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Secrets of a Teenage Heiress
Secrets of a Teenage Heiress

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Secrets of a Teenage Heiress

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That was when the idea hit me. He wasn’t actually using the selfie stick right now because he was at afternoon tea with his aunt! Mum had said it had been left out for him for when he got back. So I could sneak into his suite, grab the selfie stick, take it back to my room for Fritz’s photo shoot and then if Prince Gustav needed it later, he could come and ask and I might be inclined to lend it to him. I congratulated myself out loud to Fritz on such an excellent plan. He barked in agreement.

All I had to do was break into Mum’s office in the flat and get hold of her master key, which opens every room in the hotel. And that was a doddle. I’d had a key cut for her office without her knowing when I was nine. I would be in and out of Prince Gustav’s room in a matter of seconds without anyone noticing. Easy.


Obviously now that I was hiding inside Prince Gustav’s wardrobe while he pouted in what he referred to as a ‘mysterious yet alluring way’, I regretted that decision.

I had been so close to victory. I’d had the selfie stick in my hands when I heard a booming voice echoing down the corridor. I had run to the door to check through the peephole and, sure enough, there was Prince Gustav, striding towards me, arguing with one of his many security guards about the pros and cons of social media.

I quickly threw the selfie stick back down and, after running about the room in a panic, I clambered into the wardrobe and crouched back as far as possible.

Attempting to get comfortable without making any noise, I realised that the chances of my mum finding out about this were really quite high. If Prince Gustav decided to don different outfits for his new Instagram account, which, judging by his levels of enthusiasm, was highly likely, I was busted.

My only hope was that Prince Gustav might have to rush off to a party or something, leaving the coast clear.

‘Keep this up, Your Royal Highness, and you’ll have more Instagram followers by the end of the day than all the Kardashians put together!’

I sighed as Prince Gustav pulled the bouquet of flowers out of the vase on the dressing table and struck a rose-sniffing pose.

‘Very creative, Your Highness!’ Freddie cheered. ‘Something for the ladies!’

That was when disaster struck.

The dulcet tones of Fritz’s high-pitched bark went off in my pocket: my text alert. I had forgotten to put my phone on silent and I was suddenly getting a flurry of messages. Who was texting me this much? I reached for my phone but it was too late.

I heard quick footsteps and someone yell, ‘GET BACK, YOUR HIGHNESS,’ before the wardrobe doors were dramatically swung open and I found myself squinting up at the prince’s burly security men.

‘Hi,’ I squeaked, ducking my head to look through their legs at Prince Gustav, who was standing against the back wall with a security guard shielding him, the selfie stick still swinging from his hand and the flowers scattered all over the floor. ‘Welcome to Hotel Royale, Prince Gustav. I’m Flick.’

He blinked back at me in shocked silence.

‘Great pictures, by the way. Instagram won’t know what’s hit it.’

Yep. Mum was definitely going to kill me.

Flick! OMG I had to text you straight away. You’ll never believe what just happened to me! Are you there?

Flick? Are you there? Helloooooo!

OK, I’ll just tell you anyway. I was just in the garden talking to Mum and A BIRD LANDED ON MY HEAD

Seriously, it just landed right on there!!! I didn’t even have any food on my head or anything, it just perched there! According to Dad it was a sparrow. I’ll send you all the pics now! Mum took a hundred of them! Enjoy!

Hey Grace, sorry for the late reply.

Got myself in a bit of an awkward situation here involving a prince.

Talk later

OMG your life is so cool compared to mine. You’re hanging out with royalty and I’ve spent the evening with a bird on my head!! Oh well. At least it didn’t poop in my hair! See you at school!


‘Fan. Demand?’

That’s how my mum spoke those words, as though there was a full stop between them. She always speaks like that when she’s really angry – no long sentences but every word coming out of her mouth is said veeeeery sloooooowly to make sure her victim feels as nervous as possible. Luckily, I’m pretty immune to that tone these days.

‘Yes.’ I nodded, folding my arms and wondering how long this was going to take. This whole selfie-stick debacle had taken up most of my evening already.

Mum looked at Audrey and Matthew – both of whom were standing a few metres away watching the proceedings – supposedly to see if either of them had any comments at this stage. Neither of them said anything, so she turned back to face me.

