‘I have high hopes this time,’ said Sophia with a smile.
Tara fixed her with a droll expression. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, but there won’t be a weekend in Barcelona.’
‘Why ever not?’
The possibility of Tara spending a long weekend with the man she had been dating for some weeks had been a source of much excited chatter between the two.
Tara frowned. ‘I just found him irritating.’
‘Like how?’
She shrugged. ‘I can’t say. Well, everything, really! He has this awful ring tone on his mobile that sets my teeth on edge every time it goes off.’
‘I knew it!’ Sophia’s eyes blazed triumphantly. ‘Just the same as the last guy. You didn’t like the way he did his tie.’
‘Well, it wasn’t a Windsor knot!’
‘And the man before, the soldier from Kent—what was that all about?’
‘Yes, I know.’ Tara grimaced. ‘Hector halitosis.’
‘You don’t think that you’re being just a little bit too picky?’ asked Sophia.
‘How can you kiss a man with breath like smoked haddock?’ she demanded, before turning her attention very deliberately back to the post.
A short while later, she had taken a greatly reduced pile of correspondence through to the Queen.
‘This is my favourite for the day,’ she said, handing over a copy of the latest edition of Racing News.
‘Ah, the magazine I was given the other week from . . .’ Her Majesty waved her hand vaguely towards the back of the palace.
‘Rajeev Sharma,’ confirmed Tara. ‘He’s written a note with this one. Something along the lines that seeing you were so interested in the last issue of the magazine, it would be his honour to offer you a free annual subscription.’
‘I see.’
The Queen glanced over to where Huchens was overseeing a routine bug-sweep of the offices. A subversive gleam appeared in her eye. ‘Well,’ she said, more loudly than she needed, ‘that’s kind of him, but I can’t accept. Perhaps the two of us should pay him a visit. It’s such a lovely afternoon. We can pay for the subscription.’
Huchens cleared his throat importantly. ‘I would strongly advise against that, ma’am,’ he rumbled, approaching where the Queen was sitting. ‘We have no idea who this Sharma fellow is—if that’s his real name. There’s been no ID clearance. No premises check.’
‘We could take the puppy,’ proposed Tara, playing along with Her Majesty. ‘I’m sure he’ll be better behaved this time.’
Huchens colour was rapidly deepening.
‘Good idea!’ the Queen chimed in.
‘I’m sorry, but for security reasons I can’t allow it!’ Huchens’ anguish at having to veto Her Majesty’s plans was evident in his crimson cheeks. ‘The consequences,’ he declared, ‘could be catastrophic!’
CHAPTER 4
A question may well have arisen in your mind over the previous three chapters. Having established at the outset that my name is Nelson and that the Queen had me rescued as a puppy, you may be wondering how exactly I was assigned that name. And why?
Am I named after that heroic figure of British naval history, Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson, who stands to this day atop a column in London’s Trafalgar Square, just down the Mall from Buckingham Palace? Did Her Majesty detect in me qualities of inspiring leadership or strategic insight that made her think instantly of one of the most illustrious figures in British history? Or was there some other reason?
I could tell you that the reason I have been holding out on this particular tale is for reasons of chronological accuracy. It did take some months for me to be named, the feeling in the royal household being that doing things well is generally more important than doing things quickly. But chronological accuracy wasn’t the only or most important reason for waiting until now.
When I think about what I’ve told you so far, I realise that my story is something of a catalogue of failure—urinating on the floorboards of Buckingham Palace; breaking free of Her Majesty’s security detachment thereby putting the Queen’s very safety at risk. How would you like to be the subject of such embarrassing admissions?
Sadly, those tales are innocuous compared to the one I am about to relate. As a puppy—or, in your case, as a child—you are forgiven for the occasional indiscretion or lapse of judgment. You are still finding your way in the world. As an adolescent, however, you are expected to know better. You are supposed to show a bit of control and, in royal circles, decorum. Your hormones may be kicking in, but that’s no excuse to behave like some crazed, rutting beast.