“Oh wow, that’s great news!”
I mean it. Alex has been so worried, and he has spent hours and hours every day at his father’s bedside.
“One little catch.” He clasps my hand, as though preparing me for a momentous announcement. “He wants to meet you … alone.”
Chapter Four
My press escapades have not gone unnoticed by Alex’s father, it seems. Ensconced in the Royal Suite in the hospital, he has demanded full access to television, cable, media and the Internet, even though his doctors have cautioned him against too much excitement.
My heart is at the bottom of my new shoes – Moldavian designer pumps, to be exact – as I walk to the Royal Suite with Alex by my side.
“Relax,” he says.
“Easy for you to say. He doesn’t have his knives out for your guts.”
He manages an uneasy smile. “I don’t think he has them out for you, Liz. Just be yourself.”
That’s the trouble. Alex’s family doesn’t like me because I’m me. Why should his father be any different?
“Will I excite him in any way?” I say anxiously. “I don’t want to be the cause of his second heart attack.”
“I’m sure you won’t. My mother was dead against this, of course, as are his doctors. But my father is … well, you know.” Alex sighs.
Yes, I know. His father is the King of Moldavia.
We stand before two handsome paneled doors. This section of the hospital does not resemble a hospital at all – a plush hotel corridor, more like, with its soft yellow lighting, tasteful wallpaper and watercolors of Moldavian landscapes. Two black-suited guards with earpieces immediately stand at attention upon our arrival.
“Your highness.” They nod to Alex respectfully, and turn to face me. “Miss Turner.”
“Is my mother still inside, Fabien?” Alex asks one of them.
“Yes, she is.”
“Just wait here a sec,” Alex says to me.
He knocks quietly and enters the room. I’m left out there, standing awkwardly in my cerise blouse with its leaf detail, paired with my new simple white pencil skirt. Everything is very well cut and encapsulates my curves appropriately.
“Don’t worry,” Fabien says. “You look great.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you like the watercress noodle soup?”
So he has been keeping up with the newspapers. To be honest, I had only taken a sip from it. Not even a single noodle got through my teeth, if I want to be totally honest.
“Yes, very much, thank you.” Well, I would have enjoyed it had I actually tasted it. But for some reason that day, my taste buds went on strike.#p#分页标题#e#
“My mother used to make it for us when we had the flu.” His eyes take on a faraway look.
“That’s lovely. Does she still make it?”
“No. She passed away two years ago from lung cancer.”
Why do everyone’s parents seem to be afflicted by a serious disease?
“I’m so sorry.” I genuinely am. Fabien seems like such a nice Secret Service-type agent. But then, everyone I have met outside the royal palace has been nothing but nice.
It suddenly strikes me – what this is all about. By ‘this’, I mean the clothes I’m wearing, the noodles I’m (not) eating, the careful grooming of my public image for the press. I represent ‘something’. Even though I’m not Moldavian, their hearts are opened by seeing me – a foreigner who has connections to their beloved prince – embrace their culture. Each gesture I make, no matter how small, means something to the Moldavian people in different ways.
I can touch them. Make them take pride in their nation.
‘Export’ them to the world.
The enormity of what I can do and be is staggering.
The doors open and Alex steps out with his mother. Queen Emily regards me with cool eyes. She has been spending most of her time at her husband’s side, but she still looks as immaculate as ever – without a hair out of place in her charcoal grey suit.
“Good morning, your Majesty.” I almost curtsey, but a look from Alex stops me.
“Try not to upset him too much,” she says to me. “I’ll be holding you responsible if anything happens to him.”
“Mother.”
“Yes, dear, I know. Allow an old woman her foibles, all right?”
She’s making me nervous already.
They exit and I enter, the dread pooling in my stomach. I have not seen the King since his ball in the Chicago hotel under extremely different circumstances.
The immediate chamber is filled with a sofa and armchairs, but beyond this, in another smaller room, the hospital bed proper sits – linked to beeping gadgets and a constant heart monitor. A nurse is tidying up the scattered newspapers on the table. She looks up and nods at me.