Chapter 8
The knocking continues. ‘Connie?’
Oh, God. I gingerly open the door and poke my head through the crack.
‘I wanted to check you were okay,’ says Luke with a serious expression.
‘I’m fine. Just a little disturbed at the, um… headlines.’
He studies my face before exhaling loudly and clamping his hands together on top of his head. I try to keep my eyes away from his T-shirt riding up to reveal a glimpse of taut stomach. ‘It sure is quite the story. Can we talk about it?’
Cripes. I’m battling with the urge to be polite.
It’s not Luke’s fault he’s so photogenic and everyone fancies him.
He’s just been blessed with one of those faces that, the more you stare at it, the more good-looking it becomes.
Especially when you’re singing romantic ballads on stage together, and your noses are an inch apart.
He’s a little overwhelming, to be honest. If only that musician had watched where he was shoving his massive double bass, then there wouldn’t have been any need for anyone to save me. I open the door a fraction wider.
His face softens. ‘I’m sorry you got dragged into it. I don’t know where they got their information from.’
‘Me neither.’
‘You look incredible, by the way.’
‘Sorry?’
He points down at the newspaper in my hand. ‘In the papers. You look vibrant. Timeless.’
I’ve always responded well to flattery. Especially from distinguished, international opera singers.
Singers who have performed in over forty countries.
I can literally hear the horn section trumpeting in my brain.
Bunting is being liberally strung up around my cerebral cortex.
Brass bands are on the march across my cranium.
‘So, should I come in?’ Luke tilts his head. ‘We may need a game plan.’
His manners are impeccable. And yet alarm bells are ringing faintly somewhere in the distance.
‘No. Absolutely not,’ I say a little too forcefully. ‘I mean…’ What do I mean? My mind is like scrambled egg… ‘Maybe. Yes.’ We probably should at least discuss the article. Gawd. Or perhaps not. ‘Actually, no. I’m busy at the moment.’
He raises his eyebrows as though he doesn’t believe me. ‘You are aware that you just gave every possible answer there is to that question.’
How did I not notice his blue eyes have flecks of gold in them?
‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea under the circumstances,’ booms Dolly.
She has appeared out of nowhere, with my ruby-red dress over her arm.
‘Here. It’s been dry-cleaned ready for tonight.
Krzystzof… I mean, the Maestro, has suggested you do not go out today in case any press are lurking. ’
Relief floods through me.
‘He’s not happy with either of you and doesn’t want any more unnecessary gossip.
He feels you are deliberately stealing the limelight from the Sinfonia.
So perhaps, Luke, being seen coming out of Constance’s hotel room wouldn’t be such a great idea.
’ Dolly hands me the dress and folds her beefy arms. She stands guard as though she’s a bouncer recently released from a ten-year stretch in the world’s toughest prison.
Unfazed, Luke gives us a little bow. ‘You’re quite right, Dolly. As always.’
They exchange a friendly look. ‘Connie says you saved her life last night when she was knocked into the road,’ Dolly says more softly. ‘That’s incredible. Thank God you were with her.’
Luke immediately blushes. ‘It was no big deal. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. If not me, someone else would have pulled her back. Or the bus might have swerved or something.’ He looks directly at me as though waiting for a response.
‘It was a big deal to me,’ I say, smiling up at him.
‘It’ll be an even bigger deal if the press get wind of it,’ says Dolly. ‘Especially when they realise who you are, Luke.’
I’m confused. ‘Who you are?’ I say, repeating Dolly. ‘What do you mean?’
Luke immediately turns into a Hugh Grant-type figure. ‘Ah. Righto. That’ll be my cue to leave. A hero’s work is never done. Lives to save and all that. Dolly, would you happen to know where my cape is? The one I use to fly, not the bulletproof one.’
I immediately burst out laughing, causing a smile to spread across his face. Dolly waits for him to walk down the corridor away from us before squinting at me.
‘What? That was funny,’ I say.
‘Just because he stopped you from falling under a bus, please don’t encourage him by flirting.
’ I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off.
‘He does this every time. He’ll reel you in.
