Falling for Prince Charles

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  She knocked again, harder. It was almost time to go. He would make them late.

  “I’m not going,” came the muffled masculine voice from the other side of the locked door.

  “You must.” She paused briefly, trying to come up with a good reason why he must. “People expect it. And besides, Mother is heartily sick of dysfunctions among the family. I was hoping that we might… oh, I don’t know… present a united front or something.”

  “Well,” said the voice, “I’m sick of these functions, too.”

  “Yes, I know, dear. But it’s much worse for her, you know. After all, it’s her noggin that’s always on the block. It seems that the very least we can do is help her out now and again…” Her own voice trailed off for want of enthusiasm.

  “Well, it’s tough on the rest of us, too. Besides…” The voice paused, an embarrassed note beginning to creep in. “My tummy hurts.”

  “Oh, no! It must have been all that pickled herring for lunch!”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well, then, I guess there’s nothing for it. You must stay home. I certainly wouldn’t want to sit next to you at dinner in the condition you must be in.”

  “Quite. Understandable.”

  Anne briskly grabbed her bag and rather roughly straightened the skirt of her gown without looking in the mirror. “Well, alright then, I’m off. Stiff upper lip.”

  “Yes, yes,” came the tired voice.

  As she shut the door behind her, she thought that she’d probably have a better time without him. He was always such a dreadful whiner about these things anyway. Not even noticing the sound of breaking crockery—knocked off the wall display due to the sheer force of her slam—she thought that it would be a welcome change to only have to worry about her own miserable time, as opposed to having to worry about another person’s as well.

  Little did the Princess realize, as she stalked off in search of a cab, just how much she had in common with Daisy. For, as we all know, Daisy hated whiners too. And, for the record, as to the odor of pickled herring, well… suffice to say that, as far as certain scents were concerned, it was possible to take the well-intentioned notion of recycling a tad too far. Or, as Rachel Silverman had been so fond of saying, “When you forget the soap, so shall ye reek.”

  12

  Bonita studied her image in the mirror, pleased with the effect created by the scarlet and gold livery. Worn just loosely enough, it was virtually impossible to guess the sex of the individual beneath the clothes. And while the white breeches were a shade uncomfortable, she thought, as she bent down to adjust her stockings, it was probably just because it was such an unfamiliar garment for her to be wearing. And she did so like the nice shiny buckles on those chunky shoes.

  Straightening, she donned the white powdered wig with shoulder-length queue. With considerable effort, she was able to successfully rein in her own willful tresses, tucking the straggly ends up under the sides of their synthetic camouflage. She surveyed the final effect.

  “Spiffy,” she pronounced.

  “Slut,” her reflection winked back.

  “Showtime,” they concurred.

  13

  “Here, let me get that for you, Ma’am.”

  “I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” the Queen stated, shooing the startled Dresser aside. The queen rarely got pettish about her wardrobe like this, but when she did…

  “Must you all hover about One so? One would think that you thought that One was incapable of dressing Oneself.”

  The Dressers raised quizzical eyebrows at one another, behind the Monarch’s back. Just what exactly were they supposed to be doing then?

  “Out! Out!” the Queen commanded. “We are not in the mood to be fussed at this evening.”

  The Dressers beat a hasty retreat, as she shut the door firmly behind them.

  Enjoying a rare moment of solitude, she turned her attention to the pleasant matter of her jewelry. One might think—the “one” in question being we general, garden-variety “ones,” as opposed to the far more imperial “One”—that the Queen would be somewhat jaded on the subject of gems. But one, being heir to the vulgar ignorance of the common man, would be way off the money. For, the one and only One took great pride in her jewelry collection.

  She selected a Family Order, worn on a ribbon on her left shoulder, and reserved solely for State occasions. It contained pictures of her father and grandfather, the miniature portraits encircled with brilliant diamonds.