Fritz was there too, lying across my feet, which is this weird thing he does. I don’t mind it because if I’m not wearing shoes it keeps my feet warm, which is handy, but sometimes I forget he’s there and get up to do something and he suddenly tips off and goes rolling across the floor. I would find those occasions funny if he didn’t get in such a strop with me afterwards.

‘Just so I’m clear,’ Mum began, leaning back on her desk, ‘“fan demand” is . . . your explanation?’

‘Yeah.’ I shrugged. ‘Otherwise none of this would have happened.’

‘What. Do. You. Mean?’

‘I tried explaining this to you earlier but you refused to listen.’ I sighed. ‘I had to upload a new post on to Fritz’s Instagram feed at 5.30 p.m. That’s when I had promised his legion of fans that the next photo would be up. I didn’t want to let them down! It would be like that time Matthew promised he’d get me front-row tickets for Cirque du Soleil at the last minute but it wasn’t his priority and I ended up in Row F behind some stupid lady with a topknot.’

Matthew gave a small cough. I smiled graciously at him.

‘Don’t worry, Matthew, you forgive and forget.’

‘Go. On. With. The. Story,’ Mum growled. Seriously, someone get the lady a Strepsil.

‘Well, I couldn’t upload the photo without the selfie stick. It just wouldn’t have worked with the rest of the vibe of Fritz’s feed. It’s very specific and artistic. And I didn’t have any appropriate stock photos I could use instead. So I was just going to pop in to see Prince Gustav, ask for the selfie stick for five minutes and that would be that! But he wasn’t there.’

‘So you just . . . decided to break in and steal it?’ Mum asked slowly.

‘You know, when you say it like that, it really sounds a lot worse than it was. I mean, technically Prince Gustav stole the stick from me.’

Mum closed her eyes for a moment and let out a long, deep sigh.

Seizing the opportunity, I pulled out my phone, checking for messages. Thankfully there were no more photos of Grace with a bird on her head. There was just one from Ella reminding me that I’d borrowed her mascara at school yesterday and could she have it back. Ella can be so whiny when she wants to be. Which is a LOT of the time.

‘I guess we’re done here,’ I said, preparing to stand up.

‘Not. Quite.’

I slumped back into the seat. Mum walked slowly around the desk to sit down in the large leather chair behind it. She put her head back and looked up at the ceiling before ever so slowly lowering her eyes back down to meet mine. Talk about dramatic.

‘Mum, I really have to get back to my friend. It’s important.’ I waved my phone about.

‘I’m sure the important business of a fourteen-year-old can wait while we try to get to the bottom of why you took it upon yourself to break into Prince Gustav’s hotel room.’

‘I told you, to get my selfie stick. Mum, were you even listening? I just explained the whole thing.’

‘Did I or did I not ask you to do without it. For. One. Night?’

‘I was going to put it back,’ I pointed out. ‘Mum, no offence, but you’re kind of overreacting.’

Mum pinched the top of her nose, which is a signal that she is concentrating. Hard.

It is highly dangerous to interrupt her when she is pinching the top of her nose. I know this because I once interrupted her pinching the top of her nose at a cashpoint. She’d had a mind blank about her PIN and all I did was point out that she was being really embarrassing standing in the street, pinching the top of her nose. According to her, she had been this close to remembering her pin but my ‘loud’ interruption had disturbed her and so her card got swallowed. She spent the next few days droning on and on about how frustrating it was to be waiting for a new debit card and then giving me pointed looks. The word ‘scapegoat’ comes to mind.

Whatever, I selflessly let that one go. But I know now never to interrupt the weird, nose-pinching thing.

I began texting Ella back while I waited for Mum to conclude her nose-pinching, but stopped when Audrey gave a not-so-subtle ‘ahem’, and waggled her eyebrows at me. I put my phone back in my pocket.

‘I want you to listen to me very carefully, Felicity,’ Mum began, lowering her hand and opening her eyes. ‘You are going to go and see Prince Gustav – NOT when you decide, Audrey will book an appointment with him – and you will be on time for the appointment and you will apologise profusely for your behaviour and assure him that nothing like this will ever happen again. Is that clear?’

