Marrying Up by Wendy Holden Page B

meanwhile, seemed always to be in meetings with lawyers – about business or his latest divorce.
     And when he wasn’t, he made a point of disagreeing with whatever Lady Annabel had said on any topic. There was no love lost
     between them; Beatrice had learnt that the only constant of her parents’ behaviour was that they always took opposite viewpoints.
     Was it any wonder, she would muse, that of the three children her parents had had together, she herself was unnaturally controlling,
     Florrie was semi-feral and of Ed the least said the better?
    She emerged from these thoughts to find her sister looking at her pleadingly from behind her cushion.
    ‘I really do need a Nurofen, darling. I had several Aladdin’s Caves practically to myself. And then I danced for ages.’ She
     began to hum ‘Brown Sugar’ and moved her arms languidly about. ‘Omigod, we had such fun. HRH and I were sticking our tongues
     out at each other. He was on great form.’
    Dread reared up in Beatrice like a terrified horse. Of course, it had always been a danger. Florrie had been a member of the
     young royals’ set for some time, albeit a star in one of the more distant galaxies. But now the papers were beginning to pick
     up on it. There had been something in
Socialite
just the other day.
    The idea of her sister being linked romantically to the ruling house was too ghastly for words. For one thing, it would completely
     overshadow her own wedding – always presuming ithappened. For what was a mere marchioness compared with a princess, especially a princess who looked like Florrie?
    ‘I thought you were out with Igor,’ she said accusingly.
    ‘We’re taking a break from each other,’ Florrie said vaguely.
    This was not, so far as Beatrice was concerned, good news. Admittedly she had never liked Florrie’s Russian lover and the
     way he sat about their flat demanding, in a rolling accent, the answers to questions like ‘Why have one London mansion when
     you can have two?’ and ‘Why queue up with the losers in first class when you can have a plane to yourself?’ Igor’s father
     owned, among other things, an airline business, and Igor had his own Learjet on permanent standby. ‘Igot’ seemed a more suitable
     name, Beatrice thought, given how frequently his listeners were reminded of his possessions and his father’s wealth. According
     to his son, Igor Senior earned ten thousand pounds an hour just in interest.
    Ned had been disgusted the weekend Igor had crashed a shooting party at the Whyske family seat and blasted everything in sight
     with a Kalashnikov with ‘Rock and Roll’ stamped on the side. When, apparently for fun, he shot the bowler off the head of
     the butler delivering the guns’ lunch to the moor, Beatrice had found her calls to Ned unanswered for weeks.
    But while Igor was a liability, he was less of a risk to her own happiness than a prince of the blood royal. Oligarchs’ sons
     attracted little general attention; they were two a penny after all.
    ‘Why the break with Igor?’ Beatrice asked nervously.
    Florrie stretched her arms in the air and gave a voluptuous sigh. ‘He’s a bit demanding,’ she said with a smile.
    She wasn’t joking, Beatrice knew. Some of Igor’s requirements were most unusual, even though Florrie had accepted them in
     her usual breezy way. Her sister was, Beatrice had discovered since they had started sharing the flat, quite startlingly open
     about sex, usually in the kitchen on Sunday mornings as Beatrice made tea and the Russian snored in Florrie’s bedroom. Beatrice,
     narrowly avoiding slopping boiling water over her wrists, feltthe insight into Igor’s preferences didn’t make liking him any easier.
    ‘Oh, I’m going to make a cup of tea,’ Beatrice said jumpily, twisting so hard on her bare heel that her skin burnt against
     the carpet.
    ‘Make me one, will you, darling?’ Florrie called as Beatrice stomped in the direction of the flat’s smart black and