  Checking out the robe situation, she could have sworn that the velvet crimson pleats on one of them was off-kilter, aligned in a funny way on its hanger. Had one of the Dressers been into the Sherry too early? Or had old what’s-his-name been rooting around in here again?

  Ah well, she thought. Neither situation really bore thinking about. It was ever so much nicer to concentrate on her jewelry.

  What next? Hmm, let’s see… bracelet, earrings, Family Order, necklace; alphabetically speaking, so far everybody was present and accounted for. But, surely, with all of those idle letters following the “n” in the alphabet, there must be some other shirker still lurking out there somewhere. No?

  “Oh, no,” the Defender of the Faith groaned aloud, remembering. “Not the letter ‘T.’” Usually, there was a Dresser present to help her out with that alphabetic straggler. Where the bloody hell had they all disappeared to? None of them were ever around when you needed them anyway.

  Selecting a diamond and emerald tiara and grabbing some pins, she proceeded to attempt to screw the wretched thing onto her own head.

  Talk about a crown of thorns!

  If there was one thing that could foul her mood even quicker than old what’s-his-name messing around in her robes, it was the diamond and emerald tiara. The blasted thing was giving her a headache already. There ought to be a law…

  Go ahead and laugh, if you will, but people who thought that wearing tiaras was all fun and games clearly didn’t know the half of it.

  14

  And then, of course, there was the problem of Pacqui and Packey.

  “But why must you walk in with one of the horse women?” Pacqui asked Packey for the eleventh time, stamping his little foot.

  “Hold still, hold still! How many times do I have to tell you that this bondage stuff is never a success when you insist on moving about so? You are creating a situation where it is quite impossible for me to tie you up.”

  “Fine,” said Pacqui. “I’ll make for you a deal: I will stop moving around long enough for you to tie me up, if you will explain to me about the horse woman.”

  “Fine, yourself,” said Packey. “Deal.”

  “Shake?” offered Pacqui.

  “Done,” said Packey, as they shook hands, each accenting their pact with a brief gentlemanly bow of the head.

  “You know, don’t you,” said Pacqui, as he endeavored to stand still, tilting his chin upwards so that Packey could create a bow with the tie of his tux, “if somebody ever decides to write the story of our romance—perhaps a gay Pakistani Gone With the Wind? Sounds good, no?—the agent will never be able to sell the rights to the audiobook people. Too confusing. Or, at least,” he added, craftily, “not unless one of us is willing to change his name.”

  “Would that that were the least of our problems,” said Packey, giving the tie a final perfectionist tweak.

  “You know I love it when you say things that sound as though you are quoting Shakespeare to me. It gives me goose bumps… so stop it already, a deal being a deal. I stood still, so… the horse woman?” Pacqui looked at Packey expectantly, at first, then warningly. “Now, don’t be a welch jelly…”

  “Alright, all right. But I don’t see why we have to go through this every single time. For a man who considers himself to be a high-ranking member of the embassy—now don’t look at me like that! Yes, yes, of course you are right, it is true. Stop giving me the hairy eyeball!—and is considered by others to be a high-ranking member as well, you never seem to grasp these finer poin
ts of court protocol.”

  “Stop walling my stones. The horse woman…?”

  “You know I only have eyes for you, but I must walk into the dinner with whomever the Lord Chamberlain says that I must. He is the man who holds everyone’s short hairs in his hot little hands. Besides, dearest,” Packey soothed, “you know that nobody is ever allowed to escort the person that they love the most into dinner. Togetherness just is not done. Why, a person should consider himself lucky if he does not actively detest the person he is paired with.”

  Pacqui thrust out his lower lip in a pout.

  “Dearest,” said Packey, “you know I would rather eat with you than with anybody else in the world.”

  Hearing the ring of truth in this assertion (and it really was there), Pacqui began to brighten, his mustache beginning to twitch upwards in an irrepressible smile.

  Seeing this, Packey decided to press his suit. Placing his hands on the other man’s shoulders, he added, “Much better to be with Pacqui than with whatever watery tart the Lord Chamberlain has selected for me this time. Now, then: kiss-kiss. Let’s go see how we look in the mirror.

