by Artemis Hunt
“As will I,” Alex says.
Seemingly ill at ease, the aides fall behind us as we walk ahead with our gigantic backpacks strapped behind our backs. I make to follow the other passengers down the travelator towards the Baggage claims and Customs, but Alex stops me.
“This way will be faster.” He indicates a sign that says ‘VIP’.
This is the first inkling I have that things are not going to be normal for either of us in this country.
When we speedily clear customs (“Welcome back, your highness, good to see you again”) and exit the airport, a multitude of reporters and paparazzi are waiting for us. There are TV crews and Internet crews and the shutter clicks and flashes of multiple cameras going off at once. I recognize the logos of a dozen different crews – CNN, Al-Jazeera. Oh my God. So the press coverage is not confined to Moldovia.
The police have set up barricades everywhere, clearly demarcating the lines between the common people and our entourage. Alex has his arm firmly linked through mine, as though he is afraid I would go astray. Although the aides flank us, shielding us somewhat, the paparazzi still click away furiously. If it wasn’t daylight, I would be blinded by their flashes.
Most of the questions from the reporters are hurled in French, but there is a smattering of English ones that I can understand.
“Your highness, where were you the past month? Speculations have been that you were holidaying in Bali.”
“Would that be a spa you were in, your highness? Because you had a mental breakdown?”
“Your highness, your father is extremely ill. Why did you stay away for so long? Do you think you contributed to your father’s sudden attack?”
My heart is knocking against my ribcage. Oh no, I think.
“Speculations are that you ran away after the announcement of your engagement, your highness. The people are dubbing you ‘The Runaway Prince’. Don’t you think that is a little irresponsible to your people?”
With each question, I sink deeper and deeper into my sneakers.
“Your highness, is the woman with you your new girlfriend? Is she the reason why you are refusing to marry the Lady Tatiana?”
How does Alex stand it?
It occurs to me that I’m in this for real. Standing by Alex in his hour of need means that I’ll be exposed to his lifestyle and this constant barrage of press. And they are certainly far from being deferential, royalty or not.
What have I gotten myself into?
3
The drive to the hospital is fraught with tension. We are seated at the back of a black Mercedes, an official state car, and we are heading directly for the Royal State Hospital of Moldovia.
Despite the somber mood in the car, I can’t help but peer out of the darkened windows. The streets of Moldovia are festive and filled with interesting stores, and the facades of the buildings are medieval French, like what you get during the Renaissance period – or at least, that’s what the postcards tell me. The Moldovians who throng the sidewalks are well-dressed, and the entire city has a French Riviera vacation-like atmosphere.
The shining Mediterranean Sea peeks through the buildings, and I can see the spread of the valley below and the yachts and tall boats bobbing in the water. Truly, it’s a sophisticated playground for the rich and famous.
Alex is pensive and quiet. I clasp his hand, and he clasps mine back, seeking comfort.
The aide in the front passenger seat turns. He’s a blond man with thinning hair and a high forehead. He wears shades, and coupled with the earpiece, he resembles a villainous agent from ‘The Matrix’.
“Your highness, since you have been away, I should warn you about recent events at the palace. Your father is in critical care at the coronary unit and your mother refuses to leave his side. Your sisters have been called home. The European press is having a field day speculating the reasons for your absence. The Lady Tatiana is furious, and the principality of Nuernberg has boycotted all Moldovian made products. There has been talk of war, though that is more tabloid speculation than fact.”
Alex’s mouth thins into a straight line.
“I merely took time away from my official duties, Mr. Jasper. I have every right to take a vacation.”
“That is the official palace line, your highness, but it doesn’t stop the speculations.”
“The press can speculate anything they like. Tatiana knows I was never in favor of this betrothal and yet she pushed her way through, getting her father to seek my father’s alliance without my consent.”
“Nuernberg is a very rich principality, your highness, and they are backed by Austria and Germany. Perhaps it is not wise to flaunt the reason for your refusal of Tatiana’s hand in marriage so openly in front of the press.” Mr. Jasper looks pointedly at me.
“Her name is Elizabeth Turner, Mr. Jasper. You will address her as such.”
“Yes, it is,” I squeak, eliciting a glare of disapproval from Mr. Jasper.
“There are other considerations, your highness, as you surely must know. I would prefer that Ms. Turner waits in the car with me while you visit your father at the hospital.”
“These are not the middle ages anymore, Mr. Jasper, and I have every right to refuse an arranged marriage. I warned my father about publicly announcing it, and he went ahead with it anyway. He thought he would cow me into going in line with an official announcement.”
“I would suggest you do not bring it up with him and your mother at the present. He has suffered much as it is.”
This pounds the nail back into Alex’s guilt coffin.
Oh, I had no idea it was all so complicated. If I had known, I would have suggested that I return to Chicago and he come alone to Moldovia. But that would mean leaving him in a lurch at his neediest hour, and I would never do that. Unless I’m complicating his life further by being here.
Alex senses my discomfort.
