Once Upon a Princess Read online

“No problem.” Rosie briefly touched her much younger sister’s shoulder. “Taxi Rosie is always available for you.”

  “Can I have that in writing, please?” Paige said.

  They walked to Rosie’s battered, old Toyota. She’d got it second-hand for a few hundred quid from Raymond, the local garage owner, who’d put in extra time to fix it up for her free of charge.

  “I’d like to add a clause,” Rosie said as they reached the car. “Taxi Rosie is always available to you as long as this luxury vehicle holds up.” She shot Paige a smile.

  “It better be good for a few more months then.” Paige grinned back. “At least until I leave for uni.”

  They got in. It was good to at least have a laugh at the state of their finances. A split second of relief was better than none.

  “Tell me all about Bristol again,” Rosie said as she started driving. They had to rely on conversation to break the silence — the car radio had given up the ghost almost a year ago.

  As Paige raved about Bristol University and summed up all the reasons she would love to go there, pound signs added up in Rosie’s brain. But she’d had the opportunity to go to university — at least for the two years she’d been able to attend — and she’d do anything for Paige to have the same experience, without having to take on a crushing student loan. Even though things were very different now.

  If she really wanted Paige to go to uni, maybe Mark & Maude’s, the cafe her parents had started a couple of decades ago, had no other prospect than a For Sale sign in the window.

  Rosie got the funny feeling in her stomach that she always did when she opened her online banking. The dread in the pit of her stomach that made her want to throw up a little. She longed for the day when she could check the state of her bank account carefree — she was always aware of the exact amount in it, and the number of bills that needed to be paid from said amount.

  The profit she’d made on the sale of her parents’ house after their untimely death had long run out. She’d used it to cover the arrears in the monthly mortgage payments on the cafe.

  On any given month, nothing much was left over in the account after paying rent for the tiny flat she and Paige shared — a considerable downsize from the place they’d lived in next door to the cafe before their landlord had jacked up the rent once again. Rosie couldn’t blame him for wanting to turn a higher profit with short-term holiday rentals. If only her cafe could benefit as much from the influx of tourists as well.

  But Mark & Maude’s was old school, closed before dinner time, and not generically trendy in the way well-off Londoners preferred their eating establishments. And they didn’t serve any alcohol. Maybe they should change that. How hard could it be to get a license to sell alcohol? Selling adult beverages had certainly done wonders for other cafes in the village.

  Rosie glared at her laptop screen, as if it was the screen’s fault that her bank balance was so low. She leaned back in her chair, chastising herself for even opening her online banking. It wasn’t as if looking at the numbers would change anything. But she’d hoped the desperation of the situation would spark a magic idea in her brain.

  She logged off. No magic spark came. She undid her ponytail and shook her hair loose. She was long overdue a visit to the hairdresser.

  Footsteps approached and Paige walked into the living room. “Bonsoir ma soeur,” she said in French with the heaviest accent possible. Paige had the same dreams that Rosie had at her age. She wanted to travel the world and learn some other languages in the process. Studying French at uni was the start. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Whatever you’re making,” Rosie said. “It’s your turn, remember?”

  Paige sank into a chair. “Emergency pizza from the freezer it is then.”

  “At least save your unhealthy eating habits until you’re at uni, will you?” Rosie slapped down the lid of her laptop. The bank’s website was still open and she didn’t want Paige to ask her any money-related questions.

  “What will you be eating when I’m away?” Paige cocked her head. “Don’t tell me pizza from the freezer won’t tempt you then?”

  Rosie had a hard time thinking so far ahead — and an equally hard time imagining Paige not living with her anymore. Come September, would she be lonely as well as jobless?

  “Quinoa and avocado toast with almonds and chia seeds every day,” Rosie joked. She remembered the first time a customer at the cafe had asked if they served quinoa.

  “It’s not really a Cornish delicacy,” Rosie had replied, and pointed at the items they did serve on the menu.

