Page 39 of Scandal Queen

Although I’d take a hot stone massage instead of going to have my fingers waxed… my fingers! I thought those hairs were meant to be there.

Did Oliver think he’d been hanging out with an orangutan? Because considering the amount of hair I’d had removed from my body, I’d think that was the case.

Carly, who had on a white button up uniform and looked like she survived on lettuce, had begun to lose her patience.

Victoria, who’d put highlights in my hair, and who studied the foils sticking from my head like a porcupine, kept glancing at the clock on the wall; we’d been down here for at least half a decade. After this torture, I had lunch with the Queen, Isabella, and the woman who’d been hired to help me navigate these new royal waters. Norma. It wasn’t a royal name I’d give her that, but the woman had a face you couldn’t argue with. She appeared to be the living embodiment of an etiquette rule book. They’d obviously called in the big guns.

“Okay, there we go, all done.” Carly patted my red raw hand.

“I really don’t think it’s necessary,” I grumbled.

“You will get used to it. The Queen is very keen for all members of the family to look smart and well kept at all times.”

I flexed my fingers, my mind drifting to the homeless shelter down the road from Bright Futures. I didn’t think anyone there would give a monkey’s arse if your fingers were hairy or not.

“Quite.”

“Okay, lets get those foils out and then we can blow dry before lunch.” Victoria’s voice singsonged but it sounded stilted and forced.

“Fine.”

Both of the women who’d spent hours working me over glared at one another. I could only assume their usual clients weren’t as vocal as me.

Forty-five minutes later I returned to the Queen’s suite with smooth and silky, shiny blonde hair. My hair which had always been fair, now blended about three different shades of ash, smoothing my usual straw-toned hair. It felt wonderfully swishy, and while I still didn’t approve of the utter overindulgence of having a personal spa, I couldn’t stop running my fingers through the blonde lengths. Four inches shorter than I’d normally wear it; it now hung in a thick sheet, reminding me of Freya’s beautiful ebony glossy lengths.

My face glowed with new skin; apparently the outer layers of my epidermis were utterly unnecessary and had been scoured off. I didn’t have make-up on though, for which I was eternally grateful. Make-up and I weren’t the best of friends and I had the ability to make myself look like a drunk clown when let loose with the stuff. At least they’d realised that much about me.

The woman in the grey suit waited outside gold and cream double doors. “Miss Lawrence.”

I nodded to Mrs Hurst who seemed to be the Queen’s ‘woman who does’.

Queen Margaret waited inside her suite for me. She looked beautiful in neutral colours, her pale hair in a smooth bun at the base of her neck. “Ah, Leia. You survived Victoria and Carly.” She stepped up and linked a hand through my arm, tucking me into her side although I was much bigger than her and I knew if I lost my balance, I’d squish her face first into her pale thick carpet.

“They were very thorough.” I flushed a little and the Queen chuckled.

“Better for Carly to get into all the cracks and crevices than to go somewhere else and then someone sells the story.”

“Does everyone sell a story?”

The Queen hesitated for a moment. “Not always.”

The dark head of Isabella Beaufort lifted from a cream silk sofa. I don’t think she liked to be upright—a sentiment I knew all too well. “Mother, be truthful; if she’s got this far, I doubt knowing everything will scare her off now.” She paused, her face pensive for a moment. “She’s clearly really in love with Oliver, although honestly, I have no idea why.” With that she flung herself back onto the sofa. The Queen frowned in her direction but didn’t say anything. Isabella’s fingers twitched a bit, as though she drummed along to music the rest of us couldn’t hear.

“That is quite true,” the Queen agreed.

“You’ve been here before though, haven’t you? With Charlotte Macclesfield?” I hated to say the woman’s name out loud. But there seemed no point in ignoring the fact that the heir to the throne had almost been married once before, not that long ago—that’s not what’s happening here, but still, I’d just had my lady garden waxed by the royal beautician… a line had definitely been crossed.

The Queen’s face clouded. “We made an error of judgement.” She nodded, but her beautiful elfin face sharpened with a frown.

“How do you know I’m not a mistake?”

Her expression cleared. “Because Oliver wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. And secondly, he never brought Ms Macclesfield to live at the palace.”

He didn’t? “Oh. Did he live with her at the warehouse?” I don’t know why, but that stung a little. I liked the idea of the warehouse being our place. Of course it couldn’t be ours. Nothing about him, was ours or mine.

“No.” The Queen smiled warmly and led me to the cluster of sofas where Isabella laid sprawled like a stroppy teenager. She nudged her with her knee. “Oliver’s never lived with anyone before.”

Her words floored me. I mean, I’d never asked, just kind of assumed. I mean… they’d been engaged to be married.