‘Crystal. Audrey, let me know a time that suits. Can I go now?’

‘I’m. Not. Finished.’ Mum clasped her hands together, resting them on the desk. ‘You will be grounded for two weeks.’

‘WHAT?’ I sat upright, disturbing Fritz who snarled loudly. ‘You can’t do that! It’s Ella’s party next week!’

‘I can do that, and you’re lucky it’s only two weeks and not longer. In addition, you will help around the hotel in whatever way Audrey and Matthew see fit. If you’re going to be stuck here every evening, you might as well make yourself useful.’

‘Are you serious?’ I looked at her in disbelief. ‘Like . . . chores?’

Audrey stifled a laugh. Traitor.

‘Yes, chores. I suggest you begin by helping the catering team in the kitchen. I’m sure they have some dishes that need washing. You can start right now.’

‘Well, what am I supposed to tell Ella?’ I huffed. ‘She was counting on me going to her party.’

‘You can tell her that your mother is punishing you because you broke into the room of Prince Gustav Xavier III and you’re lucky he’s not pressing charges.’ She stood up and gestured towards the door, indicating the end of the conversation. ‘I’m sure Ella will be able to handle your absence from her party with grace and understanding.’

I snorted.

Clearly, Mum had never met Ella before. Last time she invited me to one of her ‘exclusive’ sleepovers, I couldn’t go because my aunt was over from New York. I’ve never been invited to one again.

‘What about Fritz?’ I argued, after the party plea didn’t work.

‘What about Fritz?’

‘I need to walk him and stuff.’

‘You can fit that in around your chores. Or you can ask Jamie if he will kindly take him on an extra-long walk during the day.’

Jamie was one of the sommeliers and also Fritz’s daytime walker. He was mad about dogs and offered to walk Fritz when Mum had just bought him and was working out what to do with him while I was at school. Apparently, Jamie likes to discuss the new wines he introduces to the menu with Fritz on his daily walks to the park – it helps him remember all the details about the vintages and vineyards.

‘Audrey,’ Mum continued, ‘if you could accompany Flick down to the kitchens and explain the situation to Chef, I would be very grateful. I have to make an appearance at an event in the ballroom. And if someone could pick her up from the kitchen and escort her back to our flat in an hour, I would also appreciate it.’

‘I am not a child,’ I hissed, sweeping Fritz up from the floor into my arms, and stomping to the door.

Mum raised her eyebrows. ‘You could have fooled me.’

Audrey waited for me to drop Fritz back off at the flat and then walked me down to the kitchen. Chef was running around trying to prepare everything for dinner and, after a brief word with Audrey, he welcomed me to his team and pointed at the pile of dirty pots stacked next to a large sink in the far corner.

‘You’ll be out of everyone’s way there.’ He smiled, with a wink at Audrey.

I shot them both a dirty look before Chef gave me the thumbs up and sped off to season a sauce. Audrey put her hand on my shoulder.

‘It’s not that bad,’ she said soothingly. ‘I’ll be back for you in an hour. Try to stay out of trouble until then.’

I shook her hand off and stropped over to the sink, eyeing up the repulsive neon orange washing-up gloves. I held one of them up for inspection.

‘Ew.’ I sniffed and looked around. A young chef was rushing past holding a ladle. ‘Excuse me!’ She came to a screeching halt.

‘Yes?’

‘Are these the only gloves you have?’

‘Sorry?’

‘For the washing-up,’ I explained impatiently. ‘Don’t you have any other types? Any other colours?’

‘No, those are the ones we all use.’

‘Fine.’ I slapped the gloves down on the side. ‘I just won’t use them.’

‘Uh.’ She looked about, unsure. ‘We . . . we have to use them. It’s health and safety.’

‘They’re disgusting. I’m not using them.’

‘Put those on, please, Flick, no argument! You don’t want me to report bad behaviour to the boss, do you?’ Chef appeared out of nowhere. ‘Ah, there you are, Sasha. I’ve been waiting on that ladle. Come along, we mustn’t disturb Flick. She has a big job with those pots.’

