To Catch a Prince Page 9

  Meanwhile, Simon took a more roundabout approach with Alexis. He led her to the patio and told her in extravagant language that there was no one more lovely than she was—and no one he’d rather take to the summer’s end dance. Alexis didn’t have the heart to tell him that by August she was sure to have another boyfriend. And his name would be William. So mustering all her charm, she smiled and said, “Sure, I’d love to.”

  Simon kissed her softly on the cheek. Alexis made the smallest adjustment with her head and suddenly she was kissing Simon on the lips.

  Magda’s Magic

  DID THE GIRLS go to Harrods to buy Helene a gown for the Royal Ball? No way. Did they go to Selfridges, the elite department store that Aunt Barbara treated like her very own closet? Not a chance. Did they visit the shops on Oxford High Street, the ones that you drool over as you walk by? Sorry. Alexis had moved beyond the stores mere mortals know about. Way beyond.

  Very early on Sunday morning, Alexis confidently led Helene and Nichola through the twisted streets of Neal’s Yard, the hippie courtyard near Covent Garden. In a few hours the benches would be jammed with vegans munching on tofurkey sandwiches and faux fish and chips. Soon the stores along the curvy, cobblestone streets would be cluttered with fashionable shoppers buying Pumas in shades that wouldn’t be seen in America for another year. But now, at eight A.M., the streets were empty and the stores closed and dark.

  Except for the Neal’s Yard Cheese Store. Here pleasantly muscled men were unloading large wheels of Jarlsberg and cheddar from trucks. With unusual confidence, Alexis walked directly in front of them and into the thickly scented air of the store. “Back door, please,” she said to the bemused, overallwearing guy behind the counter.

  He grinned. “Let me escort you,” he said, as he led them into a walled-in garden behind the store. Then, he turned his back on the girls, filled a brass watering can at a spigot, and began watering the many potted herbs that cluttered the yard.

  At this point Helene started losing faith. She’d gone without her morning latte, as they’d arrived before even Starbucks opened, so she was especially grumpy. She knew Alexis was learning a lot about fashion and style in her internship—much more, sadly, than Helene was learning about being an artist (unless you count the fine arts of mail sorting, tea making, file labeling, and Internet searching). But Alexis, despite her beauty and persuasion, had apparently hit a dead end. It was early and chilly, and Helene wanted coffee and perhaps a pastry, not cheese. Unless maybe it was a cheese Danish.

  Nichola, on the other hand, was growing more impressed as each minute passed. She knew that the hidden shop in Neal’s Court was the stuff of legends. Aunt Barbara pshawed it as an urban myth and told Nichola to “stop carrying on about such nonsense.” But at their exclusive public school, Nichola’s classmates asserted its existence as vehemently as the Scots defend the Loch Ness monster. As the cheeseman moved from oregano to arugula, Nichola’s entire demeanor changed. Her usual scowl was replaced by wide-eyed wonder, and her sarcastic tone gave way to whispered delight. In a gesture of girlish excitement, she slipped a hand in Alexis’s.

  Helene crossed her arms as the cheeseman placed the watering can on a wrought-iron table and wiped his wet hands on his overalls. “Hey, Lexy,” she said, rather loudly, “maybe it’s time for a little Plan B.”

  Alexis simply smiled mysteriously and put a finger in front of her mouth, shushing her sister.

  “Well then,” Cheeseman said, tearing off a twig of rosemary and rubbing it between two fingers, “what type of cheese will you misses be wanting today?”

  “An ounce of provolone. A tad of Stilton, and …,” Alexis proceeded to rattle off a list of cheeses that even Nichola, who was concentrating really hard, couldn’t memorize.

  “A bevy of cheese then,” he replied. From the pocket of his overalls he procured a set of keys. Then he walked determinedly to the wooden fence and unlocked a door that had been obscured by a fringe of ivy.

  “Much obliged,” Alexis said, sounding just like Lady Brawn.

  The residents of Neal’s Court’s hidden cul-de-sac lived in near rural serenity and isolation smack in the middle of the city. Their tiny, ramshackle flats overflowed with flowers. Cars were barred; one road had been replaced by a giant communal garden, and children rode tricycles up and down the other. The complex had just one commercial establishment, which the residents allowed only because its clientele was so exclusive. Even so, the neighbors had set up the rigmarole with the cheese store to ensure the sanctity of their secret.

