To Catch a Prince Page 7

  “I mean, it makes you a whole different person, but no one can see it.” She lowered her voice and leaned over the table conspiratorially. “It’s weird that there is such a gap, you know, between the other stuff and having sex.” Alexis thought Helene might be hinting at something, but she wasn’t sure where this was going. “There’s like this vast desert between me and the girl I’ll be once I’m no longer a virgin.”

  Helene put down her smoothie and stared at the shockingly cloudless sky. “I’ll be a completely new person. Not even a girl anymore.” Helene looked at Alexis, gathered her courage, and leaned into the table. “Do you think our pact is lame? To not do it until we’re married?” Helene rushed out the last question very quickly and quietly.

  Alexis was staring at the people walking by with plates of Indian and Thai food carrying the scents of curry and cayenne, banana and coconut. Somehow in the midst of all this activity the sisters had more privacy than if they’d been in their own room at Barbara’s, and Alexis felt the urge to ask Helene what had happened between Jeremy and her. It was killing her that Helene was keeping something from her. But she was almost too proud to ask. She didn’t like that she had to prod something so personal out of her best friend. She’ll tell me when she’s ready, Alexis thought.

  “Hello? Lexy?”

  Alexis was jerked to the present, and Helene was looking at her, expecting an answer. “I was talking to you. Were you even listening?”

  “Of course I was,” Alexis said.

  “And?”

  “And, urn, I’m sure you’re right,” Alexis said. Helene still looked up at her expectantly.

  “Do you really think so?” Helene asked in that earnest, dreamy way of hers. She seemed relieved but a bit distraught, for some reason that Alexis couldn’t figure out.

  Something was definitely bothering her carefree friend, and Alexis just had to find out what. This was their first heart-to-heart in she couldn’t remember how long, and not once had their silly bet been mentioned.

  “Helene, listen. What happened between you and Jer—”

  “Alexhelene!” Nichola’s anxious shout stopped Alexis midquestion. Nichola rushed up frantically, still shouting even when she was right in front of them.

  “I didn’t know where you were, and it’s so busy and crowded in there. There was like a mob outside where this guy was beat-boxing, and I just couldn’t get past it, and see, we’ve got to go to the record store immediately to meet Nigel. So get up. Get up! Do you like ska? Well, do you?”

  With her hands on her hips and her defiant stare, she might have looked like an underage party girl denied access to a club, but she sounded precisely like her mother.

  You Give Punk a Bad Name

  IN THE RECORD store the walls were plastered with posters from concerts by bands none of the girls knew. The clientele was only guys, carrying those record bags that deejays—and wannabe deejays—take everywhere. All the merchandise was vinyl: ABSOLUTELY NO CDS BOUGHT OR SOLD, read a sign on the wall. Helene sidled up to a guy with blue hair and began flipping through the stacks, even though the only person she knew with a turntable was her father, and her father—well, Malibu was far away. But these albums were too good to pass up. Alexis stared at her manicure. Nichola paced the store anxiously, like a caged tiger. Every few seconds she checked her cell phone.

  When the door opened, singing its two-tone chime, Helene felt the energy in the room change. She tried to keep sifting through records in the L-N bin, but someone’s eyes were definitely on her. She turned around.

  Surely this was not the boyfriend of Nichola Hussein?

  He was a gangly punk, replete with Mohawk and pierced lip. Angry red splotches of acne dotted his forehead. Two smaller friends stood on either side of him. Nichola waved shyly from a few feet away; she’d flipped her hair in front of her face again. Nigel sneered. There was just no other word to describe it: One side of his lips curled up, the other curled down, and the result was a look of utter contempt. “Hey, Nicky,” he said, “be a doll, and lend me a few quid.”

  When she hesitated, he turned to his friends and said in a fake working-class accent, “I can’t help it if me dad’s a bum and me ma’s a secretary.” His friends chortled like that was the funniest thing in the world. They were dressed identically to him: black Carhartts cut at the knees and black sweatshirts. Calves covered with tattoos. They all seemed to have had an unfortunate incident with a bottle of bleach. It had dyed the tips of Nigel’s Mohawk orange. One friend’s hair had turned surf er blond, and the other had a skunk’s stripe the length of his head.