Sasha shot me a sympathetic look before she scurried after him holding up the ladle dutifully. I should have known Chef Kian would find this all one big joke; he always liked a good laugh at my expense. I carefully slid on the orange gloves and, letting out a long drawn-out sigh, I leaned forwards to work out how to turn on the large rinsing tap.

‘Well, well, well, look who it is.’

I reluctantly turned to face Cal Weston, who was grinning gleefully at me, a spoon in one hand and a bowl of strawberry mousse in the other.

‘It’s been a while since you graced the kitchens with your presence.’

‘Stalking is a crime, you know,’ I said angrily, reaching for the washing-up liquid. ‘It’s sad that you just follow me around.’

‘I was here first. If anyone’s following anyone, it’s you following me.’

‘Why are you even down here? Don’t you ever go home?’

‘The kitchen is the best place to be. It’s the land of free food.’ He took a large mouthful of mousse. ‘We used to hang out here all the time before you got too good for it.’

‘I did not get too good for it, I just got a life.’ I began to scrub the biggest pot in the pile. ‘Unlike some people I know.’

‘Ouch! You are such a hothead.’

‘I am NOT a hothead,’ I seethed. Cal always teased me about being a hot-tempered redhead, even though I continually corrected him that my hair wasn’t red, it was auburn. And at least my hair looked like it had been brushed once in a while, unlike the bird’s nest he was sporting on top of his head.

‘I heard on the grapevine that you have an appointment with Prince Gustav,’ he commented.

I scrubbed harder at the stubborn grease around the side of the pot. ‘That’s right. He’s trying to suck up to me so he can get an invite to the Christmas Ball.’

‘Oh, the Christmas Ball. Nothing to do with you having to apologise about hiding in his wardrobe then?’

I ignored him and concentrated on my impossible task. The washing-up was going to take me all night at this rate.

‘I need a favour.’

I laughed, not bothering to look up. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes.’

The sincerity of Cal’s voice took me by surprise. I turned to look at him and saw he was watching me carefully, an earnest expression on his face. I put down the pot, turned off the tap and folded my arms, pretending not to care that the washing-up liquid mixed with water and grease was now dripping from the gloves down my clothes.

‘What favour?’

‘It’s for a competition I’m entering.’ He put down the bowl and got out his phone, showing me the website page for Young Journalist of the Year. ‘I need to write a feature that will stand out. The winners are announced just before Christmas.’

‘So? What’s that got to do with me?’

‘An interview with Prince Gustav would definitely stand out. Maybe you could mention it to him when you go for this meeting,’ he said hopefully.

I burst out laughing and swivelled back to the sink, turning on the tap and picking up the pot again.

‘What’s so funny?’ he asked, shoving his phone into his pocket.

‘Well, for one thing, you’re a teenager, so the chances of Prince Gustav giving you an exclusive interview are slim. And for another thing, you’ve spent the whole day – no, wait, the last few years – being rude to me, so I’m not going to risk looking like an idiot in front of him for you.’

‘I think you managed to look like an idiot in front of him all by yourself today,’ he snapped.

‘I know, why don’t you write a feature about hanging out at a hotel for no reason, getting in everyone’s way and annoying everyone in sight?’

He didn’t say anything as I reached for more washing-up liquid, squirting as much as possible across the pot until the sink was full of bubbles.

‘Forget I said anything,’ he said quietly, picking up his bowl and turning away.

‘Cal, wait.’

He stopped.

‘Don’t say anything at school about me washing-up, OK?’ I shook some bubbles off the gloves. ‘It’s not exactly a great look.’

He glared down at the floor and shook his head before walking off. I had no idea if that meant he’d tell people or not, but I wasn’t that worried. Even if he did it’s not like anyone would listen.

My arm got tired from all the scrubbing so I turned off the water and pulled off the gloves. I wiped my brow and looked down at my handiwork. Somehow I had managed to splash water everywhere and I hadn’t even finished one pot. How does anyone have the time for this sort of thing?

I looked at my phone in case I had any messages: none. I put it down on the side and looked around to find something else to distract me. I spotted a door a few metres from where I was and remembered that it used to be some sort of pantry. Chef would always find me sitting in there in my pyjamas, stuffing myself with chocolate. I smiled as I remembered how I used to try to pretend I’d accidentally locked myself in there, but the chocolate all over my hands would give me away. Chef found it hilarious and would slip me a cookie before sending me back upstairs to bed.

