Secrets of a Teenage Heiress. Katy Birchall

you’d like,’ Mum continued. Cal’s eyes widened.

      ‘Why would you want to meet him?’ I crossed my arms, annoyed that the conversation was moving away from the problem in hand. ‘Isn’t he just the guy who married that actress, Helena Montaine?’

      Hotel Royale was one of Helena Montaine’s favourite places to dine, so she was often here for big meetings with famous directors or with her new husband, Nicholas Huntley, and her daughter and step-daughter, the It Girls Marianne Montaine and Anna Huntley. It was always a big deal when they were in the building, as there would be hordes of paparazzi outside waiting to get a photo. Famous people stay at the hotel all the time, but Mum was particularly friendly with Helena and her husband. I often saw her enjoying a drink with them in the cocktail bar, talking about really boring topics that no one cares about, like the news and stuff.

      ‘Nicholas Huntley happens to be the greatest journalist of all time,’ Cal said pompously. ‘And he’s written some of the most important books about war weaponry there have ever been. His book on tanks won the Baillie Gifford Prize.’

      I yawned as he finished his sentence. There is seriously no one in the world as boring as Cal Weston. Except maybe this Nicholas Huntley person and his tank books.

      ‘Tell me, Callum,’ Mum said, abruptly standing up and straightening her white tailored jacket. ‘Do you spend your evenings vlogging?’

      ‘Uh.’ Cal looked confused. ‘No. It’s not really my thing.’

      ‘You see, Flick?’ Mum looked back down at me. ‘Cal doesn’t vlog.’

      ‘That’s because he has nothing interesting to say,’ I protested, as Cal rolled his eyes. ‘It’s me the people want to know about.’

      ‘We’ll talk about this later. You’ll have to do without the selfie stick for one night. And so will Fritz.’

      ‘But Mu–’

      ‘End of discussion, Flick,’ Mum said firmly. ‘Now, I’ve got another meeting to get to. Good to see you, Callum. Keep up the hard work.’

      She patted Cal on the shoulder and walked back across the reception hall and through the revolving doors to her car waiting outside.

      ‘You’re starting a vlog?’ Cal sniggered. ‘About what?’

      ‘About my life,’ I huffed. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

      ‘Why would anyone want to know about your life?’

      ‘Excuse me, I featured on the Daily Post ’s “50 Heirs to Watch” list. So there.’

      ‘Yeah, you came in at number forty-nine,’ he said as he walked away. ‘Real impressive.’

      I glared at his back, then stomped loudly towards the lift with Fritz, ignoring the raised eyebrows of Audrey and Matthew, and prodded the button for Floor 15. Leaning against the back mirror of the lift, I cuddled Fritz as the blinking light passed the other floor numbers.

      The whole thing was completely ridiculous and totally unfair. Just because Prince Gustav Xavier III is a prince, it doesn’t mean he can go around stealing stuff. And, what’s more, HE’S NOT EVEN A REAL PRINCE! The monarchy in his country hasn’t properly existed since FOREVER, but he still swans about the place using the ‘prince’ title, going to the best parties and stealing other people’s selfie sticks.

      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!