  To Nichola these guys must have seemed grown-up and cutting-edge, Helene thought. But they were Helene’s age, and she’d seen this type before. The kind who were materialistic and proud of every rip they made in their brand-new clothes, totally ignorant of the anarchist punk ethos. Still there was something about Nigel. When he stared at Helene, she couldn’t stop staring back.

  Nichola rummaged through her purse and handed Nigel five pounds. Then she stood on her tiptoes to hang her arms around his skinny chest. He shrugged them off and grabbed hold of her wrist. “I told you, Nicky, no affection in public. Not unless you’re down for the deed.”

  Alexis gasped audibly. He was gross, and she wasn’t going to stand for any more of it. Her cousin was being humiliated by a guy who was a complete loser. She wanted to be back where people were polite and made sense and wore clean Abercrombie sweatshirts and cut their hair normally. She wanted to take off the vampy Camden outfit and put on something more Upper East Side.

  “Nichola,” she said, glancing at her watch and feeling relieved her pale blue Cartier with diamonds was still there, “we promised to get you back by five, and it’s almost six. We have to go. Now.”

  His hand still circling Nichola’s wrist, Nigel turned away from Helene to stare at Alexis. “So this must be the American cousin. Heard a bit about you. Didn’t know you’d be this pretty though. And all done up like Posh Spice. I ‘umbly Ope you’re ‘appy wit’ your stay ‘ere,” he said.

  It was impossible to tell when Nigel was acting like himself or someone else. But Alexis had spotted the Tag Heuer on his wrist. She didn’t know how much it cost in “quid,” but Nigel’s watch went for two thousand bucks in America. He was about as authentically punk as she was.

  She was over him—and she could see from Helene’s face that she was too.

  “Nice to meet you, Nigel,” she said in a voice that indicated it had been anything but. “And now, Nichola, we’re going.”

  Before Helene could pick up her bags, Nigel spoke again, his voice loud and arresting like a politician’s. “Hey, look, it’s Pink. Is that you, Pink? Is it time to get the party started then? Pink and Posh. Two for the price of one, is it?”

  Helene turned as rosy as her hair. “Yeah right,” she said. And then she added, “Actually, no. Nichola,” she said, smiling apologetically, “I think it’s time to get back.” She still wanted her cousin to like her. She even wanted Nigel to like her. Not because she liked him in the slightest, but she was used to getting along with people. Mostly because she surrounded herself with people she liked, so it was never really an issue. But the look on Alexis’s face said it all: It wasn’t time to get the party started. It was time to get out of there.

  Nichola looked up to Nigel for approval.

  “Leaving so soon, Nicky?” He dropped her wrist and gradually slid his hand down her back, coming dangerously close to off-limits territory. “Hardly got a chance to, uh, talk to you, if you know what I mean. Besides, I’m getting awfully tired of all this talk, talk, talk, Nicky. If I have to wait any longer for some action, I might just move on. To your cousin perhaps.” He turned his sneer toward the two girls.

  Helene and Alexis made instant eye contact. For the first time, they both hoped Nigel was referring to the other one.

  “Nichola,” Alexis said.

  “You two go on without me,” Nichola said in a soft, sweet voice she hadn’t used
all day. “Tell Mum I’ll be home soon.”

  “No,” Helene said. “We’re not just leaving you here with … him.” She stared at Nigel. After what he’d said to Nichola, she couldn’t care less if he hated her. Besides, this was sounding way too familiar.

  “And what, Miss Pink, gave you the particular impression that I treat my Nicky badly? I treat Nicky like she’s made of bloody gold. Don’t I? Well, don’t I?”

  Nichola nodded and mouthed something that Helene couldn’t make out.

  “Oh, come on,” Helene said. “You haven’t said one nice thing to her since we got here. You’re just so proud of your new punk attitude. Did you buy it along with those Carhartts?”

  Suddenly Nigel sneered at Helene. “Aren’t you the little wannabe? All dolled up like a bad girl. Then running home to Mummy. At least your sister knows to show a little leg.”

  Without another word, Alexis walked out the door. Helene hesitated. “Nichola, please come with us.”

