The Frog Prince (24 page)

I catch a glimpse of black silk before I turn away to squeeze my legs into the tight-fitting pants of the suit. “Yeah, my mom made me try it on a month or two ago.” I turn to Kat. “Are these supposed to be pants or support hose for varicose veins?”

“This is fabulous!” says Menen with a sigh. “I cannot believe she makes these and then hides them away in a closet!”

“We all got a little tired of Leigh wearing ball gowns to work, so we had to put a stop to it,” says Kat.

“Plus I don’t really get a lot of invitations to royal balls,” I add.

Menen’s wide smile is the equivalent to most people’s gut-busting laughter. “We will see,” she says after a second, still marveling at the dress.

“Do we do the pictures first or the interview?” I ask as I peel off the tourniquet-tight pants and toss them into the discard pile.

“Since they’ve gotten you all gussied up, my guess is that you’re doing the photo shoot first,” says Kat, no doubt thinking of the adjoining suites that have been turned in the last ten hours into impromptu modeling studios.

I turn to Menen and wave a hand at the row of hanging outfits. “What do you think?”

She tilts her head. “The black dress for the interview,” she says. She moves some of the garment bags to the end of the rack. “And…these five for the photo shoot.”

I hear the suite door open. “They’re ready for you, Ms. Fromm,” calls a voice, one of the dozen or so in the
Vanity Fair
entourage. I’ve asked them all repeatedly to call me “Leigh” to no avail.

“Okay!” I call to whoever is at the door.

Menen and Kat each grab armfuls of garment bags. I sigh, resigned. I’ve been warned that the next six hours will involve dress changes and wardrobe adjustments, my hair teased, sprayed, slicked down, brushed, barretted, my body pushed, twisted, taped, pulled, painted, and glued.

More to myself than to Menen and Kat I mutter, “Let’s do this.”

*****

It’s turning into late afternoon when I get back to the Eisenhower Suite. Exhausted, I sink onto the red, blue and gold-striped presidential sofa where President Eisenhower presumably sat when he wasn’t putting dents in the room with his golf clubs.

I feel strangely naked after being weighted down with makeup and accessories all afternoon. My makeup has been removed and my hair has been rewashed and dried and is pulled back into a simple ponytail. I put my foot down and insisted that I be allowed to change into a comfortable pair of jeans and a soft, button-up cotton shirt, rather than dealing with redoing makeup and having to sit for an hour with my legs crossed in high heels and a black dress.

Menen and Kat have ducked out, Kat heading for home, Menen to my parent’s house to return the wardrobe and take another shot at convincing my mother that she should design couture for Menen’s Paris boutique.

Crystal Tallant is a smartly-dressed thirty-something woman, her blonde hair cut in an angular style that frames her long, pale face. She has a laugh–a cross between an evil witch’s cackle and a schoolgirl’s giggle–that you can’t help but love. Splotches of red pop up on her neck and gradually spread to her face when she becomes animated. She’s one of those jovial, “glass is half full” kind of people who have made it their life’s mission to make you feel as happy as they do, and seems unfazed that Jerrod is perched on the edge of one of the nearby wing chairs, ready to deliver a World Wide Wrestling roundhouse to her head and cut the interview short if he hears anything he shouldn’t.

Unfortunately, he hasn’t shared the list of untouchable topics with me. “She knows what she isn’t allowed to ask,” was all he would tell me.

“It’s so good to see you again, Leigh!” she says, her eyes overflowing with mirth as she maniacally pumps my hand. Her neck immediately blotches over with scarlet patches.

“Good to see you too, Crystal,” I say automatically. I have practiced small talk and introductions like this for the last seven days, in addition to rehearsing answers to hundreds of potential questions. I’m ready to talk about everything from the unfortunate comeback of legwarmers to the effect of global warming on hermaphroditic goat herders in Mongolia.

Crystal pulls some glossy sheets from a manila folder in her bag and holds them out to me. “Here are some of the proofs,” she says, settling onto the opposite end of the sofa.

I take the thick paper, a page covered with rows of tiny black and white negatives of the shots taken today, and my mouth drops open. “That’s me?” I ask, peering closer at the tiny images.

