Her mother hadn’t been joking when she said the house had been empty for a while. When Olivia stepped over the threshold, she’d coughed and screwed up her face, before throwing all the windows open — well, the ones she could get open. The aroma of dust, mould and something she couldn’t quite pin down — fish, stale oil? — was still lingering hours later, but she hoped her efforts to clean and air the house had gone some way to changing things.

Her sister would have demanded staff to do this; being next in line to the throne, Alexandra thought such things below a royal. Olivia’s favourite response to that was to stick her tongue out and give her sister two fingers — it never failed to outrage her, which never failed to make Olivia grin. Having spent eight years in the army and completed two tours of Afghanistan, Olivia wasn’t shy about real life, she even quite liked it. So getting the house back in order, restarting the boiler, and descaling the kettle with some vinegar she found under the sink so she could have a cup of coffee that wasn’t full of bits — these things didn’t faze her.

Now, she stood at the open back door, its once-white frame in need of a sand-down and repaint. She clutched a mug of instant coffee in her hand, and stared out at the overgrown back garden where the lawn could do with mowing, the shrubs cutting back and the tennis court stood abandoned, weeds no doubt sprouting at the base of the sagging net. That net had always seemed so high when she was a kid, with Alexandra throwing tennis balls at her head. She’d always loved it here; it had always been a great leveller.

Olivia had unpacked the package her housekeeper, Anna, had given her — eggs, milk, cheese, bread, tea bags, coffee, biscuits — but she’d have to go shopping tomorrow. Down to the village, whilst trying to stay incognito. She was pretty sure her shorter, naturally wavy and now dark copper-dyed hair, teamed with her black-rimmed glasses, would do the trick. She normally used hair straighteners as her mother repeatedly told her it looked more classic, but she quite liked the natural look. Maybe she’d keep it when she got back to London. If being a royal meant Olivia had to marry Jemima, she could at least have a hairstyle she wanted, surely? A small victory, like her father’s battered armchair.

It was only then Olivia remembered she’d be paying with a credit card that had her name on it. She hadn’t thought that one through, had she? She wasn’t the party girl she once was, and she wasn’t in the pages of Hello! or OK! magazines half as much as her sister, but still. Olivia Charlton was a recognisable name. She’d have to get the palace to send her fake credit card, the one where she was called Charlie Smith — and in the meantime hope she had enough cash to pay for what she needed.

She smiled as she thought about her alter ego, Charlie Smith. Olivia had a lot of time for Charlie.

An army nickname that had stuck. Freed from the shackles of being in the same country as her family, of what it meant to be a royal, Charlie was the truest version Olivia had ever been of herself. When she’d been with her squadron, an integral part of a team, Olivia — or rather, Charlie — had felt the greatest sense of purpose she’d ever felt in her life. On duty, with her uniform on and important work to do, she was just another soldier, just another woman defending her country, and how she’d loved that. It was what she’d hauled her arse through Sandhurst for, what she’d trained for years to do.

But those days had come to an abrupt end three years ago, when her mother had “put an end to her playtime” as she called it, informing her that now she was 30, it was time to take up her royal duties and be a more active part of royal life. And so Charlie Smith had died, along with her relationship with Ellie, which hadn’t been able to withstand the force that was royalty.

Olivia took a slug of her coffee. She didn’t think about Ellie much anymore — she couldn’t afford to — but she knew she’d had a glimpse of another world with her, a glimpse of real life. Now that her life as a professional royal was laid out for her, she doubted she’d ever have that again. She certainly couldn’t imagine Jemima being happy about staying here without staff, about having to make her own coffee, about it being instant. Jemima would have thrown a hissy fit. Instant coffee was for plebs, and she wasn’t one of those.

Olivia’s phone beeping in her pocket interrupted her thoughts, and she put her mug down on the counter and checked the screen. She wasn’t surprised when she saw who the text was from.

‘You’re in Cornwall? Without staff??? You just got engaged! I don’t know what you’re playing at, but Mummy’s not happy, and Jemima was in tears at the club last night. Send her a text at least!’

Olivia rolled her eyes and picked up her coffee again. She’d learned long ago the best way to deal with her sister was to ignore her.

And the only reason Jemima was in tears was probably because she’d had too many vodka martinis and the bar had run out of Grey Goose.

“That’ll be £22.96 please.” The woman behind the counter smiled at her, and Olivia handed over £30. She’d found another stash of cash in the house, so she wasn’t feeling quite as hard-up as she had been last night; plus, her private secretary was getting her credit card couriered to the house today.

She’d wondered if card payments had made it to this part of Cornwall, but they even had contactless. That hadn’t been the case in a lot of shops the last time she’d visited, over five years ago. She thanked the woman, gave her back 10p to buy a reusable carrier bag for her shopping, and strolled out of the village shop, pulling her baseball cap down over her face, which was already adorned with sunglasses.

Twenty minutes out of the house, and so far, nobody had recognised her.

Only another 13 days to keep it up.

This morning the weather wasn’t quite sure what it was doing — sunshine or white clouds — but Olivia was already feeling freer, more alive than she had in months. Being away from her family and away from London always did that. Being able to walk down the street without fear of paparazzi or anybody telling her parents where she was and what she was doing was something that was rare in her life. It was something most people took for granted, but to her, it was special, as well as always being far too fleeting.

