and spied on her in her leotard. Of course she would be. It would be very interesting to meet her, and definitely not an opportunity to be missed, and the Princess would be very nice, Amelia told herself. And she would almost have believed it, if not for the feeling of anxiety that kept gnawing at her stomach.
‘Of course, you’ll have to bring her a gift,’ said Eugenie.
Kevin stared at her. He stopped right there on the pavement, hockey stick over his shoulder, staring, as if this was the most preposterous thing he had heard from Eugenie yet. ‘What are you talking about? Why does she need a gift? She’s a princess. She has everything already.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Eugenie. She turned to Amelia. ‘Amelia, you must take a gift. Everyone must when they meet a princess. It shows respect. Nothing could be ruder than to turn up without one.’
Kevin glanced doubtfully at Amelia.
‘How do you know?’ asked Amelia.
Eugenie put her nose in the air. ‘Go without a gift if you don’t believe me. Just see what happens. Go on. Just go without one.’
Amelia frowned. There was no reason to suppose that Eugenie knew anything at all about princesses, including whether you had to have a gift when you met one. But there was something about the idea that appealed to Amelia. If she could think of a special gift, that was. Something memorable. Something that would show the Princess that even if she really was as important as she thought she was, and even if there were all kinds of things she had learned to do, Amelia herself wasn’t without talent, either.
‘I bet I know what Martin Martinez would take!’ said Kevin, and he grinned.
Eugenie laughed at that, forgetting that her nose was meant to be in the air.
‘Something featuring a certain boy . . .’ said Kevin.
‘From Argentina!’ added Eugenie, and they both laughed so much they almost dropped their hockey sticks.
Amelia forced herself to smile. But only for a moment. Kevin and Eugenie continued to make fun of Martin Martinez and the latest story he had put in the school magazine. It was about a boy who had written a story and won an international prize and was asked by the President of Argentina to write a national story, which was something like a national anthem, only in the form of a story. It wasn’t hard to guess who the main character was based on.
It was a terrible story, and everyone thought so. It got into the school magazine only because no one else had submitted anything. Amelia could have submitted any number of stories that were better. She had two drawers full, and then there were the stories about the peacock lamp. They weren’t written down, but were all in her head, as if they were the most special, the most precious, and only for a particularly important occasion would she actually put one of them in writing. But even the ones in the drawers, any one of them, would have been better than Martin’s rubbish story about the boy who won the international prize from the President of Argentina.
But at least Martin had submitted it, thought Amelia. At least he didn’t just leave it in a drawer somewhere after he had written it, even if everyone would have been better off if that was exactly where it had stayed.
At least, when the occasion presented itself, he was prepared to show what he could do.
CHAPTER 8
Amelia watched the cream-coloured car come slowly down the street. It pulled up below her, as it always did, in front of Mr Vishwanath’s studio. Out stepped the driver in his blue suit. He put on his hat and went around the car. Out came the old lady, dressed in her fur coat, and swept past him, and he hurried to get to the door before her.
Then he went back to the car, took off his hat, and got in again.
Mr Vishwanath had told Amelia that she had to wait for an hour after she saw the Princess arrive. Only then, after the Princess had done her yoga, would they be ready for her.
Another hour! Amelia didn’t know if the time
‘Of course, you’ll have to bring her a gift,’ said Eugenie.
Kevin stared at her. He stopped right there on the pavement, hockey stick over his shoulder, staring, as if this was the most preposterous thing he had heard from Eugenie yet. ‘What are you talking about? Why does she need a gift? She’s a princess. She has everything already.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Eugenie. She turned to Amelia. ‘Amelia, you must take a gift. Everyone must when they meet a princess. It shows respect. Nothing could be ruder than to turn up without one.’
Kevin glanced doubtfully at Amelia.
‘How do you know?’ asked Amelia.
Eugenie put her nose in the air. ‘Go without a gift if you don’t believe me. Just see what happens. Go on. Just go without one.’
Amelia frowned. There was no reason to suppose that Eugenie knew anything at all about princesses, including whether you had to have a gift when you met one. But there was something about the idea that appealed to Amelia. If she could think of a special gift, that was. Something memorable. Something that would show the Princess that even if she really was as important as she thought she was, and even if there were all kinds of things she had learned to do, Amelia herself wasn’t without talent, either.
‘I bet I know what Martin Martinez would take!’ said Kevin, and he grinned.
Eugenie laughed at that, forgetting that her nose was meant to be in the air.
‘Something featuring a certain boy . . .’ said Kevin.
‘From Argentina!’ added Eugenie, and they both laughed so much they almost dropped their hockey sticks.
Amelia forced herself to smile. But only for a moment. Kevin and Eugenie continued to make fun of Martin Martinez and the latest story he had put in the school magazine. It was about a boy who had written a story and won an international prize and was asked by the President of Argentina to write a national story, which was something like a national anthem, only in the form of a story. It wasn’t hard to guess who the main character was based on.
It was a terrible story, and everyone thought so. It got into the school magazine only because no one else had submitted anything. Amelia could have submitted any number of stories that were better. She had two drawers full, and then there were the stories about the peacock lamp. They weren’t written down, but were all in her head, as if they were the most special, the most precious, and only for a particularly important occasion would she actually put one of them in writing. But even the ones in the drawers, any one of them, would have been better than Martin’s rubbish story about the boy who won the international prize from the President of Argentina.
But at least Martin had submitted it, thought Amelia. At least he didn’t just leave it in a drawer somewhere after he had written it, even if everyone would have been better off if that was exactly where it had stayed.
At least, when the occasion presented itself, he was prepared to show what he could do.
CHAPTER 8
Amelia watched the cream-coloured car come slowly down the street. It pulled up below her, as it always did, in front of Mr Vishwanath’s studio. Out stepped the driver in his blue suit. He put on his hat and went around the car. Out came the old lady, dressed in her fur coat, and swept past him, and he hurried to get to the door before her.
Then he went back to the car, took off his hat, and got in again.
Mr Vishwanath had told Amelia that she had to wait for an hour after she saw the Princess arrive. Only then, after the Princess had done her yoga, would they be ready for her.
Another hour! Amelia didn’t know if the time
Similar Books