  “Oh, my god! Oh, my god! Oh, my god!” Nichola chanted as she stood on one foot, then the other, waiting for Alexis to show them to the store. But Alexis was taking her time, savoring this moment of knowing more than Helene. And Helene was truly impressed. “So the residents wrote up that list of cheeses?” she asked. “And you actually memorized it?”

  Alexis nodded regally. She knew how cool this was. “Look,” she said. They were standing in front of a dark purple edifice with a minuscule sign: MAGDA’S CONSIGNMENT.

  Nichola gasped. Perhaps the Loch Ness monster was real after all.

  Magda sold couture worn only once. Her shop was the graveyard of Oscar-night dresses, Madonna’s wedding gown (from her third wedding, the British one), Britney’s concert getups, Gwynnie’s ball gowns, and Sarah Jessica Parker’s outfits. There was one catch: Magda sold only to a preapproved list of customers.

  Alexis knocked loudly on the front door.

  The door opened with a creak, and all three girls strained to look inside.

  “Hullo, you are …?” Magda said. She strategically blocked the doorway with her squat body, so the girls saw nothing of the dark store.

  “Alexis,” she said impatiently.

  “Hmmm, do I know an Alexia? An Alexandra, perhaps. An Alena, maybe. I believe you are named Alejandra Magdalene, no?” Magda spoke in a foreign accent that was impossible to place. Was it French? Israeli? Moroccan? She touched Alexis’s perfect jaw and moved it to the right and left as if trying to recall her profile. “I don’t believe I know you, Antonia.”

  Nichola giggled out of nervousness.

  “I was here with Lady Brawn just last week. Don’t you remember?”

  “Lady Brown? Now, who is this Lady Brownnose?”

  It looked like Alexis had not made the list. Feeling intensely protective of her sister, Helene wanted to run away and spare Alexis the humiliation. But she fought the urge. After all, they were here so that she could find a dress to wear while she waltzed all night with William.

  “Her name is Lady Brawn. She’s the executive editor of British Vogue. One of your most loyal customers.” Alexis flicked her hair. This couldn’t be happening. It was like Magda had been hit on the head and lost her short-term memory!

  “Vogue. Vogue. That sounds familiar. Is that a new type of mouthwash? Oh, I know! It is feminine hygiene product, isn’t it?”

  Alexis held her own. “I have a copy in my purse if you’d like to see it.” She was bluffing, so thankfully Magda hooted with laughter. “Yes, yes, Alexis. You looked so delightful in the dress that my close friend Miuccia Prada made for Julia Roberts.” She hooted some more. This altercation had clearly made her day, if not her week.

  “I do like to see young girls flinch. It tells you so much about them. Remember, girls must be very calm under any circumstance. Except for the moment your would-be fiancé slips on the ring and during the painful hours of childbirth. Then you may scream, and a few tears would be appropriate.”

  “Well, that’s very prefeminist of you!” Helene said under her breath. Alexis nearly threw herself on Helene to stop her from contradicting the store’s proprietress.

  “This is Helene,” Alexis said loudly, as if she could cover up what Helene had just said. “She needs a dress for the National Gallery’s Royal Ball.”

  “The Royal Ball. It promises to be the event of the year.” At this Magda rolled her eyes back and seemed lost in thought. Finally, she turned back
to Helene and stared at her. “Darling girl, for this day you must leave your feminist side at home and appear at the ball in the high heels, the made-up face, the form-fitting dress. A little submissive lady. Just like this demure one.” She pointed a long red fingernail at Nichola. “If you can promise to do so, Mademoiselle Feisty, I shall find the perfect dress for you.”

  Magda tended to her dresses as lovingly as a gardener weeds plants or a doting old lady cares for cats. She murmured to each one, donning white gloves to rearrange a ruffle, press a pleat. “Mere finger oil can ruin fine silk,” she said to the girls as she handed them each a pair of gloves to wear while browsing.

