A Royal Wedding(79)
It was no good. Whatever she did there was no way that the dress she had borrowed from Molly Evans was going to hide the bulges that came from several years’ worth of snatched meals and sitting hunched over a computer terminal for twelve hours every day of the week.
Molly was a lovely lady, and had been very generous to offer her the use of a dress for the conference dinner. The grey business suit was fine for daywear, but people were bound to notice if she was to wear it again for the dinner that evening, and then all the next day—even longer if her missing suitcase did not turn up.
She turned quickly from side to side with her arms out stretched, and watched in relief as the silky fabric of the maxi-dress slid loosely over her hips.
That only left one problem area.
Kate tugged at the side of the dress and tried to hitch it up a little further, but her generous bosom had already filled all the spare fabric. Worse, an enormous shell-pink passion flower now covered her left breast, creating a very different type of eye-catching design.
Options … Come on, Kate, she told herself. Time to get creative! That’s what they pay you for.
Kate flung open the wardrobe door and gazed at the meagre contents of the rails. She blinked several times at the pathetic range of lingerie she always carried in her hand luggage, right to left and back again, pulled each item out and held it against the dress—and instantly noticed how the shell-pink of her fitted pyjama top matched the shade of pink in the dress almost exactly.
The pyjama jacket might just work as a make-do bolero top. It just might.
Even if she was going to be in the presence of dignitaries and royalty. Including several princes. And one in particular.
Kate’s left hand pressed hard against the wardrobe to support her weight.
Simon was Prince of a Ghanaian village and was going to be crowned King in a few days.
Her Simon. A king. A king!
That afternoon she had sat in the front row of the conference room as Paul talked through slide after slide of stunning colour pictures of the village where he had been born and had spent his life, and the amazing countryside which surrounded it. Dazzling photographs of wide tranquil lakes covered with water lilies had been followed by shots of thick jungle forest land, backed up by cliffs with spectacular cascading waterfalls.
It looked a magical and awe-inspiring place, made real by the people Paul and Simon shared their lives with.
To her eyes Simon had dominated every scene, whether he was carrying bricks for the half-built tiny schoolroom, or balancing on a couple of rusty oil drums to repair a leaking roof in the middle of a tropical downpour. It was Simon who had leapt out at her from the photos of tribal leaders in their ceremonial robes, coming together to celebrate the opening of the first solar energy unit. His pride of being part of their community had shone out.
The presentation had been a revelation, and had earned both Paul and Simon a standing ovation from the entire conference.
Wow. Something that felt an awful lot like pride welled up inside her, and she blinked away the prick of tears in the corner of her eyes. Allergies. Must be her allergies.
Of course he had always been the golden boy, expected to take over his father’s company when he left university. Shame that his family had had no idea that the business had serious financial problems—how could they? His father had not told them about the trouble he was in—not even when he was flying all over Africa investigating alternative technology initiatives.
Sometimes she’d used to wonder how things would have turned out for them if Simon’s father had not become so obsessed with this amazing country. But she had played the ‘what-if’ game too many times and the result was always the same—his father was dead and it was too late to turn back the clock. She and Simon had been student lovers, that was all—happened all the time. You met someone at college and then you had to grow up and go out and live your life.
But with Simon it was different.
This time Simon was going to be a king—not because of some inheritance, but because he had earned that honour through his own investment and hard work. His father might have sparked the original idea for a digital communication centre, but it was Simon who had made that dream a reality by his own sweat and his constant drive to find sponsorship and support from any organisation or charity with the resources he needed.
There was no point in denying it. She was proud of him.
Kate pushed her arms into the sleeves of her pyjama top, took one final glance in the full-length mirror and twirled from side to side, then lifted her hair up into a loose twist.