  “So, what do you think?” he asked, placing a proudly possessive arm around Pacqui’s shoulders. “We are perfect, no? Quite the Queen’s fleas’ knees.”

  Pacqui looked carefully, just to be certain that he was seeing exactly what his lover was seeing. Let’s see… identical height, weight, shape; same coloring, haircut, mustache; and the fashion sense of a pasha with a lifelong subscription to GQ. Packey was right. They were perfect, Pacqui thought, a matched pair. They stood like that for a long contented moment, arms about one another’s shoulders, looking as though they were posing for a portrait.

  They decided that it never bothered them that racists used their exterior similarities as ratification for the claim that they all looked alike. Seeing their individual selves reflected in the other at all times, they merely took it as being the highest of compliments. For who else would either of them rather look like most in the world?

  Pacqui was, of course, the first to break the spell.

  “You know, I really do not mind at all the Patty Duke Show quality of our life, if only it weren’t for the problem of audiobooks…”

  “Stop with that already. Sometimes, I swear, you are just like a dog with a boner.”

  “Speaking of animals, about that horse woman: which one of them did you say that the Lord Chamberlain has stuck you with this time?”

  “Bowwow, I didn’t. As a matter of fact, I never even checked myself. Now let me see… I must have left that placard he sent me around here somewhere… Did you check the wastebasket yet, dearest?”

  15

  Zee; omega; zed.

  The Last Picture Show; The Last Hurrah; The Last Tycoon.

  Tsar Nicholas; Pluto (the planet, not the dog); that Mohican character.

  Not to mention, of course, the Littlest Piggy: cultural icon, known far and wide for its innate—learned?—ability for crying all the way home.

  Over in Kensington Palace, the Queen’s little sis was stewing in her own juices, as it were. Princess Margaret had her very own little thing to be heartily sick of. As if anybody really cared, she sulked, taking something larger than a sip—but smaller than a breadbox—from her glass of wine.

  She was tired, fed up, sick unto death, with being the last on any and every list that had ever been made up in the history of the world. So, maybe things weren’t quite as dire as she was making them out, but you try telling her that. From where she was sitting, the situation was quite… that is to say, when one thought about… oh, bloody hell. Suffice to say, that it just plain sucked.

  And, as she poured herself just one more glass of wine, she sincerely hoped that they would at least remember to send the car for her this time.

  Ye-es, she drew out the thought, while staring into the wisdom-filled bottom of her glass. Anybody who actually believed that being last was not synonymous with being least probably also thought that wearing tiaras all of the time sounded like a keen idea.

  If she ever found such an individual, she would sell them a nice, healthy chunk of London Bridge. Or, maybe she would just shove it down their throats.

  BUCKINGHAM PALACE

  STATE BANQUET

  DECEMBER, 1999

  Queen Elizabeth II President Bill Clinton

  Prince Philip Hillary Rodham Clinton

  Queen Mother Prince of Wales

  Archbishop of Canterbury Daisy Sills

  Princess Anne British Prime Minister

  Prince Andrew Mrs. BPM

  Jodie Foster Prince Edward

  Ambassador Packey Packel Princess Margaret

  (and approximately 484 other distinguished guests)

  16

  Like the nucleus of an atom, the fetus of a hippo, or the quaking tremors brought about by creatures in the Jurassic Period—who hadn’t a clue as to how to tread gently on the Earth—the mostly Royal procession began, appropriately enough, from the Queen’s Closet. Situated between the Queen’s Audience Room and the White-Drawing Room, and all such things being relative, the Royal Closet was not what you might expect. In fact, contrary to its innocuous title, which made it sound as though it might be a narrow receptacle for storing dirty gaiters, it represented a rather good-sized drawing-room in its own right—complete with the appropriate marble, crystal, and heavy damask design features. Traditionally, it was the place from which any important evening’s festivities usually began for the R.F.. And, as Rachel used to prompt Daisy—being the youngest Silverman branch on their particular family tree—to recite each and every Passover: “So, nu? God? Why should this night be different from any other night?”