  “I’m not coming home now,” Nichola said, hanging on to Nigel’s arm, “so why ruin your time in London by getting Mum mad at you? You haven’t seen her angry. She’ll ground you, maybe even send you home. And then how will you ever get to meet stupid Prince William?”

  Helene’s cheeks blushed the color of Alexis’s Gash lips. That little brat has been eavesdropping on us, Helene thought.

  “Fine. But I don’t think we’ll be the ones getting grounded.” Nichola laughed. “Don’t worry; I’ll tell her that I refused to go with you. I’ll make you look good. I promise. Cross my heart.”

  During the cab ride home the girls hardly talked. Normally after a day of shopping this was due to a severe case of “shopping coma,” as Alexis called it: that zombielike mood you get in when you’ve seen too much, wanted too much, and spent too much (and in Helene’s case, eaten too much tofu dog). But today there was definitely something else wrong.

  “He’s skeezy,” Helene said. “We shouldn’t have just left her there.” She twisted the handle of her brown paper shopping bag between her fingers, turning them white.

  “I know,” Alexis said quietly. “He was so icky. Oh, and did you see his watch?”

  “Yeah,” Helene said. “A total poser—he’s probably neighbors with Aunt Barbara and Uncle Saheed. You don’t think—” She stopped herself. She didn’t want to say too much about why she was so concerned for Nichola. Not yet, anyway.

  “No,” Alexis said. “But he’s a jerk. We should try to get Nichola to see that.”

  “Sounds like a task for the MasterWorth Sisters,” Helene said, and squeezed Alexis’s hand.

  They were quiet again.

  It was Alexis’s idea to use the servants’ entrance. The last thing they wanted was a confrontation with Aunt Barbara. But Barbara, according to Basha, was out planning the orphan benefit, and the girls slunk into their room, tired from their long day. Though both of them were aware that they’d shirked their responsibility to Nichola, they were equally aware of how far apart they’d grown in the week they’d been in London. Alexis remembered her determination to ask Helene what had happened between Jeremy and her. Plan B, Helene was thinking. Plan B, Plan B!

  But before either of them could say anything, they saw the note. It was placed on the table between the two beds.

  girls,

  A very S-weeb young man named Simon called. He asked if the two of you could meet him and his friend Laszloo (!) at St. James’S Park on Thursday noon for a picnic and “surprise” I told him you’d be there.

  Aunt Barbara

  “Shall we picnic in St. James’s Park then?” Alexis said, in a poor imitation of an English accent.

  Helene giggled. “A very sweet young man,” she said in Barbara’s voice.

  “And that exclamation point,” Alexis said. “What’s up with that?”

  After they stopped laughing, Alexis went to the bathroom to wash the grime of Camden off her face, while Helene read Barbara’s note again. And again.

  Their anger had lifted; their excitement bloomed. Their concern for their cousin’s welfare diminished. It would return. But in the meantime, Alexis and Helene scooped new clothes out of shopping bags. They primped and posed like models. And when Helene jumped up and down on her bed, she reached a hand out for her sister to join her.

  The Next Best Thing to Perfect

  LASZLO GAZED AT tinned meats, while Simon pinched the produce. Neither of them had the foggiest idea how to prepare a picnic. In fact, Simon’s highest culinary talent was spreading jam on toast, while Laszlo had once cooked a three-egg omelet. When they met up in the dairy section a few minutes later, Simon hefted an eggplant, and Laszlo offered a canned ham.

  “I think we’re on to something,” Laszlo said. “Shall we slice them both and make raw eggplant-ham sandwiches?”

  “No,” Simon shook his head mournfully. “This is definitely not what one eats in St. James’s Park on a rare sunny afternoon.”

  “Well, what does one eat?” Laszlo flung the ham in exasperation, then caught it. Simon was supposed to know about everything proper and English.

  “I think we need to think of foods that go together. Think, for example, of fish and chips. Hamburgers and fries. Peanut butter and jam. Eggs and bacon. Everything has a match.”

  “How about, cheddar …,” Laszlo began, having spied an alluring slab of cheese in the fridge, “… and carrots? They’re the same color. That means they match—at least aesthetically.”