Crystal giggles. “You’re going to make supermodels gnash their teeth and rend their garments.”

I run my finger over the images of myself in various poses, and all stages and forms of dress and undress. I stop at a shot of me sitting in a chair, knees together, feet splayed apart, the folds of a long, ruffled white dress billowing around me. My long hair streams out behind me, courtesy of the jet engine fans off-camera that were blowing hurricane-force winds on me.

We had struggled for thirty minutes for this one shot. I wasn’t allowed to squint against the dry air, but keeping my eyes open made my tear glands go crazy in an attempt to prevent my corneas from turning into beef jerky, which in turn made my eyes turn red, running the carefully-applied mascara. Finally a pothead in the group gifted their bottle of eye drops to get rid of the redness, and they eventually had the sense to pose me
before
turning on the fan.

“I love this one,” I say, pointing at the shot. “Can I get this one enlarged, maybe a five by seven? Today?” I get excited, thinking maybe I can run out and buy a frame and have the whole thing sent overnight to Roman. He could have it by tomorrow afternoon Austria time.

“No problem,” says Crystal, nodding to her personal assistant standing by the door.

“And can we burn these?” I point to the final photos from the afternoon session, which required dozens of metallic clips in my hair, and hundreds of aquamarine sequins being glued to my face. Kat called it the “dominatrix fish shot.” Menen concurred less forcefully, saying that the accoutrements pinning my hair and covering my face were “unnecessary.”

From the corner of my eye I see Jerrod nod once at Crystal. “Absolutely,” she says. Getting what I want without delay is an unnerving experience; the old me couldn’t even get a waiter to refill my water glass.

The personal assistant takes the proof sheets and leaves the room, the door closing with a heavy
click
. Crystal turns her dazzling smile on me. “So,” she says, “should we get started?”

I inhale deeply and exhale. “Sure.”

Chapter Twenty-One

“I think it’s safe to say that the entire world was shocked by the reinstatement of the monarchy ….” says Crystal.

I tilt my head, following Jerrod’s instructions by waiting patiently for a question. “Don’t
ever
comment on the reporter’s statements,” he cautioned me. “That never ends well.”

Crystal sees that a nod is all she’s going to get and moves on. “I think our readers want to know first and foremost how you and Prince Roman met each other.” She leans towards me. “Can you tell me about that?”

Aha
! I think. This was one of the practice questions. My eyes flit to Jerrod for confirmation and he nods once. “Roman and I met at my great aunt’s funeral in September.”

“Were you introduced to each other?”

“Not exactly,” I say. “I accidentally stepped on his foot with my high heel shoe. It was bad enough that it bled.” I tuck one of my feet under the opposite leg and lean against the sofa back, feeling strangely comfortable. Turns out that all the interviewing practice was really helpful.

Crystal laughs gaily. I can see why she’s such a famous interviewer; she hangs on every one of my words like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever heard.

“I’m interested in what your reaction was when you found out that the Austrian Parliament had reinstated the monarchy,” she says. “What were you doing? What were you thinking?”

“Well, Roman and I were standing in the middle of a dance floor in Stockholm when we found out. I didn’t even realize it was a possibility that something like this could happen to him. I spent the next twelve hours in total shock.” I chuckle. “Now I’m just in functional shock.”

Crystal nods. She follows up with a bunch of questions about Lindy Hop, how long I’ve been dancing, and our time in Stockholm.

Then the questions take a new turn. “I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of the magazine articles about you,” she says.

I shake my head. “Not really,” I say. “Turns out
People
magazine is only interesting if you’re not in it.”

She titters. Her blonde bangs have fallen in her eyes and she tries to tuck them behind her ear with little success. “Many of the articles have focused on your origins.”

My origins?
I think.
As in ‘the rock I crawled out from under?’
I shoot a questioning look at Jerrod. His brow is furrowed, as if he’s trying to figure out where she’s going with this.

“You know,” she continues, “your family, your education, your job, where you live…”

I shrug. “And?”

