The Runaway Princess Read Online Free PDF Page A

plate of sausage rolls and Dickon immediately launched into a long story of how he’d been using egg-white paint mix in his quest for artistic authenticity and was, as a result, eating a lot of custard with the leftover yolks. I got about four words in over the course of twenty minutes, but while I was nodding sympathetically I put away about three cups of St. Peter’s Punch, a cocktail Jo had found in a vintage party guide (heavenly ingredient: Benedictine and brandy, plenty of it). I had a very effective Party Listening expression, honed over many years, and before long Dickon was confessing that he’d actually based all the tiny demons in his painting on everyone who’d ever made fun of his name over the years. (There were a lot.)
    Meanwhile, the doorbell buzzed again and again, shrieks of delight heralded each fresh arrival, and gradually Dickon and I were forced farther into the kitchen by the wave of newcomers, all in the weirdest outfits. I’d assumed most guests would just wear normal clothes with horns or a halo, but Jo’s friends never wore normal clothes if they could wear sequined hot pants and a pig mask instead. There was a golfer, a butcher, a man dressed as a pole dancer (I think it was his idea of heaven, but coincidentally a little glimpse of hell for everyone else), three Britney Spearses at various ages, and a Bono.
    At ten, Jo fought her way through the Three Ages of Britney Spears girls clogging the doorway, with a desperate look on her face and her mobile in her hand. I could barely hear her over the noise of pop music and theatrical flirting.
    “I’ve got to nip out,” she yelled, pointing at the phone. “Maternal crisis. Marigold’s saying she thinks she might have left the gas on in the flat downstairs.”
    “What? You’re kidding!” My mouth went dry. “Should we call the—?”
    Jo shook her head. “Don’t panic—probably just one of her ploys to get me to go down there ASAP. You know Marigold. Such a drama farmer. Bet you anything that once I’m in there she’ll suddenly ‘remember’ some handbag she needs couriering to wherever she is this weekend. Listen, I won’t be long. Get out there and do some hosting. Ted’s just arrived. He’s come as a Mafia don or Don Draper from
Mad Men
, I can’t tell which.”
    I wasn’t sure which was making me feel more panicky— Marigold “probably” turning the house into a giant bomb, or having to take charge of the heaving throng in our sitting room.
    “Is everything okay in there? It sounds quite loud,” I said anxiously .
    “That’s what a great party sounds like, you plank.” Jo flapped her hand. “Get in there and mingle! See if Max’s here yet! That’ll make you look more confident.”
    And she was gone.
    Come on, Amy,
I told myself sternly.
You’ve met most of these people before. You’re the hostess. You’ve got to get out there, for the sausage rolls’ sake, if nothing else.
    I nudged my way out between Schoolgirl Britney and Saucy Cabin Crew Britney, canapé platter ahead of me like a shield. I’d managed to get rid of three sausage rolls and had sighted Ted by the big window, being chatted up by a miniskirted nun, when there was a loud commotion by the door. My head spun to take it in and I nearly dropped the tray in shock.
    A ridiculously handsome man was striking a magazine pose in the doorway, his hands braced against the doorframe and his head thrown back as if caught in a strong gust of wind, all the better for his mane of brown hair to fall away from his face. I say ridiculously handsome: his face was
so
tanned and symmetrical and model-perfect that he didn’t look quite real. He was wearing a striped shirt that reminded me of hard candies, and a pair of tight red jeans. Very tight red jeans. Too tight, actually.
    Behind him were three tall blond girls in black bandage dresses who’d clearly come from at least one other party, because when he stopped to pose in the doorway, they carried on marching in