  It didn’t take long to find the perfect dress for Helene. Just for fun Magda had her try on the Oscar dresses of Gwyneth, Halle, and Charlize. But all along Magda knew that Helene was exactly the size of Drew Barrymore. They even had identical coloring. Lucky for Helene, Drew had been in London the previous week for a very private party. Carolina Herrera had made her a dress for the occasion. “The attendees included Miss Barrymore and four people I am not at liberty to name. But I can assure you that none of them will be at the Royal Ball. The queen will have no idea this dress was ever worn before.”

  Nor will her grandson, Helene thought, as she twirled in front of the mirrors. Golden satin flounced around her like the rays of the sun. The bodice was low-cut and fitted, and the entire dress was dotted with hundreds of tiny, iridescent crystals.

  “Now, I hate to see any beautiful women leave here emptyhanded,” Magda said, scouring the racks. “Alexis, you must be needing a beaded makeup purse. It belonged to Kate Winslet, you know. Only carried it once. That’s my firm policy.” Magda murmured and clucked at the racks for a little while until she found what she was looking for.

  “And you, little Nichola, you have such exquisite hair, dark and long and thick. You simply must have a mink stole to set it off.”

  Helene gasped. “Fur!”

  Magda winked. “Fake mink, of course. But the finest.”

  Nichola squealed with delight. She threw the jet black stole over her shoulders and catwalked from one side of the store to the other.

  “Beautiful, beautiful,” Magda clapped. It was true. Nichola looked like an ingenue, wide-eyed yet elegant. If only Aunt Barbara could see her now.

  Nichola stopped midstep and looked stricken. “But I didn’t bring my purse. I haven’t any money. Can I run home? I’ll just be a second,” she lied.

  Alexis pulled out Hugo Worth’s black American Express card; she’d already put her wallet in her new beaded purse. “It’s on us, Nichola.”

  “Really?” Nichola jumped up and down.

  Alexis caught Helene’s eye. Helene nodded back almost imperceptibly. “There’s just one thing we’d like from you,” Alexis continued.

  “I’ll do anything. Absolutely anything.” Nichola clutched her stole as if it were a baby doll.

  Alexis took a deep breath before saying, “Stop seeing Nigel. He’s no good for you.”

  In a snap Nichola changed. Gone was the almost womanly elegance and the girlish excitement. Her shoulders curved and her head bowed; her voice reached the treble of sulk; her mouth drooped into a scowl. “What are you talking about? Why would I want to do that?”

  Helene grabbed her cousin’s hand and held it. “Listen, Nichola, we ran into him at a party and learned some things about him. Really terrible things.” She told Nichola what they knew: how Nigel dated other girls, how he got a girl pregnant. She did, however, leave out the part where Nigel trapped Helene on the stairs and propositioned her. As Helene talked, Nichola snatched her hand back and put a forefinger in each ear, saying, “I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you.” Just like the little girl she tried so hard not to be.

  Helene pleaded. “Please listen to me. You’re much too good for him, Nichola. You’re sweet and beautiful, and you could get any guy. Why settle for such a loser?”

  “You’re just jealous.” Nichola rolled her eyes in disgust. “You’re making this up because you want him for yourself. Both of you do.”

  Helene stifled a laugh. Alexis swung her purse and said, “If he were the last guy in the world, I wouldn’t go near him.”

  Magda, who had been in the back of the store writing up the sales slip, marched toward the girls. Everything that happened in her store was her business, so she took Nichola by the arms and looked up at the tall girl.

  “My dear, dear child, if this boy is all that they say he is, why bother? I am a wise woman, and I can see some things about you. You will have many lovers in your life. A multitude. Some old. Some young. Some rich. Some poor. Your life will be filled with romance and heartbreak. Don’t you worry. You miss nothing by leaving him.”

  Nichola’s eyes filled with tears. “You just don’t understand. None of you understand. He likes me. No one else likes me. No one else even bothers to notice me. He’s the only person in the world to pay me any attention.” With that, she flew out of Magda’s store, dropping the stole on the floor.

  Alexis picked up the stole as Helene rushed into the courtyard to find her cousin. But the square was empty, save for one little boy zooming around on a scooter. As she scanned the area, Helene heard the door to the cheese store swing closed. Nichola had slipped away.

  “Should we run after her?” Helene asked, returning to Magda’s store.

  “We’ll just get lost. She knows London much better than we do,” Alexis said. “Besides, she’s not going to listen to us now. We’ve only alienated her more.”