Crystal clears her throat. I know from practicing with Jerrod’s crew that she’s not actually nervous, she’s just signaling me that she’s about to say something awkward. “Your family is not royal or prominent or wealthy. You yourself live in”–here she checks her notes–‘Happy Trails Park’ which up until five years ago was ‘Happy Trails Trailer Home Park.’ A few of the tabloids have started referring to you as ‘Whiskey Tango.’ How does it make you feel when people insinuate that, basically, you aren’t good enough for Prince Roman of Austria?”

Jerrod interrupts. “Crystal, you know that we’re not going to let–”

“What’s ‘Whisky Tango?’” Both Jerrod and Crystal glance at each other uncomfortably, one waiting for the other to break the bad news.

“Whisky and Tango are military call signs for the letters ‘W’ and ‘T,’” says Jerrod, looking inexplicably pained. “Calling someone ‘Whiskey Tango’ is a code way to call them ‘white trash.’”

I surprise them both when I blink hard and then explode into peals of laughter. I’m laughing so hard that I’m doubled over and holding my stomach, which is already sore from holding my body in dozens of unnatural positions all day during the photo shoot. Finally I break off into chuckles, and a few stray giggles which I try to smother with a cupped hand.

“That isn’t offensive to you?” says Crystal, clearly surprised.

“Look,” I say, wiping tears from my eyes as I try to get my spasming diaphragm under control, “I live in house that is the perfect size for me, which just happens to be in a neighborhood of really, really nice people that I’ve known for years. I have graduate degrees in clinical research and human sexuality, and I have an interesting job that I like.
And
I have a fantastic boyfriend who could really care less about any of the stuff other people are talking about.”

Jerrod looks pleased and gives me a quick thumbs-up sign behind her back.

“Fair enough, fair enough,” says Crystal. She shuffles the notes on her lap. “So…were you aware that you and Prince Roman are distantly related?”

I freeze, thinking back through every Fromm relative I’ve known since I’ve been alive, and the pictures of those from before my time. Prominent overbites were common, but jutting underbites nonexistent. As far as I know, no one has ever had to chew our food for us. Also, if there was a crown or castle out there waiting for us, you’d think we would have heard about it by now.

Jerrod leans forward, his elbows on his knees. He doesn’t seem to be alarmed—yet.

“We had genealogy experts trace your ancestry,” Crystal explains. “The Fromm family came from Austria to America in the late seventeen hundreds. They found out that you and Prince Roman share a common ancestor in Austria in 1590.”

“Interesting,” I say. I don’t add that it’s just as likely that
she and I
share a common ancestor. You go back far enough in time and you can trace
everyone
to a common ancestor. In fact, every person in the room is probably a direct descendent of Genghis Kahn, Moses, and Pliny the Elder.

“So I have to ask you,” she says with a smile, “do you have any plans to return to the homeland?”

I am relieved that she asks. I wouldn’t have volunteered the information, but am happy to have a chance to, as Jerrod would say, “control the message” and deliver a trans-Atlantic middle finger to Princess Isabella.

“I’m flying to Austria next week,” I say with a coy smile. “It’s my first time going there so I’m really looking forward to it.”

“How long will you be visiting?”

I bite my lip. “I’m not sure. I’ve had to take a leave of absence from my job.”

“So that you could go to Austria?”

I shake my head. “No, it was more that there were reporters sneaking into the office building all the time, and then all the security people—it was getting hard for anyone to get any work done.” I don’t add that being without a paycheck is terrifying.

“You’re free to stay in Austria, then?” she hints.

I shrug. “I guess. Eventually I’ll have to go back to work.”

“Aren’t your expenses being covered by the palace?”

“Well, they are
now
. But that’s just because this whole thing was so unexpected. I can’t keep having people in another country pay for my living expenses. It’s crazy.”

Crystal nods her head and smiles. “I’m sure the Austrian taxpayer will appreciate that sentiment. I assume that you’ll be meeting Prince Roman’s mother while you’re in Austria?”

My stomach churns in response to her question. “I’m sure I will. I’m really looking forward to meeting her.” I try to put a convincing smile on my face to go with my blatant lie.

“Where will you be staying? At Schönbrunn Palace?”

“Probably not,” I say. “I don’t think there’s any room for me there.”

Crystal looks incredulous. “No
room
?” she echoes. “A palace with fourteen hundred rooms and they couldn’t find anywhere to put one person?”