Just because he’s filthy rich, and Norwegian royalty, he thinks he can get away with anything.
There’s always drama whenever he’s around.
Trust me.’ She spins on her heel and marches away, calling over her shoulder, ‘You’ll only end up with a broken heart, and the Sinfonia will have to begin searching for a replacement all over again. ’
* * *
So, after a lot of intensive searching on the internet, I have found out that Luke is not really Luke. He is from the House of Glucksburg on his father’s side and the Swedish Bernadotte dynasty on his mother’s, making him very posh and very titled.
‘He is distantly related to King Harald,’ Ged is telling me as we video chat.
He, too, is scouring the world wide web for pictures.
‘Here’s one of him with the Royal Family.
Our Royal Family! And here’s one of him skiing with the Beckhams. Oh, my God!
How did the Royal Northern Sinfonia even afford him for this tour?
Here’s one of him singing with Bono for charity. ’
It gets worse.
Luke has several titles and is actually called Count Nikolai Olav Magnus. Which Liam finds extremely sexy. ‘Jeez, he’s like the James Bond of opera.’
‘He sounds more like a Bond villain to me,’ says Ged. He is not warming to Luke in the slightest. ‘Never trust a Royal. Not even a Scandinavian one. That’s what they say.’
‘Literally no one has ever said that,’ I argue. But where do I go with this new information? It changes things. I feel like I should be learning to curtsy and walking around my room with books balanced on my head. My nerves are on end at the thought of singing with him tonight.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
It’s Tash. She wants to remind me that she is technically still sort of single because Sister Kevin, her bearded ‘nun’ from Benidorm, seems to be dragging his heels where pinning down an agreed relationship status is concerned, and she’d like to keep her options open.
She wants me to get David Beckham’s number from Luke. She is after a sugar daddy.
Not happening. Although, she has my every sympathy with the uncertainty around her and Kevin’s relationship status. Fixating on that can make any normal, easy-going woman borderline psychotic.
‘Why don’t you take your mind off it all and go shopping?’ suggests Ged.
‘I’d love to, but they’ve got me under a kind of house arrest,’ I explain.
‘That wouldn’t stop me,’ Ged says firmly.
He’s not wrong there. Who could forget the lengths he went to for that paisley Gucci tank top? Two wasted trips to London and a flight to Germany, in case you’re wondering.
‘Plus, you’d be helping the local economy,’ adds Liam before we end the call. ‘It’ll be fun. Just limit yourself to a few key pieces.’ This coming from the man who recently went out to buy gloves and returned four thousand pounds lighter.
This has all really thrown me. Which is a shame because I was looking forward to exploring Manchester today and going on a lovely shopping spree for outfits.
Romantic outfits for my romantic trip to Las Vegas to stay with Matteo.
A vision of his gorgeous face pops into my head.
Dark twinkling eyes with a thousand stories in them.
I lie back on the bed and conjure up images of Matteo and his dreamy smile.
He has a way of making music come alive, infused with his energy and passion.
He has a way of making me come alive, infused with his energy and passion.
I’ve never known anything like it. He is a man of many talents.
And I want to look nice for him when I get to America. Really nice.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Big Sue has heard that I am being illegally held against my will. She is a social worker and very high up. She is asking whether she should call her comrades in the Manchester office. Freedom, she reminds me, is the cornerstone of a civilised society.
One glance out of the hotel bedroom window tells me that not only is it perfect shopping weather out there, but that we are very central and Big Sue is right.
I can see the main high street from here.
It’s only across the square. A two-minute walk.
There are crowds of people. No one will notice if I slip out of the hotel to quickly try on a few see-through nightwear items or a glamorous showstopper dress for the stag do. I mean pre-moon spree.
I text Big Sue to confirm that Elvis is leaving the building.
Within minutes, I’ve slipped past reception, and I’m outside.
What a rush. I feel like a spy. Keeping my head down, I cross the square and head straight for the shops.
They are heaving with shoppers. And not one of them realises that I am in the newspapers today.
Involved in a salacious scandal that is not based on any truth whatsoever.
Me and two Royals, mixed up in a passionate Scandi love triangle.
