Free The Runaway Princess by Hester Browne

the rest to do yourself? Or, ‘Oh dear, Grace, only one of your wishes is going to come true’? We need to get her onside.”
    “Stop it!” I bit my lip and glanced down to the footwell, where Badger was curled up on my spare sweater. “I could tell her that Badger was running around and they got knocked off? Because both those things happened … just not necessarily at the same time.”
    Badger cocked his ears, as if to say,
That’s right, blame me,
and I felt bad. Gran hadn’t entrusted her beloved dog to me so I could use him as an excuse for out-of-control minor royalty.
    “Well,
my
suggestion is that you just find some more plants and substitute them,” said Ted, as if I hadn’t heard the first twenty times he’d told me that. “And if she notices, which I doubt, then call me and I’ll talk her round.”
    I glanced across at him incredulously.
    “Okay,” he amended, seeing my expression. “If she notices, we’ll call Jo, and she can talk Grace round. She’ll probably end up booking her to refurbish her kitchen at the same time, knowing Jo.”
    I gripped the steering wheel and checked my mirrors like a fighter pilot before pulling out into the quiet residential road, lined with big 4x4s and old trees. Ted frequently teased me about my methodical approach to driving, but I had to center myself before tackling the mad London traffic. I’d learned to drive in the quiet country roads near our house, and it had taken me a few months to get past the Fear of Hyde Park Corner, but now, in my van, I was like Boadicea. No bus or cab cut into my lane. Oh no.
    “Did you enjoy the party?” I asked as we headed toward the recycling center.
    “It was all right,” Ted grunted, which I took as high praise. “At least there’s enough to eat now you’re on board. Used to be just Pringles and those weird olives at Jo’s. Now at least you get something to soak up the booze.”
    I beamed. “Thanks! Do you want any more sausage rolls, by the way? We’ve still got a few left over.”
    Ted had taken two dozen mini sausage rolls off our hands as he left on Saturday night. There were still another seven dozen in the freezer. I’d started to give Badger two a day on the quiet, rather than chuck them out, and they were making the footwell smell somewhat fruity.
    “If they’re going spare.” There was a pause, which I thought was down to Ted reflecting on the succulence of my sausage rolls, but then he blurted out, “Do girls really like guys like that total idiot?”
    “Which total idiot?”
    “That … idiot Rolf.” He looked pained. “I can’t believe Jo likes him.”
    “Him? No!” I said. “Absolutely not. She
refuses
to take his calls.”
    I thought I was being tactful, but Ted’s crestfallen face told me I’d actually put my foot in it.
    “He’s been calling her?”
    I bit my lip to stop myself blurting out something worse. Rolf had been
bombarding
her with calls. There were nine unlistened-to messages on our answering machine, and so many on her mobile that she’d turned it off for a while. I’d never known Jo to turn off her mobile. She even kept it on during weddings and funerals. (Silent vibrate, obviously.)
    I hurried to fill the awkward gap. “Just to apologize, I think. She certainly doesn’t want to talk to him. Jo’s as upset about the plants as I am, I mean, as we are. She reckons it’s the height of rudeness, someone kicking someone else’s dreams off a balcony.”
    Ted snorted, then ran a hand through his curly hair, which, to be honest, could have done with a wash. But then, neither of us was in fragrant condition after a morning’s hard labor.
    “Do you want to talk about … anything?” I started. I was a good listener; Jo often said I’d have made a great talk show host, or policewoman: I didn’t say a lot, but I had one of those faces that made people admit the most personal things without meaning to.
    “No,” said Ted unhappily, “I don’t.”
    That in itself told