“I might be quite a while at the hospital,” he suggests, “so would you be OK if I get Jasper to accompany you back to the palace? I’ll be home as soon as I can. It’s not that I don’t want to show you off, but there will be paparazzi outside the hospital and my father is . . . well . . . ”
“Say no more. I’ll be OK with Jasper.”
“Excellent choice,” Jasper says smoothly.
I decide he is a bit of a prick.
We draw up at the hospital. The press, as Alex predicts, are already thronging the gates, and the police have set up a clear path so that vehicles going towards the hospital are not impeded. It’s a media circus out there. I had no idea it would be this bad.
We drop Alex off at a secluded entrance deep inside the grounds. Several aides and doctors in white coats are waiting for him.
“I’ll be back,” Alex says, kissing me.
“Don’t worry about me, take your time.”
He exits the car with a lingering look upon my face. A surge of love bubbles forth from my stomach, but I quell it before it can bring tears into my eyes.
Nothing will ever be the same for either of us again. I just know it.
*
Jasper accompanies me to the royal palace. I decide to make conversation with him, despite disliking him intensely. It’s just one of those things. Sometimes, you click with a person immediately. Well . . . this is not one of those times.
“Is Jasper your first name?” I say.
“It’s my surname. My first name is Conrad. I prefer to be called Jasper, however.”
“OK, Jasper.”
He turns to me, and his expression is rather lofty, as though he considers me far beneath his station.
“And what do you do back home, Ms. Elizabeth Turner?”
“Liz will be fine. I go to college.”
“Indeed. What courses are you taking?”
“Psychology.”
Jasper does not seem impressed. “How did you meet Prince Alexander?”
I really don’t want to go into that, but I’m too polite to say “None of your business” to Jasper. An
d I’m not really sure, where royals are concerned, if romances and flings are supposed to be the business of people like him.
I’m still not fully certain where I stand where Alex is concerned. Am I considered a girlfriend? We’ve traveled together and made love plenty of times, but he has never asked me officially to be his girlfriend. Or maybe I’ve been so out of touch with the romantic world that the times where people ‘officially’ declare themselves boyfriend and girlfriend are over.
And we have never said we loved each other. I’m not sure if you’re supposed to declare these things either.
I say to Jasper, “We met in Chicago.”
“Exactly where? It is my business to know, Ms. Turner, lest the press finds out. There’s nothing worse for the palace than not being equipped with enough information to do damage control.”
I’m in a conundrum. So much of what happened between me and Alex should remain secret. Especially our first encounter in the men’s restroom of the hotel I work in.
“I moonlight as a maid,” I say reluctantly.
Then – for Alex’s sake – in bits and pieces, I tell Jasper about how we met. He wants to know details. I hold back as much as I can. When I finish, Jasper seems none too pleased.
“A maid,” he says, as if it’s a dirty word. “You’re a hotel maid.”
“Correction, I’m a college student moonlighting as a maid to pay my fees. It’s no different from waiting tables at McDonald’s.” Why am I being defensive anyway? There’s nothing wrong in being a maid. Absolutely nothing wrong at all.
“Where you come from, Ms. Turner, perhaps there is no difference. But where the tabloids are concerned, Alexander and his family will not live this down if your relationship were to, let’s just say, progress to another level.”
My heart is beating fast. “What are you saying?”
Jasper removes his sunglasses. He has cold blue and very brittle eyes, as icy as a glacier.
“I’m saying, Ms. Turner, that it will be best for Prince Alexander and the Vassar family that you simply take the next flight home to Chicago and forget any of this ever happened.”
*
No.
I won’t do it.
No one has a right to tell me and Alex what we can or cannot do.
I’m now beginning to experience a little of what Alex is going through. Everything is couched in officious language – “good for the family”, “the people expect you to”. I’m starting to understand the seeds of rebellion within Alex and why he’s so determined to go against his father’s wishes in choosing him a bride.
I spend the rest of the ride not speaking to Jasper. I’m right. He’s an arrogant, pompous prick.
The royal palace is situated on the top of a hill. As the car winds up the slopes, I take in the breathtaking view of sea and valley. The cityscape of Moldovia is a stunning, shimmering fairyland of spires and roofs – each a different dazzling color in the morning sun. The climate is winningly Mediterranean – dry and balmy in the summer with a kiss of cool air from the sea.
As we approach the main gates, I can see – from a distance – the tourist buses and the colorful shirts of people gathering to snap digital photos of the guards.
Oh God. I wonder for the umpteenth time, how does Alex stand it?
We don’t make for the main gates. The chauffeur takes a detour up a narrower road, which in turn is barricaded by a guard house and rails. The liveried stone-faced guards nod at the Jasper as we go past the check point. I suppose this is a private entrance used by the people who actually live in the palace.
We draw up to the main palace, which comprises of four majestic wings. I am aware that I am not approaching it from the front. The grounds are impeccably kept in the style of Versailles, with well-trimmed hedges and shrubbery in all colors and formations. Fountains decked with statues of nymphs tinkle as centerpieces in the midst of plazas.
I can take forever to explore this place if it weren’t so forbidding.