She walked down the main road of the village, only wide enough for two cars in places, peering into the shop windows. A kitchen shop, sure to be popular with tourists; a surf shop, which she made a note to go back to another day; an old-fashioned butcher with a white counter and two men at the end of it, cleavers in hand — she never saw that in London anymore.

As she was peering in the window of a women’s boutique, her stomach rumbled, and she thought of all the shopping in her bag. She’d bought bacon and eggs; she should go back to the house and cook them. But she was quite enjoying being out and about, around other people.

The ring of the boutique’s door got her attention, and an older woman with a shock of silver hair smiled at her, pointing at the window display.

“It’d look lovely on you — suit your complexion.” She was referring to a beige blouse with red and yellow flowers embroidered down the front. Olivia gave her what she hoped was a civil look. Was the woman mad? That blouse wouldn’t look good on anyone, but Olivia was used to thinking that when it came to women’s fashion.

“Just looking.” She had to get away before the woman engaged her in conversation. She had a feeling she might be there for hours.

The next shop front was a cafe — Mark & Maude’s. As if on cue, her stomach rumbled again. Olivia made a snap decision and bustled in, took the seat away from the window and shrugged off her slate-grey jacket, putting her shopping at her feet. She swapped her glasses swiftly, but decided to leave her cap on, just in case. She wasn’t quite brave enough to discard it yet.

The cafe had looked cute but tired from the outside, and the inside was the same. The tables and chairs were mismatched and the walls could use a lick of paint, but Olivia appreciated the unique counter, the front adorned with hundreds of retro Coke bottle tops, and the chrome serviette dispensers and 50s sugar shakers on the tables. Whoever Mark or Maude were, they had a love of retro.

A banging on the window caught her attention and when she looked up, the woman from the boutique was signalling to her through the cafe window. Her hand gestures were either telling Olivia to come back later, or that she wanted Olivia’s number.

Jesus.

Olivia gave the woman a pained smile, and then heard laughter approaching.

“Did you make the mistake of looking in Connie’s window?”

She glanced up to see a woman around her age grinning at her, her lips glistening with freshly applied gloss. She was dressed simply in a pair of jeans, a fitted black top and some white Converse, and her dark blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail. Where did she know her from? Olivia wracked her brain, and then it came to her — the woman from the train station, the one she’d run into.

She pushed that thought aside, and nodded. “I did — is she this persistent with all her customers?”

Her server let out a cackling laugh that bounced off the cafe’s walls. “Every single one. It’s a unique sales technique exclusive to Connie.”

“She’s still in business, so it must work.”

“Somehow, it does.” The woman stared at her further, narrowing her piercing blue eyes. “You look familiar — have we met before?”

Olivia shook her head. “I don’t think so — I’m just visiting from London.” She put out her hand. “Ol—Charlie.” She coughed to cover up her mistake.

“Rosie,” came the reply. Rosie studied her a little more. “You do look familiar.” She flicked her biro on the order pad she was holding. “It’ll come to me, gimme a minute.” A quirk of her eyebrow. “Are you just here for the weekend?”

Olivia shook her head. “A while longer — down from London, just thought I’d get away for a couple of weeks. Got a few things to sort out.”

“You staying local?”

Olivia squirmed in her seat, her foot kicking her bag of shopping. “Yeah, some friends gave me keys to their place.”

“Nice to have friends in high places,” Rosie said, before pointing at the menu. “Do you know what you want yet? We haven’t succumbed to doing smashed avocado which I know you love in London, but we can do you a slap-up full English or even eggs benedict if you like.”

“I can live without smashed avocado. When did food prep become so violent?”

Rosie let out another cackle, and Olivia was strangely pleased she was responsible. When Rosie smiled, it lit up her whole face.

“I’ll have whatever you recommend. Full English?”

“Perfect choice. All the ingredients are locally sourced, and our cook, Gina, even makes her own ketchup.”

“Far more impressive than squashing an avocado into a bit of toast.”

“You know what, you’re right,” Rosie replied. “I like you, Miss London. Tea or coffee?”

“Pot of tea, thanks.” Olivia paused. “Is this your place?”

Rosie nodded, a cloud crossing her features before she restored her smile. “It is. It was my parents’, and now it’s mine.”

“I like it a lot.” She sensed Rosie needed the compliment. “The counter is especially impressive.”

Rosie beamed. “You think? That was me. I’ve always wanted to go to the US, but never managed it. So I decided to bring some Americana to Otter Bay.”

“You’ve done a great job.”

“We’ll see,” she said, tapping her notepad some more. She stopped, tilted her head, then looked back at Olivia. “That jacket — is it Paul Smith?”

A tingle of embarrassment spread through her. Way to blend in, Olivia. “Yeah, it was a present to myself.”

Rosie looked at her again now. “You weren’t at the train station yesterday, were you?”

She winced. “I was.” Rumbled.

“Thought so.” Rosie’s smile stiffened. “Anyway, full English and a pot of tea coming up.” She gave Olivia a final penetrating stare, then turned and walked out of view.

Olivia breathed out as a tingle of something shot through her, heat flaring within.

She wasn’t quite sure what had just happened.

What she did know was, staying incognito might be harder than she’d first thought.