  The bell rang and Paige jumped up. “I’ll get it,” she said.

  Rosie stretched her arms above her head while she tried to guess who it was.

  “Brace yourself,” Paige whispered when she walked back into the living room. “Your ex is here.”

  “Amy.” Rosie groaned. “What does she want?”

  Hands on her hips, Paige looked at her as though Rosie had just asked the most stupid question in the world.

  “Knock, knock.” Amy’s voice came from the hallway.

  Rosie wanted to shoot her sister a look demanding why on earth she had let Amy in, but Amy was already standing in front of her, so there wasn’t much point.

  “Hi,” Paige said to Amy. “I’ll leave you to it.” She disappeared into the kitchen. Maybe she would take the time to figure out an alternative menu for dinner.

  Amy walked over to Rosie and kissed her on the cheek. She kept her hand on Rosie’s upper arm a little longer than was necessary — at least according to Rosie.

  “What’s up, Rosebud?” Amy asked while she gave Rosie a once-over. “Although I really like your hair when it’s down like that, you look a little glum.”

  Of course Amy wouldn’t for a second consider that it was her turning up unannounced — again — that made Rosie look unhappy.

  “You know,” Rosie said. “A bit stressed.”

  Amy shook her head. “You can’t go on like this much longer,” she said. “And you do have options. You know that.”

  It was easy for Amy to say. Her parents actually knew how to profit from the new quinoa-eating, novelty-gin-drinking, mindfulness-practicing holiday crowd. They basically owned the local economy and their brand-new cafe was direct competition for Mark & Maude’s.

  “I don’t need your help,” Rosie said, shifting her position in the chair. She didn’t much feel like inviting Amy to sit, lest she give her the impression she was welcome to stay for a chat — or that she wanted her help.

  “Don’t be so stubborn. You’re only twenty-eight. You have your whole life ahead of you. There are so many things you could do if only you didn’t cling to your precious cafe so much.” Amy had always been a straight talker. “You could get a job managing one of our cafes just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Think about it, Rosie. A steady salary. No staff to pay. There’s something to be said for that kind of security.” She lowered her voice. “Especially with a younger sister going to uni.”

  “Stop meddling with my life. It’s none of your business.” Rosie tried to hide the agitation in her voice. Amy might be right on some level, but Rosie certainly wasn’t going to admit that to her face.

  “I care about you.” Amy took a step closer again. “You know that.”

  Rosie was just able to keep from rolling her eyes. She’d heard that line so many times before. It didn’t work on her anymore.

  “What are you even doing here, Amy?” Rosie couldn’t mask the irritation in her tone this time.

  “We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

  Rosie sighed. Not as far as she was concerned. She didn’t need friends like Amy. “Paige and I were about to have dinner. It’s not really a good time for a friendly chat.”

  Amy glanced at her in silence for a moment. “Message received loud and clear.” She turned around and headed for the door.

  Fat chance of that. Rosie followed Amy into the hallway, looking forward to the moment she would s
lam the door shut behind her.

  Chapter 3

  Her mother hadn’t been joking when she said the house had been empty for a while. When Olivia stepped over the threshold, she’d coughed and screwed up her face, before throwing all the windows open — well, the ones she could get open. The aroma of dust, mould and something she couldn’t quite pin down — fish, stale oil? — was still lingering hours later, but she hoped her efforts to clean and air the house had gone some way to changing things.

  Her sister would have demanded staff to do this; being next in line to the throne, Alexandra thought such things below a royal. Olivia’s favourite response to that was to stick her tongue out and give her sister two fingers — it never failed to outrage her, which never failed to make Olivia grin. Having spent eight years in the army and completed two tours of Afghanistan, Olivia wasn’t shy about real life, she even quite liked it. So getting the house back in order, restarting the boiler, and descaling the kettle with some vinegar she found under the sink so she could have a cup of coffee that wasn’t full of bits — these things didn’t faze her.

