It was like Grand Central Station at rush hour. Laszlo found himself squashed against John Lennon as a swarm of Japanese schoolchildren snapped their cameras. He made a fine fifth Beatle, if he did say so himself. Simon had been requisitioned by two German women to take their picture with the sevenfoot-tall muscle-bound Rock. And Helene wandered aimlessly, pretending she was at a gala party thrown by the queen with all of the world’s leaders and tyrants—she’d decided the tourists were servants and butlers. She couldn’t pause too long in any spot, however, or the illusion would quickly be broken by flashlights and American accents.

  “Helene! Over here.” Helene looked around to find the source of Alexis’s call. The girls hadn’t had a minute alone since they met the boys in Harrods, and they needed to hash it all out: Which one was cuter? Was Laszlo too weird? But weren’t they nice showing them around? Nicer than American guys by far.

  Alexis clearly had something else on her mind. “Look,” she said, pointing to a stage near the spiral staircase. Helene followed her finger to find a montage of royal proportions. Literally. The queen, sprightly and well-coiffed, stood with Prince Charles and Princess Diana behind her. Off to the side, looking a little embarrassed to be standing up in front of everyone, were William and his punchy brother Harry.

  William winked.

  “Oh,” Helene said, as longing clenched her heart, and her crush came back like a wave crashing on top of her. Maybe, just maybe, she could get Alexis to forget the bet. “Cool,” she said, as calmly as she could. “It’s the royal family. Let’s go find the guys.”

  No such luck. Alexis grabbed Helene’s arm and whispered, “I figured out something important. Simon and Laszlo went to Eton, right? They probably know him.”

  Helene stared at her sister blankly. But inside she felt a growing terror.

  “Don’t you get it?” Alexis said. “If we play our cards right, they can introduce us to him.”

  What frightened Helene was the complete lack of anxiety in Alexis’s voice. Helene knew who the mannequin on the stage would choose if he suddenly came to life.

  “Come on, Alexis. The bet was just a joke.” Helene tried not to catch William’s eye, instead focusing on a little boy trying to put his cotton candy up the nose of Al Pacino. It was possible that she could stand not winning William—as long as her sister didn’t get him either.

  “A joke? The joke’ll be on you when you’re calling me Your Highness.”

  For Alexis everything was very clear. She was enjoying herself. But this flirting for the fun of it would get old. The summer had to have a purpose, and Vogue was one part of it—and their William contest was the other. One must have a goal in order to have something to work toward. It was now clear to Alexis, even if it wasn’t to Helene, why they’d followed the boys: to catch their prince. Her prince.

  For a few minutes neither girl spoke. They simply gazed at the stage.

  Alexis saw herself done up in wax, next to her husband, the prince. She’d be wearing a Versace gown. No, not elegant enough. Oscar de la Renta. Or perhaps Carolina Herrera. Or maybe, her eyes scanning the room, she’d be daring and wear Gaultier. She’d be the rebel princess, fusing fashion with courtly duties. Helene, on the other hand, saw only William. First he smiled that slow, crooked smile at her. Then he opened his mouth and said, It’s nice to see you in London.

  “It’s nice to see you too,” Helene mouthed.

  Then why aren’t you smiling?

  “It’s Alexis. I hate to compete against her. We shouldn’t. We’re best friends.”

  Competition isn’t evil. It’s just about going after what you want. That is, if you want it. Do you want it, Helene? William’s smile grew even brighter. Do you want me?

  “Helene,” Alexis said, interrupting her stepsister’s daydream, “were you just talking to the wax figure of William?”

  “Actually, I was just about to say that you should be thinking of what to wear when you join me for tea at the palace. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure not to invite you on the same day as Leo. I wouldn’t want to pour salt in your wounds.”

  Alexis laughed. She was relieved to see Helene enjoying the fight. “Actually, I was just thinking that when you call me Your Highness, you’ll have to do a little curtsy. Better practice in those microminis.”

  “As if,” said Helene, who spent almost every nonworking day in jeans.

  “Nice hat on the Queen Mum, don’t you think?” asked Simon.

  The girls swung around to see the boys standing behind them.

  “Do you know him?” she fired off in the Alexis voice that demanded obedience. Unless, apparently, you were Laszlo.

  “Never met the guy,” he said, staring at Simon. “Don’t know why he’s been hanging around us all day. Sir, could you leave now? Sir? Please don’t make me call security.”

  “No, not him,” Alexis said, gesturing toward the stage. “Him.”

  “Oh, sure,” Laszlo said. “Old Willie. Bill. Billyboy. Best friend of mine, you know. I called him Will-ster, but that’s just between pals. Sometimes, the Will-loosener. Bonny Prince Billy. Billabong, when he was being naughty. Oh, no. Oh, don’t tell me! You find him dreamy!”

  “You’re always kidding around,” Alexis said. Laszlo shrugged.

  “Of course we know him,” Simon said. “He was in our house at Eton a few years above us. But he’s a, um, very private person, you know.” He’d begun to think Alexis would never be interested in him. “Come here,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I want to show you what you’ll look like when they make your statue.”

  Alexis giggled and followed, leaving Laszlo and Helene to raid the gift shop for tacky T-shirts that proclaimed, Just the Wax, Please.

  An hour later four tired teenagers went home. Two to Kensington. One to Hampstead. And one all the way on the Tube to South London. During his ride, Laszlo was thinking how lucky he and Simon were. Their first day cruising and they’d met the prettiest girls in all of England. And they were American, no less. Simon was thinking particularly of Alexis, how her arms and collarbone looked so fragile, but her blue e
yes were fierce, a mesmerizing combination. He even allowed himself to believe that there was no way she could prefer clowning Laszlo to him. But did she? Was she thinking of him right then?

  But the girls, yawning in the backseat of a cab, were thinking of another guy altogether. An old Etonian, yes, but not Simon or Laszlo. Helene still worried that she had no chance where Alexis was involved, but she would try for William. Alexis had no such concerns. The summer was shaping up to be the best ever. The girls had the coolest internships. They’d met two cute guys to pave their way to the prince. They’d have a summer of smooth sailing after all, even in a land so horribly damp and chilly. She hugged her Harrods bags close, then brushed back Helene’s curls. Her sister had fallen asleep on her shoulder, and she looked like a painting. What was that artist’s name? Bottachele? Bottacela? She’d ask Helene when she woke.

  Naughty Nichola

  BY THE END of Helene and Alexis’s first Sunday in London, everything had become much, much more complicated. The morning had started out normally enough: The daily drizzle had turned into a downpour, and even Helene didn’t try too hard to get them to a museum. While they waited for London to become less soggy, Helene sprawled out on the peach couch and returned to Wuthering Heights. Alexis was giving herself a pedicure in the bathroom.

  After a few hours, Helene had once again put down Wuthering Heights and picked up a Heat she found lying on a side table. Unfortunately it didn’t have any pictures of her prince, but there was a gossip item:

  Just back from a month in Chile, helping build houses for the poor (aw, what a do-gooder), William has been spotted several times enjoying his summer vacation from college. Each time, naughty boy, he’s been seen with a different girl (tsk, tsk). But all three of them have been tall, exquisitely thin, with the classic good looks royalty love. And rich. Oh, how rich they are! One was an heiress to the Gobstopper fortune. The second, a runway model and daughter of a CEO. The third was a well-known trust-fund party girl. Guess our William has a type! Ladies, you better hope you’re it.