I checked that no one was looking in my direction – they were all busy running around, paying no attention to me. I crept over to the door and pulled it open. Just as I remembered, it was lined with shelves bursting with baking supplies, and at the back there was a massive chocolate cake. Moving forwards to inspect the cake properly, the door, which had been propped open with the back of my foot, shut behind me. I tried the light switch but the bulb must have been broken. I went to push open the door again but it wouldn’t budge.

Oh no.

I threw all my weight against the door but it was firmly shut. I cursed myself for leaving my phone on the side; I could have really used the torch.

‘Hello? Chef ?’ I called out, pressed against the door.

No one came.

Feeling my way to the back of the pantry, I sat down and waited. I put my head in my hands. This was a disaster. Chef would tell Mum and who knows what sort of job she might give me next? Spider catcher? Shower cleaner? Listen to Matthew talk about the room booking system? I shuddered and hoped that that Sasha person might come this way again looking for another ladle, realise that I was gone and put two and two together. She seemed nice. A problem-solver.

After a few minutes of nothing happening, the thought crossed my mind that I might actually die in this pantry.

How depressing.

In order for that not to happen any time soon I would need sustenance and I could smell the chocolate cake on the shelf, right next to my head. I carefully felt for the silver tray that it was sitting on and pulled it out to place it gently on the floor. There was no doubt that this cake was for some kind of occasion or event – Chef wouldn’t just be keeping a cake in here for no reason. I would have to make sure I didn’t spoil it. I remembered that when I’d seen it from the door, there had been some kind of message on the top layer, spelled out in small white chocolate buttons. With my eyes adjusting to the dark, I could make out the white buttons scattered across the top. I began to pick a few off, careful not to take too many, confident that Chef wouldn’t notice a few less chocolate buttons. They were delicious.

Suddenly the door swung open and light poured into the room. ‘And in here, Boss, is the polo team cake itself !’

I heard gasps and then my mum’s voice broke the silence. ‘Flick?’

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Chef, aghast. ‘Some things never change.’

I blinked up at them. ‘Finally! I was running out of oxygen.’

I scrambled to my feet.

‘Someone needs to fix that light,’ I instructed. ‘And what is the point of having ugly washing-up gloves for health and safety, if you have dodgy doors that lock people in pantries?’

‘You just turn the handle,’ Chef explained, looking confused.

I glanced down at the door handle. I could have sworn it hadn’t been there before. But then I didn’t remember searching the door, just pushing against it. Whoops. Oh well, I’d better run with it.

‘It’s broken,’ I insisted. ‘Anyway, I’ll get back to my washing-up now. I was really getting into it.’

I darted past Mum to the sink and began to battle with the washing-up gloves again. After a few moments, I heard footsteps behind me.

‘Flick, would you mind turning round for a moment, please?’

I grimaced at Mum’s stern tone and slowly swivelled to face her.

The cake had been placed on top of the work surface and Mum was standing on one side of it with her arms crossed and Chef was standing on the other with his hands on his hips, a team of young chefs gathering behind him.

‘Hey, everyone.’ I waved my glove slightly overenthusiastically, spraying Chef with water. ‘Oops, sorry.’ I laughed. Chef did not laugh back. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve.

‘What’s up?’ I asked innocently.

‘Well, you see, Chef and his pastry team have been toiling long and hard to create this splendid cake for Great Britain’s polo team. They have an important tournament coming up and they’re holding a party for it this evening here at the Royale, in the ballroom.’

‘Cool.’ I nodded. ‘Good luck to them.’

‘Interesting choice of words,’ Mum said calmly. ‘Chef, would you be so kind as to inform my daughter what the top of the cake said after you painstakingly arranged mini chocolate buttons to spell it out in an intricate calligraphy style?’

‘“Good Luck, Polo Team”,’ Chef grumbled.

‘Thank you, Chef. Flick, did you, by any chance, help yourself to some of the chocolate buttons when you were stuck in the pantry for all of five minutes?’

‘I may have had a few,’ I admitted. ‘I didn’t know how long I was going to be in there! I thought I might starve!’

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