called an Equerry. You will find out about the Court in here.’ And she added another tome to Bella’s extensive pile.
‘Thank you.’
‘Of course, I have retired now. The King has very kindly given me a little Grace and Favour apartment in Hampton Court but I come in to the Palace most days, to give what service I can. Old habits die hard.’ She had a tinkling laugh, that didn’t sit very well with the horse-like teeth or a strident upper-class voice that could have stripped paint.
‘I suppose they must,’ murmured Bella.
‘Royal service is my inheritance. I am very proud to serve. I have my little corner here,’ Lady Pansy explained, indicating a sitting room the size of a suburban house, full of eighteenth-century furniture and a goodish collection of porcelain. ‘And I am always available to help new people who join the Court with any little pieces of advice that I can. Just ask me anything you like, dear. My card. My phone number.’
She gave Bella two small pasteboard cards, one simply inscribed with Lady Pansy’s name in flowing gold script, one more businesslike with phone and fax numbers but no email address.
‘You will find it all bewildering at first,’ instructed Lady Pansy. ‘But I shall be here to guide you. You may call on me at any time. I suggest we meet regularly.’
Taking a surreptitious glance at her watch, Bella realised that the interview had already taken two hours. Her discussions with Lady Pansy, she resolved, would henceforward take place on the telephone. But she murmured more grateful thanks. And Lady Pansy launched into a terrifying account of the hounding she could expect from the Press.
Bella finally staggered out with two cloth bags full of books and papers, three hours after she’d gone into the Palace.
She went straight back to the flat and lay down in the sitting room, in blessed, blessed silence.
‘Thank God I took the day off,’ she told Lottie that evening. ‘The woman made my head ring – and scared the wits out of me. She made me think the journalists and photographers would be knee-deep outside the flat. But there wasn’t one.’
As it turned out, the Press were relatively uninterested in Bella. There were a couple of pointed questions asked of Richard at his next public appearance, but he evaded them neatly. And a single photographer turned up outside Bella’s office. But that was it.
‘Of course, you’re not one of the candidates to become his Princess,’ explained Lady Pansy on the telephone. ‘The serious Royal correspondents know that and won’t waste their time. But the riff-raff can be intrusive. When would you like to call on me this week?’
‘Thank you, but I think I will save that pleasure for when the riff-raff get worse,’ said Bella, and put the phone down before Lady Pansy could object.
Lottie, however, agreed with the courtier.
‘There’s a lot of celebrity action at the moment,’ she said darkly. ‘You wait till the dead zone between Christmas and New Year. That’s when we’ll get all the pieces about “Isabella Greenwood, Is She Right for Our Prince?”’
‘So what?’ said Bella, who had just come off the phone with Richard and was still basking in his ‘Good night, Dream Girl’. ‘I’ve got my love to keep me warm. I can handle it.’
She and Lottie were both wrong.
The trouble started when an undercover freelance journalist approached Bella’s mother in Town. Of course, she didn’t say she was a journalist. She said she’d heard the news about Bella and the Prince of Wales, and just had to stop and tell Janet how pleased she was. And then she switched on her mini tape recorder and let Janet burble.
Bella’s mother didn’t say anything untruthful. She said that they hadn’t met Prince Richard yet but hoped to soon. She also said they were very much looking forward to meeting the King and Queen – at this point, reading the article, Bella put her arms over her head and groaned loudly – and that she hoped to invite Queen Jane, a noted amateur golfer, to a round at her own club. Yes, she agreed, it would be lovely if Bella and Richard got married. Following your heart was so important. Only then the journalist asked if she thought that the family would object, and Janet got completely the wrong end of the stick. Her ex-husband, she said, could keep his silly opinions to himself and not jeopardise his daughter’s happiness. Who cared whether he thought the monarchy should be