Lucy Gordon: Princess Dottie

Only a lifetime of thinking before he spoke stopped him announcing who he was. Prince Randolph went where he pleased and restaurant owners groveled for his patronage. Now he was being told that he wasn't good enough, or rather, his friend wasn't good enough. The sight of Dottie's face gave him a nasty shock. She was smiling, but not in her normal joyous way. This smile had a forced brightness that told him she was hurt.

He was suddenly full of anger but it was directed at himself. She'd tried to warn him and he'd ridden roughshod over her.

“Come on,” he said, taking her arm gently. “This place doesn't suit our requirements. We'll find somewhere better, that does.”

That made the doorman swell like a turkey.

Dottie walked along the street in silence. Randolph was about to say something comforting when she began to laugh. “His face! ”

“It was worth seeing,” he admitted. He was thinking of some women he knew who would have said, “I told you so,” and sulked until they thought he'd been punished enough.

Being offended was the last thing on Dottie's mind. She was in seventh heaven, enjoying the first fun outing she'd had in years. She recalled the last time she'd been in London's glamorous West End, as a child, when Grandad had brought her to see Santa Claus in one of the stores.

This felt much the same. The way her companion had whisked her away and brought her to this glittering street gave him much in common with Santa. Of course he was young for the part, and far too handsome, but she clung to the analogy because it left her free to admire him without feeling guilty about Mike.

They found somewhere a little farther along, different from The Majestic in every way except for its prices, which were even higher. This was an emporium of nouvelle cuisine, bright, modern, chic, sexy.

“All right for us to come in?” Randolph asked the man in jeans and shirt leaning against the door.

“You got the bread, man?” He indicated the exorbitant prices.

“He's got the bread,” Dottie said, seeing Randolph's baffled expression.

“Bread?” he asked as they made their way to the table.

“Money.” A horrid thought struck her. “You have got the bread, haven't you?”

“I think I can manage a loaf or two.”

The waiter led them to a table by the window, through which they could catch a glimpse of the River Thames. He pulled out a chair for Dottie, who seemed disconcerted.

“I can't sit down,” she protested to Randolph. “He's holding it too far away.”

“Just sit,” he advised. “Trust him, he'll move it into place as your legs bend.”

She tried, and seemed relieved when she landed safely.

“Obviously you don't know the story of the Empress Eugenie,” Randolph said, amused.

“Who was she?”

“She lived in the middle of the nineteenth century, and married the French emperor Napoleon III. But she was a parvenu .”

“A what? ”

“An upstart. She wasn't born royal. She had to learn. In her memoirs she told how she and her husband once shared a box at the opera with Queen Victoria, and when they sat down she looked behind her to see the chair. But Victoria didn't look back. She knew the chair would be in place, because for her it always had been. Eugenie said that was when she understood the difference between a true royal like Victoria, and a parvenu like herself.”

“I know how she feels,” Dottie said. “Life's always waiting to kick the chair away. Now me, I'd just fall straight on my ass.”

Randolph winced.

“You sound like Brenda,” Dottie continued. “She's got a thing about royalty. Just now she keeps on talking about Elluria and how they've lost their king 'cos he's illegitimate, or some such thing.”

“How did she know that?” Randolph asked quickly.

“This magazine she reads, Royal Secrets . All the dirt.”

And the magazine would certainly have contained a picture of himself, he realized. He could only be grateful for the plastic palm in the café that had prevented Brenda from seeing him well enough to blow his cover.

“Do you also read Royal Secrets? ” he asked apprehensively.

“Not me. Well, it's all cobblers, isn't it?”

“Cobblers?” he asked, his eyes starting to glaze.

“Rubbish. Royalty! Who needs it these days?”

“What about the British royal family?”

“Oh look, I don't mean them any harm,” Dottie explained hurriedly. “I don't want to see them exterminated or anything-just pensioned off.”

The waiter was hovering expectantly. After study ing the menu with bafflement Dottie accepted Randolph's suggestion that he order for her.

“Do you have any preference about wine?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“A half of beer will do me,” she said.

“I'm not sure that they do beer. How about-?” He named a French wine, not telling her that it cost nearly one hundred pounds a bottle, and Dottie smiled and said she guessed that would do.

When the food arrived she made slow progress because she seemed unable to talk without gesticulating, and her hands were seldom free to eat. But after a while she seemed to be enjoying herself.

“You're not English are you?” she said between mouthfuls. “You've got a funny voice. No, I mean-not funny exactly…”

“It's all right,” he said, rescuing her. “I do have an accent.” He tried to sound casual. “Actually, I come from Elluria.”

“What, that place we were just talking about?”

“The very same.”

“Cor! Fancy that!” She giggled. “You're not royal, are you?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I'm not.”

It was true, he told his conscience. It had been true for several weeks now.

“I don't know anything about Elluria,” she admitted. “Not even where it is.”

“It's in the center of Europe. It's quite small, about three million people. The traditional language is German, but everyone speaks English as well because it's the language of trade and tourism, and these are important to us.”

“Is that why you're here?”

“In a sense. You might say that I've come on a fact-finding expedition.”

“But why Wenford? Why The Grand? You're completely out of place there.”

“Thank you.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. I speak first and think later. Always have, and I guess I always will. Too late to change now.”

“Don't you think you could try?” Randolph ventured.

She gave a worried little frown. “Are you mad at me?”

“No, speaking first and thinking later is charming in a young woman, but there are times and situations when it could be damaging.”

“You mean when I'm an ugly old battle-ax?” she asked cheerfully, spreading her hands wide and forcing a waiter to swerve around her.

“I can't imagine that you could ever be ugly,” he said truthfully.

“But a battle-ax, right? Mike says it's like being with a dictator sometimes.”

“And you don't mind him saying things like that?”

She chuckled. “Oh, if he steps out of line I just give him a long, lingering kiss, and then he forgets everything else.”

That was wise of her, he thought. A kiss from those lips wouldn't just be about sex. It would be about laughter and sunshine, wine, sweetness and all the good things of life.

“Guys never give me any trouble,” she added blithely.

“You give them all long, lingering kisses?” he asked, startled.

“No need. A smile usually does it. But you're quite right. The day'll come when they're not trying to get me into bed-”

“Would you mind keeping your voice down?” he begged, conscious of the waiter just behind her.

“And then I'll have to watch my mouth,” she finished.