  Simon looked wary until Laszlo explained himself: There were just too many food items in the store. If they narrowed down their search to, say, orange-colored foods, the shopping would go more quickly. “After all,” Laszlo said, glancing at his watch, “we meet the lovely ladies in a mere seventeen minutes.”

  So they gathered carrots, cheese-puffs, persimmons, and Doritos with the enthusiasm boys always have when they’ve found a clever way around household chores. It was only while waiting in the lethargic checkout line that Simon began to worry. What if the girls weren’t amused?

  Laszlo waved his hand in front of his face as if brushing away Simon’s concerns. “Orange is only an opening. We’re British, after all. We can’t woo them with food. Americans will always eat better than we do. But we do have history.”

  “So we’re going to wow Helene and Alexis with our recitation of the War of the Roses?” Simon looked skeptical. “How about a short biography of Samuel Johnson? I hear girls love that stuff.”

  “Well, it became clear at Madame Tussaud’s that these girls care about at least one historical figure: our fellow Etonian, William of Windsor. And why are they interested in him? Simple. It’s history. He’s a blood relation of Henry V and Elizabeth II. Justin Timberlake may be cute, but he lacks lineage.”

  Simon placed their groceries on the belt, while a disinterested checkout clerk carried on a phone conversation as she scanned them. “How exactly will their admiration of William help our cause?”

  “Simple,” Laszlo began. He went on to explain that the girls wanted only to glimpse William. Just like they wanted to visit the Tower of London. “It’s a tourist’s desire. And we’ll be their tour guides. Girls always fall for their tour guides. It’s a power thing. Girls love men in positions of power.”

  “Well, I did get a call about a party tomorrow night. It’s at Jont’s house; his folks are in Provence.” Simon raised his eyebrows, inviting Laszlo to fill in the rest of the story.

  “And if Jont’s throwing the party, then Tim will come,” Laszlo said, getting so excited he was jumping on the balls of his feet.

  “And wherever Tim goes,” said Simon, pocketing the change for the groceries and grabbing the bags, “Chris comes. Which means his girlfriend Tracy will obviously be there.”

  “And Tracy is best friends with Claudia,” Laszlo continued as they walked out the door and toward the park.

  “Who has been seen with our rather distant pal William all summer!” Simon concluded with a smug smile.

  “Sounds like
the first stop for the Laszlo and Simon Tour of the House of Windsor!” crowed Laszlo.

  Alexis arrived at the park first. She looked like a runway model in a short blue dress and knee-high boots, and Simon, upon seeing her, could only say, “Oh.”

  “Hi,” Alexis said, smiling.

  “Oh,” said Simon.

  “Where’s Helene? Am I early?”

  “Oh,” said Simon.

  It was up to Laszlo to ask her to sit down, and to offer her some orangeade. Alexis kept smiling, but her shyness plus Simon’s speechlessness made for a very awkward time.

  Until Helene arrived, a half hour late. At noon Ms. Ming had asked her to call the florist—again—to check whether the roses for the Royal Ball would be the right shade of cream. “The ball’s in a week, Helene; we need you every minute of every day,” Ms. Ming had yelled when Helene finally ran out for lunch. “And you’ll need to find something appropriate to wear if you plan on attending.” Helene arrived, breathless from her sprint from the Tube stop and her excitement at hearing she would be attending the ball after all. When Alexis saw that Helene’s cheeks were flushed the color of her hair, she asked, “What’s kept you? Why do you look like you just won the lottery?”

  “I’m going to the Royal Ball!” Helene exclaimed. Then, barely catching her breath, she screamed, “Orange food! That’s hysterical! And it’s so beautiful against the green grass. Who thought of this?”

  Laszlo took a little bow.

  “Genius,” she said, grinning at him. “I’m going to turn this into a still life: Cheese-puffs, carrots, and cheddar against summer lawn.”

  It turned out, however, that orange food was far better to look at than to eat. Alexis left the food largely untouched, and even Helene’s aesthetic enthusiasm couldn’t bring her to eat a fully orange sandwich. Fearing even a moment of dissatisfaction, Laszlo stood up, saying, “We must walk.”