  Now, she stood at the open back door, its once-white frame in need of a sand-down and repaint. She clutched a mug of instant coffee in her hand, and stared out at the overgrown back garden where the lawn could do with mowing, the shrubs cutting back and the tennis court stood abandoned, weeds no doubt sprouting at the base of the sagging net. That net had always seemed so high when she was a kid, with Alexandra throwing tennis balls at her head. She’d always loved it here; it had always been a great leveller.

  Olivia had unpacked the package her housekeeper, Anna, had given her — eggs, milk, cheese, bread, tea bags, coffee, biscuits — but she’d have to go shopping tomorrow. Down to the village, whilst trying to stay incognito. She was pretty sure her shorter, naturally wavy and now dark copper-dyed hair, teamed with her black-rimmed glasses, would do the trick. She normally used hair straighteners as her mother repeatedly told her it looked more classic, but she quite liked the natural look. Maybe she’d keep it when she got back to London. If being a royal meant Olivia had to marry Jemima, she could at least have a hairstyle she wanted, surely? A small victory, like her father’s battered armchair.

  It was only then Olivia remembered she’d be paying with a credit card that had her name on it. She hadn’t thought that one through, had she? She wasn’t the party girl she once was, and she wasn’t in the pages of Hello! or OK! magazines half as much as her sister, but still. Olivia Charlton was a recognisable name. She’d have to get the palace to send her fake credit card, the one where she was called Charlie Smith — and in the meantime hope she had enough cash to pay for what she needed.

  She smiled as she thought about her alter ego, Charlie Smith. Olivia had a lot of time for Charlie.

  An army nickname that had stuck. Freed from the shackles of being in the same country as her family, of what it meant to be a royal, Charlie was the truest version Olivia had ever been of herself. When she’d been with her squadron, an integral part of a team, Olivia — or rather, Charlie — had felt the greatest sense of purpose she’d ever felt in her life. On duty, with her uniform on and important work to do, she was just another soldier, just another woman defending her country, and how she’d loved that. It was what she’d hauled her arse through Sandhurst for, what she’d trained for years to do.

  But those days had come to an abrupt end three years ago, when her mother had “put an end to her playtime” as she called it, informing her that now she was 30, it was time to take up her royal duties and be a more active part of royal life. And so Charlie Smith had died, along with her relationship with Ellie, which hadn’t been able to withstand the force that was royalty.

  Olivia took a slug of her coffee. She didn’t think about Ellie much anymore — she couldn’t afford to — but she knew she’d had a glimpse of another world with her, a glimpse of real life. Now that her life as a professional royal was laid out for her, she doubted she’d ever have that again. She certainly couldn’t imagine Jemima being happy about staying here without staff, about having to make her own coffee, about it being instant. Jemima would have thrown a hissy fit. Instant coffee was for plebs, and she wasn’t one of those.

  Olivia’s phone beeping in her pocket interrupted her thoughts, and she put her mug down on the counter and checked the screen. She wasn’t surprised when she saw who the text was from.

  ‘You’re in Cornwall? Without staff??? You just got engaged! I don’t know what you’re playing at, but Mummy’s not happy, and Jemima was in tears at the club last night. Send her a text at least!’

  Olivia rolled her eyes and picked up her coffee again. She’d learned long ago the best way to deal with her sister was to ignore her.

  And the only reason Jemima was in tears was probably because she’d had too many vodka martinis and the bar had run out of Grey Goose.

  “That’ll be £22.96 please.” The woman behind the counter smiled at her, and Olivia handed over £30. She’d found another stash of cash in the house, so she wasn’t feeling quite as hard-up as she had been last night; plus, her private secretary was getting her credit card couriered to the house today.

  She’d wondered if card payments had made it to this part of Cornwall, but they even had contactless. That hadn’t been the case in a lot of shops the last time she’d visited, over five years ago. She thanked the woman, gave her back 10p to buy a reusable carrier bag for her shopping, and strolled out of the village shop, pulling her baseball cap down over her face, which was already adorned with sunglasses.