  Silently they paid for the dress, the purse, and even the stole. Magda delicately placed the bejeweled garments in a nondescript plastic bag. “Cheer up. Both of you. Alexis, you report to Lady Brawn that she can now send you here alone anytime. And Helene, you have a ball to attend. I foresee a very special night. A night fit for a princess.”

  Helene felt a shudder go down her spine and saw a look of distaste flash on Alexis’s usually calm face. She clutched the bag and kissed Magda good-bye on both cheeks. Everything was about to happen.

  Cinderella’s Final Hours

  TWO A.M., WEDNESDAY morning. Helene Masterson kicked the duvet off her bed and stared at a water stain on the ceiling that resembled Alfred Hitchcock. She had been wide awake since the girls turned off the lights at eleven P.M., and it began to seem like she would never sleep. This had been happening all week. During the days, Ms. Ming worked her relentlessly in preparation for the benefit. During the nights, Helene’s mind raced with the potential events of the weekend. She’d never been so excited in all her life. Perhaps that was because she’d never wanted something so badly before. This wasn’t like begging for a swimming party or a mountain bike. Those were childish desires. William was a new want, a grown-up want. And it kept her up.

  As a car drove down Whittington Place, a shaft of light rode across the girls’ bedroom. All at once the golden dress, which hung from the closet door, was illuminated; its gems glowed like a lit chandelier. Drew’s dress. Now it was her dress, and it was so beautiful that Helene didn’t want to close her eyes. She wanted to stare at it all night. Finally, at two forty-five, exhaustion got the better of her, and she was dragged into sleep.

  Three A.M., Wednesday morning. Alexis’s eyes snapped open. She’d been dreaming something awful, but she could recall only one image: There was a Vogue photo shoot at the Worths’ house in Scarsdale. Alexis animatedly told Lady Brawn that she lived there, and she should definitely be in the shoot. Lady Brawn shot her a piercing look. “You’re just our coffee girl, Alexis. We already have our model.” And there, walking down the Worths’ staircase, was Helene. She’d become a mermaid. Her head was the same, but her dress—Drew’s dress—was a fish’s tail. A thousand photographers snapped her photo, and her jeweled scales reflected the glow of each flash.

  It was only a dream, she told herself. Only a product of the imagination. Just in her head. But like all dreams, it held a tremor of truth that made it impossible for Alexis to return to sleep: She
had never worn something so finely made, so simultaneously au courant and timeless. And she was the stylish, beautiful sister! Alexis could already see the society pages of Hello!: American girl in a one-of-a-kind Caroline Herrera dress waltzes seamlessly into British society after William asks her to dance…. Alexis stopped herself. Jealousy was wasted energy. It only prevented you from achieving your goals. It was like racing a horse on a lame leg—you couldn’t win. The best thing to do with jealousy was to push it away. But Alexis had been doing this all day long, and at three forty-two she was watching the digital clock’s display, trying to stop time, trying to make the weekend never come.

  That evening Alexis made plans to eat sushi with Lucille, Isabelle, Tabitha, and Caro, the other interns from British Vogue. But as soon as the lacquered tray of raw fish arrived, she began picturing Helene the way she looked in the dream: as a stunning mermaid. Alexis lost her appetite for hamachi and fatty tuna.

  “I think I’m coming down with something. I need to go home,” she said. The four girls held their chopsticks in the air and looked at Alexis incredulously.

  “So this is how you stay so thin! I thought so,” said Tabitha meanly. For the last month she’d been jealous that Lady Brawn gave Alexis the most responsibility.

  “It’s true,” said Caro, who had been bumped from working on photo shoots when Alexis arrived. “I’ve never even seen you eat during lunch breaks.”

  “No, it’s not that at all; it’s just that my sister …,” Alexis stopped. Why explain her petty jealousy to Tabitha or anyone else? She was Alexis Worth! She picked up her purse and rushed out of the restaurant, saying, “I had a great time. Maybe next week.”

  For once Alexis chose to walk home instead of taking a cab. She craved the anonymity of the city streets and wanted to curtail the time spent at home with a gushing Helene. It was drizzling slightly, and in her rush she’d left her umbrella at the restaurant. But she didn’t care. The rain seemed to suit her mood—if not her suede boots.