when I was a kid. Sorry. Don’t forget, I’m the daughter of a fully paid up anti-monarchist.’
‘Oh, but—’ Lottie started to say, then changed her mind.
‘What?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘I know that look. It isn’t nothing. Spit it out.’
‘You wouldn’t actually be nasty to Prince Richard, would you, Bella? I mean, if you came across him somewhere?’
She sounded so worried that Bella was touched. ‘Don’t worry, Lotts. I’m not that far gone. I wasn’t nasty to Francis and, as you pointed out, he starved me. Quite apart from breaking his promises, the toad. Hell, I won’t even swear at Carlos if he turns my hair green again.’
At that, Lottie looked really alarmed. ‘No, don’t. You have no idea the favour he’s doing you, fitting you in at all. He said it was for old times’ sake but, make no mistake, Carlos can pick and choose his clients these days. So play nice, Bella, please. For me?’
So, an hour later, Bella was siting in a very smart grey-and-lavender-decorated salon and not so much as murmuring a protest while Carlos, Lottie’s long-time friend and increasingly fashionable hairdresser, lectured her on Letting Her Hair Go and the Importance of Conditioner. He plastered her hair with something that smelled of apricots, wrapped it in a towel, and left her to leaf through a bunch of celebrity magazines. Unlike Mondaine, these were full of people she didn’t know. With their orange tans and day-glo teeth, the various celebrities had been photographed at buzzy parties and premières in London, Hollywood and the South of France. Bella didn’t know their names, their faces, or what they were famous for.
‘I don’t even recognise the names of the dress designers any more,’ she sighed. ‘Have I been gone so long?’
‘Much too long, doll,’ said Carlos, flicking her hair. ‘This is going to take months of work.’
‘Well, see what you can do for today. Lottie’s taking me to a party tonight.’
‘Ah-ha. A party.’ His eyes lit up at the challenge and he began to mutter to himself.
Realising that her participation was not required, Bella turned to Sherlock, the satirical magazine that her father always bought, with its wicked cartoons and sly comment on politicians and media figures. Though even there, many of the names were new to her. It was almost a relief to find a piece on the Royal Family. At least they were still the same, even if Sherlock didn’t think much of them. The magazine was running a spoof advertisement for The Royal Pantomime or Snow White’s Escape, starring a flashing-eyed brunette called Deborah as Snow White, with the King and his family as the Seven Dwarfs. Bella had never heard of brunette Deborah either.
‘I think I just lost a year of my life,’ she told Carlos ruefully.
He peered over her shoulder at a cartoon of the three youngest dwarfs tap dancing. Their faces were recognisably those of Prince George, Princess Eleanor, and the heir to the throne, Prince Richard. Dim, Ditzy and Dull were excited, read the caption. Carlos grinned.
‘Poor bastard. Every time a girl dumps him, it’s all over the tabloids. And now Sherlock is calling him Dull. That’s got to hurt. It’ll stick, too.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Bella, not much interested in the PR problems of the King’s eldest son.
But the other people in the salon didn’t agree.
‘Who said she dumped him?’ said the grey-haired woman on Bella’s right indignantly.
‘She’s dating someone else,’ Carlos pointed out.
‘So? Maybe Prince Richard dumped her.’
‘Why would he do that? The woman’s hot, hot, hot.’
‘And now she’s dating someone else. That’s fast. What if the Prince found out she was a slapper and gave her the boot?’
Carlos was unconvinced. ‘Why wouldn’t he say so? I would.’
The grey-haired woman sniffed. ‘Because he’s a gentleman.’
Carlos snorted.
‘I think he looks lovely,’ said one of the junior hairdressers dreamily. ‘Dark and brooding, like he’s got a secret sorrow.’
She put a magazine on Bella’s knee, open at a black-and-white photograph of an unsmiling Prince Richard.
‘Very nice,’ Bella said without interest. ‘What about my hair?’
‘But don’t you think he looks sad … underneath?’
Bella glanced down at the photograph again. It wasn’t a party shot, like the others, but a studio portrait with the subject looking straight at the camera. Hooded eyes, mouth like a steel trap, cheekbones to make a Renaissance painter do a jig with delight.
‘Secret? Maybe. Sad? Nah, not a chance. He’s got a General’s scarlet uniform at home and a nice bright shiny sword to play with.’
The grey-haired woman said, ‘But things like that are