At the east doors, a butler is waiting for us. I step out of the car, aware that I’m wearing a halter top and dirty jeans, and I smell like something the horses from the sentry posts dragged in. The chauffeur hands the butler my backpack, and he takes it with the distaste of someone forced to shovel horse manure. I think I’m going to like the people here.
“If you would please follow me, Ms. Turner,” the butler says with a clipped French accent, “I will show you to your room.”
Oh? I suppose it would be too much to hope to be able to sleep in the same room as Alex. I also suppose Jasper has called in to brief the butler all about Prince Alex’s white trash American girlfriend whom they are hoping he’d dump before the day is up.
The East Wing of the palace is resplendent with luxurious gilded furniture which must date back to the Renaissance and pieces of art which would have probably fetched a princely sum at Sotheby’s. A grand staircase sweeps upstairs, and it is on these richly carpeted steps that I tread with trepidation.
The butler shows me to my guest room at the end of a passageway. A large canopied bed occupies one wall, decorated with fluffy white pillows and a red and gold bedspread that must have taken a year to embroider, so fine is the threading on its ornate design. My feet sink into the plush cream carpet. Two long double windows peer into the gardens.
I’m used to cleaning rooms like these, not inhabiting them.
“I have taken the liberty to draw you a bath, Ms. Turner,” the butler says pointedly.
He leaves, closing the door behind him.
All the strength drains from my legs and I find myself having to sit down upon the bed. I’m an unwelcome and unwanted guest by seemingly everyone in this palace.
How am I going to deal with this?
4
I soak myself for a long, long time in the bath the butler has drawn for me. As much as he appears to dislike me, he seems to have done a good job. Rose petals float in the scented water, which has the gravity of soothing bath salts. If the idea is to make me leave as quickly as possible, he’s sure doing piss poor work out of it.
I’m actually jetlagged, and I must have drifted off in the warm bath, dreaming of gilded carriages which turn back into pumpkins. I am awoken by strong hands upon my arms and the sight of a beautiful naked man stepping into the water.
“Alex!” I cry. And then, “Oh oh oh, look at my pruny fingers!”
Indeed, the pulps of my fingers have been soaked to a wrinkly mess and the bathwater is now at room temperature. How long have I been here?
Alex’s eyes are bloodshot and strained, but he still manages a heavenly smile.
“God, I could sleep for a decade,” he says. He arranges his limbs alongside mine and sinks into the water.
“I’ll run you a hot one,” I offer, reaching for the golden taps.
“Don’t bother. I won’t be long anyway.”
“I’ll bathe you.”
He laughs. “Now that is a proposition too tempting to refuse.”
He tips his head back as I start to soap him. The soaps the palace provides are shaped in seashells – each one a varied and delicate carving. They are almost too pretty to use, though not as pretty as the man I’m using them on.
I begin with Alex’s neck. Then I slide down the graceful lines of his throat to his sternum and collarbones, leaving a trail of frothy bubbles in my wake. I rub my slippery palms against his chest – his smooth, bulging pectorals, so silken to touch. My fingers and thumbs form pincers to tease his nipples, which soon swell into erection.
“Hey, you’re supposed to let me relax, not get me aroused,” he says playfully.
I tweak his nipples.
“Ow!” He laughs and bats my hands off.
“What happened?”
The mood grows more somber. He sighs.
“My father’s stabilized . . . for now. But he’s still far from being out of the woods.”
“And your mother? Is she all right?”
“Barely. She blames me for my f
ather’s condition, as I predicted.” He shakes his head. “Everyone blames me.”
“Oh Alex.” A pang fleets through my chest. But we’d both suspected as much, so it isn’t anything new. “What do they want you to do?”
“I don’t know. They’re tiptoeing around my father now, trying not to create a scene or upset him too much in any way. His heart is very fragile. He’s just come out of a three-hour open bypass.”
“God, that sounds awful.”
“I haven’t told them much about you but I’ll bet that weasel, Jasper, would brief them soon enough.”
“Who is Jasper exactly?”
“My father’s most trusted aide. He’s got some fancy title . . . royal chamberlain or something, but really, he’s just a personal assistant.”
“I didn’t know kings had personal assistants.”
“My father is the CEO of the Moldovian state and he runs it like a company. It has served the principality well for over forty years and turned us into one of the richest countries in the world in GDP per capita.”
I’ll bet Nuernberg is run as a pretty tight ship as well.
To lighten the mood, I run my soapy hands down his abs – his marvelously sculpted abs, all eight sections of them. They are rock hard, thanks to the hours of gym time he has put in. Alex smiles at me and grabs my hands.
“You’re going to turn me on.”
“I thought you’d be too worried about your father to be turned on.”
“I’m worried all right, but I’m still a regular guy.”
“I’m just going to bathe you as I promised, nothing more.”
“Make sure you keep your word,” he says, still smiling.
I can tell there’s a lot going on behind his weary and black ringed eyes, but I sense he also needs comfort. So I massage his abdomen in circular motions – clockwise, and then counterclockwise. And all this while he sinks deeper and deeper into the water so that its surface is up to his neck. His eyes close. The bathroom air is redolent with the scent of roses.