Marrying the Rebel Prince: Your invitation to the most uplifting romantic royal wedding of 2018!. Janet Gover
for the next few weeks.’
Lauren sighed. Maria was right. Again. It seemed that whenever she climbed the stairs to this tidy apartment one floor above her own, she found both friendship and common sense in equal measure.
‘I almost forgot.’ She smiled, her mood lifting. ‘The last thing he said was that he likes my hair. He said it highlights my eyes.’
‘I told you so,’ Maria exclaimed in triumph.
Maria was a hairdresser, and Lauren’s unusual cut was both her idea and her handiwork. Maria had lightened Lauren’s already fair hair to shining white, then dyed a broad slash of blue down each side to frame her face. The cut was asymmetrical, curving under her chin on her right side and falling almost to her shoulder on the left.
As they shared a laugh, Lauren thought for the thousandth time how lucky she was to have such a friend. They had both moved into this apartment building on the same day. Lauren was fresh from the Royal College of Art and felt an almost immediate affinity with the tall, dark-haired girl moving into the flat above. Maria had also just left college, and soon the two were firm friends.
For the past few years Maria and Lauren had shared the turmoil of being young, single and, most of the time, short of cash. His Royal Highness was not the first man discussed around this kitchen table, although it was usually Maria who raised the subject.
‘Speaking of your hair,’ Maria continued, ‘you haven’t forgotten. Have you?’
‘Sorry. Forgotten what?’ Lauren was confused by the sudden change of subject.
‘The hairdressing championships. You’re modelling for me.’
‘Of course I haven’t forgotten.’ Lauren was instantly contrite. ‘I know how important this is to you. Not even the prince himself will keep me away.’
‘That’s great,’ Maria said. ‘You know, I’ve got some terrific ideas for you.’
‘I’ll bet you have.’ Lauren looked at her watch and yelped. ‘Oops. I’d better go.’
‘Are you going back to the palace?’ Maria asked.
‘Later.’
‘Well, say “hi” to His Highness for me!’
They both groaned at the awful pun as Lauren disappeared out the door with a wave of her hand.
* * *
Lauren loved the art supplies shop. It was filled almost to bursting with the paraphernalia of her calling. Bright colours and soft brushes. Paints and canvas. Charcoal and varnish. Each item was a reaffirmation of the life she had chosen, a tie to the great artists of the past and her hope for her own future.
She was also very fond of the shop’s elderly proprietors. Mr Haussmann was in his customary spot behind the counter when she walked in the door.
‘Lauren.’ He beamed. ‘It’s good to see you. I hear you’re about to become famous. You’ll soon be too important for my little shop.’
‘I’ll never stop coming to your fabulous shop,’ Lauren corrected him. ‘How did you find out? I haven’t told anyone yet.’
‘Everyone’s talking about it.’
Lauren realised that the gossip was inevitable. The art world was very small. Everyone knew everyone else, and a royal commission was worth talking about.
‘I didn’t think anyone knew yet.’
‘You know how it goes. Someone from up there …’ he nodded towards the doorway and the palace somewhere far beyond it ‘… rang around asking about you. One thing leads to another. It’ll probably be in the papers soon.’
‘No!’ The mere thought horrified Lauren. She didn’t need anyone asking about her. They’d probably start asking about her background. Her childhood. Her family … ‘It’s not important enough for that.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ Mr Haussmann assured her. ‘If any of those parra-pazi photographers come here looking for you, my lips are sealed.’
‘Thanks, Mr Haussmann.’ She gave him a warm smile. ‘Now, I’m going to need some supplies for this job. And only the best. This portrait has got to last a few hundred years – assuming it’s any good.’
‘It will be wonderful.’ Mr Haussmann’s plump grey-haired wife emerged from the storeroom at the back of the shop. ‘With your talent and his looks – how could it be otherwise?’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mrs Haussmann.’
‘You deserve it. So tell me …’ The older woman stepped close and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Is he really so very handsome?’
‘He’s a playboy,’ Mr Haussmann interrupted. ‘You be careful, Lauren. A beautiful girl like you isn’t safe around someone like that.’
‘Don’t you listen to him.’ Mrs Haussmann affectionately dismissed her husband. ‘What does he know? Lauren, you play your cards right and you could be a princess.’
‘I don’t want to be a princess,’ Lauren replied seriously. ‘From what I saw yesterday, it doesn’t look like much fun. I’d rather be me – a struggling artist. But he does have a fabulous face. It won’t be easy to capture that face. And those eyes! Speaking of which, I think I’m going to need a lot of cadmium blue. And a very large canvas – for his ego.’
Lauren didn’t take very long to accumulate an impressive range of supplies. For the first time, she didn’t shop with one part of her brain focused on her tiny bank balance. If this portrait was going to hang in the palace, she would use only the best. However, the best didn’t come cheap. She blanched when Mr Haussmann handed her the tally of her purchases. She quickly pulled out a credit card, trying not to look concerned. She made a mental note to talk to the prince very soon about money. He should be willing to at least make a preliminary payment to cover her costs.
‘I will have these delivered later this morning,’ Mr Haussmann promised. ‘I suppose we should send them to the palace.’
‘No, no,’ Lauren laughed. ‘To my place, please.’
She took her leave, a couple of smaller parcels under her arm. Mr Haussmann’s question about the delivery had brought home to her for the first time the enormity of what she was doing. She was about to move her professional life into a whole new world, of which she knew nothing but what she read in newspapers and magazines. She might have dreamed about it as a child, but those dreams were never meant to come true for an underprivileged child living in a one-room flat with her struggling single mother. For the daughter of a criminal …
‘Get a grip!’ she admonished herself. ‘You’re always saying people should be judged by who they are, not their families. Well, this is your chance to prove that. You’ll be just fine.’
She almost sounded as if she believed it.
* * *
The small white van pulled up outside Lauren’s apartment at precisely the appointed time. It had no obvious markings to proclaim its ownership. Nor did the two men who got out of it have any insignia about their clothes. However, their efficiency left little doubt of their origin.
Lauren stood by, feeling totally useless, as her paints and brushes, sketch pads and canvases vanished into the spotless interior of the van in the hands of quietly efficient men.
For one brief moment she was once again the small girl crying in her mother’s arms as her few possessions were taken from their home by equally silent and efficient men. Those things had ended up on the street, because Lauren and her mother had not had any place to go. That memory had never left her, and never would. But there were times she was thankful for the past that had pushed her to make something of her present.
The last thing to go was her large wooden easel, wrapped for safety in a bolt of grey