One of whom saved my life. I must not get distracted. Especially not by singing dignitaries.
My phone pings, so I step to the side of the pavement to read it. It is as if Liberty senses my predicament. She has texted to ask if I am really fooling around with Prince Charming behind Matteo’s back. I tell her that I am not. Then she asks if Luke is single and, if so, to pass on her number.
I don’t think so.
I’m not sure why exactly, but I don’t want to do that. I’ve seen her ruin greater men than him. I’m not even sure Liberty, with her wandering vagina, is his type.
‘Hello.’
I glance up in shock to see Luke grinning down at me. He’s very tall. But then all Norwegians are. I briefly wonder if Big Sue is part Norwegian before snapping to my senses. How can this be possible? Luke was ordered to stay at the hotel and keep out of sight.
‘I followed you here,’ he says, answering my unasked question.
I frown in response. This is so not cool.
‘I followed you so that I could explain myself properly. Before we perform together tonight.’
‘Couldn’t you have simply waited until we leave for the theatre?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’ll know by now who I am. I don’t want this to put you off. It will affect the way we sing together. It always does.’
I take a moment to swallow. He’s not wrong.
‘I think we have chemistry, don’t you?’ He has a warmth and steadiness to him that makes what he is saying sound very provocative. ‘Our voices harmonise perfectly. I don’t want that to change.’
‘I’m fine, honestly.’ I raise my gaze to meet his. I can feel the heat rise up my neck. ‘It won’t affect my performance tonight.’
Oh, but it will.
For the first time since we met, his face lights up. ‘You were magnificent last night. Not just your voice but your whole… your whole being. It was like…’
I watch as he visibly struggles to find the right words to say. His eyes fly around before settling on mine, his arms out wide, palms up as though he’s about to burst into song. ‘It was like being on stage with the aurora borealis. You lit up the entire fucking theatre with your talent.’
I am literally going weak at the knees.
‘It was an honour to share the stage with you. And I’ve never said that to anyone. Believe me.’
I peer shyly up at him. I do believe him. I have yet to see him give anyone, apart from Dolly, the time of day.
Luke points to the café we’re standing outside of.
‘Coffee?’ He is gazing back at me in an impossibly engaging way.
The sort of way you’d react to a newborn puppy, eyes yet to open, poking its tongue out for the first time.
Ironically, between the two of us, he is the one now behaving out of character.
Maybe it is him who feels different around me.
But he’s dead right about one thing: we do have excellent chemistry on stage.
It’s making sure we don’t develop chemistry off stage that could be the problem.
‘What’s the harm?’ he says in the low, soothing voice of a man who doesn’t know when to give up. He casually puts his hands in his pockets, drawing attention to his athletic physique and slim legs.
And like I’m shaking myself out of a trance, I say, ‘That’s very kind but… it’s fine. There’s no need to explain, Your High— yourself. I don’t feel different around you.’
Lies! Lies! I almost called him Your Highness. I need to get a grip. ‘Besides, I have a lot of shopping to do,’ I say, readying myself for escape. ‘For outfits.’ I need to put some distance between us.
‘Need any assistance? I have a good eye for putting pieces together. Gucci, Versace, Armani. I have accounts with them all. They’d be happy to oblige you with a personal shopper to help speed things up.’
‘Hmmm.’ I pretend to consider it. ‘Do you have an account with George at Asda by any chance?’ I joke, trying to relieve the tension between us.
While Luke throws his head back to laugh, my mind fast-forwards to me trying on cheap, sexy thongs and lacy underwear from Primark. It’s a world away from what he’s used to, and I don’t need a personal shopper or any help for that. And God forbid the press catch us doing it.
‘Anyway, it’s not that kind of clothes shopping that I need to do,’ I blurt without thinking.
‘Stage costumes?’
I shake my head. ‘No. Just more, erm, personal items of…’ For the love of God.
And as though he is reading my mind, a smile tugs at his lips as his eyes twinkle with mischief. ‘Oh. I see. That just happens to be my area of expertise.’
If things weren’t awkward before, I am definitely making things awkward now. My cheeks are on fire. Actual flames.