  Twenty minutes out of the house, and so far, nobody had recognised her.

  Only another 13 days to keep it up.

  This morning the weather wasn’t quite sure what it was doing — sunshine or white clouds — but Olivia was already feeling freer, more alive than she had in months. Being away from her family and away from London always did that. Being able to walk down the street without fear of paparazzi or anybody telling her parents where she was and what she was doing was something that was rare in her life. It was something most people took for granted, but to her, it was special, as well as always being far too fleeting.

  She walked down the main road of the village, only wide enough for two cars in places, peering into the shop windows. A kitchen shop, sure to be popular with tourists; a surf shop, which she made a note to go back to another day; an old-fashioned butcher with a white counter and two men at the end of it, cleavers in hand — she never saw that in London anymore.

  As she was peering in the window of a women’s boutique, her stomach rumbled, and she thought of all the shopping in her bag. She’d bought bacon and eggs; she should go back to the house and cook them. But she was quite enjoying being out and about, around other people.

  The ring of the boutique’s door got her attention, and an older woman with a shock of silver hair smiled at her, pointing at the window display.

  “It’d look lovely on you — suit your complexion.” She was referring to a beige blouse with red and yellow flowers embroidered down the front. Olivia gave her what she hoped was a civil look. Was the woman mad? That blouse wouldn’t look good on anyone, but Olivia was used to thinking that when it came to women’s fashion.

  “Just looking.” She had to get away before the woman engaged her in conversation. She had a feeling she might be there for hours.

  The next shop front was a cafe — Mark & Maude’s. As if on cue, her stomach rumbled again. Olivia made a snap decision and bustled in, took the seat away from the window and shrugged off her slate-grey jacket, putting her shopping at her feet. She swapped her glasses swiftly, but decided to leave her cap on, just in case. She wasn’t quite brave enough to discard it yet.

  The cafe had looked cute but tired from the outside, and the inside was the same. The tables and chairs were mismatched and the walls could use a lick of paint, but Olivia appreciated the unique counter, the front adorned with hundreds of retro Coke bottle tops, and the chrome serviette dispensers and
50s sugar shakers on the tables. Whoever Mark or Maude were, they had a love of retro.

  A banging on the window caught her attention and when she looked up, the woman from the boutique was signalling to her through the cafe window. Her hand gestures were either telling Olivia to come back later, or that she wanted Olivia’s number.

  Jesus.

  Olivia gave the woman a pained smile, and then heard laughter approaching.

  “Did you make the mistake of looking in Connie’s window?”

  She glanced up to see a woman around her age grinning at her, her lips glistening with freshly applied gloss. She was dressed simply in a pair of jeans, a fitted black top and some white Converse, and her dark blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail. Where did she know her from? Olivia wracked her brain, and then it came to her — the woman from the train station, the one she’d run into.

  She pushed that thought aside, and nodded. “I did — is she this persistent with all her customers?”

  Her server let out a cackling laugh that bounced off the cafe’s walls. “Every single one. It’s a unique sales technique exclusive to Connie.”

  “She’s still in business, so it must work.”

  “Somehow, it does.” The woman stared at her further, narrowing her piercing blue eyes. “You look familiar — have we met before?”

  Olivia shook her head. “I don’t think so — I’m just visiting from London.” She put out her hand. “Ol—Charlie.” She coughed to cover up her mistake.

  “Rosie,” came the reply. Rosie studied her a little more. “You do look familiar.” She flicked her biro on the order pad she was holding. “It’ll come to me, gimme a minute.” A quirk of her eyebrow. “Are you just here for the weekend?”

  Olivia shook her head. “A while longer — down from London, just thought I’d get away for a couple of weeks. Got a few things to sort out.”

  “You staying local?”

  Olivia squirmed in her seat, her foot kicking her bag of shopping. “Yeah, some friends gave me keys to their place.”