Marrying Up by Wendy Holden Page A

boldly in the eye. ‘Well the PR man thought it would be a good time to bring it back. Have a competition
     for his hand, almost. Like one of those TV talent shows.’
    ‘
Never!
’ Astrid’s hand, holding her rose clippers, was shaking. ‘
Never
that.’
    ‘All right, all right, perhaps that’s not appropriate.’ Engelbert’s plump hands were held aloft. ‘But we need a wedding,’
     he said stubbornly. ‘That’s the bottom line.’
    Astrid recognised one of the PR man’s stock phrases. Out of sheer desperation, an idea now struck her. ‘If someone has to
     get married, why can’t it be Giacomo?’ she suggested.
    ‘
Giacomo?
’ The King seemed stunned. ‘My dear, where do I begin? Because he’s not the Crown Prince? Because he needs to learn how to
     behave first? According to Hippolyte, Giacomo was just going to bed as he came into the office this morning.’
    Monsieur Hippolyte was the King’s long-serving private secretary, now doubling as the palace press officer. The PR consultant
     had been unable to believe, on arrival, that the royal family had no media representative whatsoever.
    Astrid suppressed a groan. Their younger son’s all-night visits to the local nightclub, La Cage Aux Princes, seemed worryingly
     frequent. Whilst the place was exclusive in the sense that only the richest were allowed in, this did not, she feared, make
     for the most morally elevated company. Still, as Engelbert would remind her, young men had to sow their wild oats, and at
     least Giacomo’s club of choice wasn’t Madame Whiplash, an establishment of even more doubtful morality than La Cage and whose
     existence in genteel Sedona the Queen did her best to ignore.
    ‘He’s not doing anything else,’ the Queen pointed out with persuasive speed. ‘Marriage would give him a role, do him some
     good.’
    But the King was shaking his head.
    Astrid felt desperate. She had to save Max somehow. Having experienced it herself, she knew the full horror of the situation
     now threatening him: sudden marriage to an unknown someone for the sake of the future of the state. Yet the state in question
     was her state; she was queen of it.
    What should she do?
    At her coronation she had sworn under oath, before the Archbishop of Sedona, to put her country first in all things. Nursing
     her firstborn in the quiet of the palace nursery, she had put her lips to his downy head and sworn to protect him and love
     him for life. Whose side should she be on? Her country’s good versus her son’s happiness. Her duty as a mother versus her
     duty as monarch. To which of her responsibilities should she be loyal?
    Her only hope, for the moment, was that Engelbert would not insist she became directly involved. If she were given time, she
     might think of a way round this appalling dilemma. A way out, even.
    ‘Obviously. So if you could just ring Max,’ the King was saying, with a casual expectation that made her see red.
    ‘Me! Why
me
?’ Astrid flared. ‘It’s
your
idea. Why don’t you ring him?’
    The King looked surprised. ‘Because you’re the best at talking him round,’ he said. ‘Max will do anything for you.’
    His words twisted the knife so agonisingly that Astrid wanted to scream.
Because he loves me, and because he knows I love him and want the best for him. I don’t want to ‘talk him round’, as you put
     it. I know what it feels like to be made to do what you don’t want to
.
    ‘I won’t,’ she muttered stubbornly, slashing at the bushes with her blade.
    Her husband watched her for a few minutes.
    ‘You have no choice,’ the King said. His tone was light, but matter of fact. ‘You’re Queen of Sedona. Your duty is to your
     country. You should keep your personal feelings – which I don’t pretend to understand, by the way – out of this. Max’s marriage
     is a matter of state, and you must support it – and me. I’m your husband, remember.’
    Astrid looked up; Engelbert’s eyes were flinty and his