  Considering how much earlier than everybody else Daisy had been ready, it was somehow fitting then, that she should be the last one to make it into the Closet. Even Prince Edward—often tardy himself—was already in there with Jodie when Daisy arrived, breathless, just in time to make the fast acquaintance of her escort.

  She barely had time to shake his hand, but sometimes, first impressions forming hastily and hard, that is all it takes. The rather recently appointed Archbishop of Canterbury’s hand hung like a limp codfish in her own, a species of handshake that Herbert had always taught her to avoid at all costs. Not to mention, that the Primate was possessed of a profile even more severe than that of the Duke’s, making him a much stronger candidate for being somebody’s cruel stepmother.

  And, how nice, Daisy thought, upon being presented to that smug visage, to be able to be so absolutely certain that one’s own poop didn’t stink.

  But she really had no time to dwell on notions theological; or to attend to the very pertinent fact that her olfactory sense had just put in a brief reappearance; or to even properly appreciate that the President of the United States, in person, failed to disappoint a bit and that he was, in fact, just as tall in real life as he appeared to be on TV (even if he obviously didn’t have a clue as to how to dress for a black-tie affair). For, before she knew what she was about, she was being whisked along on her merry way, carried on the surging tide of veddy important people.

  At the entrance to the White Drawing-Room—a room with no visible lines for a door—the Queen gave a sovereign nod of the head and the wall swung forward, as if by sorcery. It was sometimes tough on her, striving to maintain that imperiously impervious smile, when the Batman-like effect that this entrance had on other people always filled her with such pleasure. She often wondered, just what would happen if any guests on the other side were to stand too close to the outwardly swinging wall. Perhaps knocking one’s guests on their hindquarters, or flattening them like pancakes, was not the done thing in polite company but, thankfully, this hairsplitting point of etiquette had never been tested to date.

  Meanwhile—as Daisy played with the notorious swinging door, idly attempting to figure out how the trick was done—the other 484 invitees were arriving downstairs, beginning their inevitable progress towards the Music Room, jus
t on the other side of the White-Drawing Room, there to rendezvous with the sixteen more important (in whose minds?) people already waiting upstairs.

  They entered by singles, by pairs, and by clusters. They came through the Ambassador’s Entrance; they came through the Grand Entrance. After a brief stop, in order to deposit their coats and things on the bed in the guest room (only kidding!), they, each and every one, found themselves in the Grand Hall.

  Those accustomed to such things as a part of everyday life gave it all the old ho-hum treatment. The rest, in an attempt to maintain a mien of outward urbanity, strained not to rubberneck. This set of circumstances left the world, briefly, with one very harried butler who couldn’t carry a tune, and 484 dignified souls who would need to seek chiropractic assistance come the morrow for self-inflicted whiplash.

  The Grand Hall was, for lack of an adequate adjective, impressive. What with its crimson carpets, its soaring marble pillars with gilded Corinthian columns, its gold, its mahogany, its Sevres, its… you name it. If it represented a superlative item on the individual spectra of the decorative arts, it was there. It was everything and more that one could require from a foyer. The Grand Hall was, quite simply, the most.

  Having thus been relieved of their splendour virginity, they made their hushed and bustling way towards the Grand Staircase. There, spit-and-polished black shoes ascended the double staircase, soundlessly passing over the crimson carpet, studiously avoiding the cold marble. There, gloved hands reached out to grasp the heavily gilt bronze balustrade, maintaining a precarious balance on heels, as they gave into temptation, craning their swans’ necks heavenward, at the domed skylight overhead. All came finally together at the top, the twin sides curving upwards in a bow, deposited in front of the doors of the Guard Chamber and the appropriately named Green Drawing-Room beyond.