Christmas at the Island Hotel - Jenny Colgan Page 0,86

serious, and he stopped talking and gravely proffered her his arm. She emptied her glass for Dutch courage, then took it.

Just as they stood up, there was a commotion at the door.

CANDACE HAD BUMPED her expensive bag crossly back up the black-painted steps of the Harbour’s Rest. This was absurd. She needed to get back and she was trapped here. It was cruel and unusual, like a punishment for breaking a fantastic story. Ridiculous. And Christ, here she was, trapped in this hellhole.

She left her bag in reception in the mistaken belief that there would be someone else to take it up for her and stared at the empty reception (although she noted there were keys hanging up behind it, so hopefully she’d get a bed for the night—the possibility of that not happening was just too awful to contemplate).

She would head into the bar, she decided, order a large GnT, check if the story was up yet, and then and only then decide what to type to Dan. Oh God. It had taken ten months to even get him to this point, of inviting her to have Christmas with his mother. And now she was going to not make their Christmas, and if there was a way that could be interpreted as not an actual snub, she had absolutely no idea what it was.

On the other hand, she was nothing if not goal-oriented. She clopped over to the bar in her heels, her feet absolutely freezing from standing in that ridiculous barn they called an airport. She pushed open the doors of the bar, feeling the not-unwelcome whoosh of warm, slightly fuggy air hit her, and strode inside. Oh good, Isla and Konstantin were right there. She wandered up to join them, her face taking on a curl that might pass for a smile.

“Hel-looo!” she said, sitting next to Isla. “So, how does it feel, I have to ask . . . to be dating the runaway prince?”

“The what?” said Isla, completely and utterly confused.

In answer Candace took out her phone, beaming. “I’m just going to tape your reactions,” she said, and watched as Isla called up the link, stared at Konstantin, then back at the web page in disbelief.

Playboy Prince Slumming It in Britain’s Worst Hotel

She blinked. There was a huge photo of Konstantin wearing some kind of weird military uniform with medals on it, next to the pic of Gaspard falling over with Bjårk.

Britain’s Worst Hotel, the Rock, on the tiny island of Mure, will be further “rocked” by the revelation today that their kitchen junior is none other than the playboy son of one of Norway’s richest and most aristocratic families . . .

Beneath this there was a picture of Konstantin looking drunk and frazzled at a party, surrounded by scantily clad models.

Isla’s hand flew to her mouth. What on earth was happening? She scanned the following paragraphs, as phrases leaped out at her: “not going to stay long in this life . . . really misses Norway,” and “Mure is a dark, cold, miserable place . . . ‘it needs brightening up.’”

It made reference to his illegal “eyesore” (a direct quote from a “senior council source” who spoke of planning to “pull it down as soon as they had the chance”) and talked about how he had been banished from Norway for his appalling behavior: “Close friends have been asking when he’s coming back from his time with the ‘little people,’ so they can all have fun again.”

So what is next for the Island of Calamity when the Prince finishes his little session of “slumming it” with the locals?—he’s been reported as cutting quite a swathe.

And to her horror, there was a picture of him with Isla, taken on Candace’s traitorous iPhone, Konstantin looking handsome, her wearing the ridiculous kitchen hat, looking pathetic and hungry and utterly stupid.

Isla jumped up, just as someone burst through the bar doors. It was Iona.

“Have you seen this shite?” She pointed at Konstantin. “You bloody bastard! You leave my friend alone. And you!”

It struck Candace forcibly that she’d have much rather been circling into Heathrow about now. “Just doing my job,” she said smoothly.

Isla came up to stand next to her friend Iona, who put a supportive arm around her.

“Look at the two of you,” said Iona. “Well suited. Come on, Isla. Let’s leave them to it.”

And she helped her speechless friend out the door as the rest of the bar looked on. They hadn’t had quite such an