Gorgeous

by Rudnick, Paul

  “But sadly,” the prince admitted, “the rest of the country refuses to be amused.”

  “And now everyone hates me even more, for so many totally good reasons.”

  “Well,” said the prince, “not everyone.”

  “You are being way too nice.”

  “And you, even after the Battle of Ascot, and now crawling on your belly, you remain compulsively lovely.”

  We looked at each other and neither of us could speak because we were so embarrassed and so deliriously happy, because now we knew that we’d not only liked kissing each other at the museum, but we both laughed at the same awful things. And for a second I did something truly insane: I completely forgot that we were the prince and Rebecca. I’d never been so comfortable around a guy before and so I allowed myself to believe that the moment was just what it felt like, which was a really fun date.

  But then I reminded myself about Tom Kelly and my deadline and I forced myself to be practical, asking, “So what are we going to do?”

  “First,” said the prince, who was also pulling himself together, “we’re going to have lobster bisque. And then we might stroll a few yards to the parapet, because I enjoy saying ‘parapet,’ and then we will survey the city and I will helpfully indicate the more trenchant landmarks, including Trafalgar Square, the Tate Museum and the soon-to-be-available homes of our most recently indicted public figures. And then I thought we might dance.”

  The prince turned and a row of rented footlights illuminated an eight-piece orchestra that began playing something that sounded familiar because it included the notes of my mom’s ringtone, and then I remembered why my mom had downloaded that particular tune. It was the Love Theme from Under the Tree. It was a sweeping, way-too-goopy melody, the kind of song you could never get out of your head no matter how hard you tried; it was a song composed for kazoos and elevators and weddings held in turnpike steakhouses. It had been my mom’s favorite song ever and even though it was the musical equivalent of a red velvet cup-cake frosted with pink buttercream and those chalky little hearts that read “Kiss Me” and “Be Mine,” just at this moment, I loved it, because I knew that the prince’s generosity, and his eyes, and especially the orchestra would have made my mother swoon. Everything was in fact unbearably perfect, in an irresistibly Oscar-night sort of way, except for one significant detail I couldn’t help bringing up.

  “This is all pretty damn impressive,” I said. “Even for a prince. But — what about tomorrow?”

  “You mean, tomorrow, when the nation rises as one and demands your head on either a spike or a platter or hanging from a branch, as a piñata? The tomorrow when everyone insists that I return to the far more sedate and well-bred and only lightly bruised arms of Lady Jessalyn? Are you referring to that particular tomorrow?”

  “Yes. And if we’re both being honest there’s something else I should ask you.”

  I was ashamed of myself for coming within a thousand miles of the word “honest,” but there was something that Becky and Rebecca and whoever else I was, there was something we all needed to know.

  “Do you love Lady Jessalyn?”

  The prince looked away and my heart sank. Maybe I was just an American interlude; maybe we’d just been having fun, before he’d return to the serious business of choosing a bride. But then he faced me.

  “I’m glad you’ve asked. Because, you see, I’m fond of Jessalyn. I’ve known her since I was a child. Whenever I turn around, there she is. And we’ve been friends, even when I’ve encouraged her to travel and to see other people and I’ve defended her when one of the papers gave her that dreadful nickname.”

  “Which nickname?”

  “The Prettiest Pitbull.”

  We exchanged a meaningful stare in which we both promised not to start laughing again.

  “But — do you love her?”

  “I wanted to love her, because she’d be such a good idea and because it would make her so happy and because I once saw her laptop, and she’d Photoshopped different crowns onto pictures of herself.”

  This was exactly what Tom Kelly and Rocher had predicted, but come on, I wasn’t any better than Lady Jessalyn. I was plotting to marry the prince with just as much drive and determination.

  “But no, I don’t love her. And now life has surprised me. Which brings us right back to tomorrow.”

  “And?”

  “And from where I sit, we’ve got only one real chance, one final hope of salvaging the situation.” The prince was looking right at me and I’m not sure why but I could swear that he was trying to somehow look beyond Rebecca’s beauty, because it was so extreme. Her beauty was a barrier and he wanted to make sure that he broke through so that I’d believe what he was about to say.

  “Tomorrow I’m being flown, in secret, for reasons of military security, on a goodwill visit to our troops in Afghanistan. And I’d like you to come with me.”

  I assume you’ve seen the papers,” said Tom Kelly at 5:00 A.M. the next morning, after I’d been summoned to his town house. I nodded, although, on Rocher’s advice, I’d only skimmed the headlines and the tweets and the blogs and the more boldface words on the picket signs outside our hotel. I’d tried to avoid the terms “Ascot fiasco,” “massive criminal charges,” “wretched, rancid Rebecca” and “HO GO HOME!!!” Rocher had pointed out that Lady Jessalyn, even in the photos where she was missing her hat, a sleeve and a shoe, had managed to pose at an angle, with her palms placed over her hips, to look as thin as possible.

  “And you understand that today,” said Tom, “and this trip, are your very last chance? Not just at marrying Prince Gregory but most likely at remaining Rebecca?”

  “I know.”

  “And you realize that the odds of your pulling this off are slim to none?”

  “Got it.”

  Satisfied, Tom raised a hand and Mrs. Chen entered, pushing a gleaming chrome rack holding my outfit for Afghanistan. I’d been pretty sure that my life couldn’t plunge any further down the toilet but I’d been wrong. Really wrong. Seriously wrong. So wrong.

  “No,” I said, squinting, because the garment was singeing my retinas. “No, I … I can’t.”

  “Excuse me?” said Tom.

  “I can’t wear this. I know it’s beautifully designed and sewn and I know you’re a genius and I’m an ignorant mess, but are you out of your mind?”

  Hanging on the rack was a tailored military jumpsuit with fringed epaulets, multiple pleated pockets and shiny red buttons embossed with Tom’s initials. The jumpsuit itself was made from an eye-blistering, oversized camouflage print of huge, overlapping, amoeba-like blobs in throbbing shades of scarlet, hot pink and magenta, and it was accessorized with red patent leather spike-heeled combat boots, a matching wide red patent leather belt and a perky red wool beret, pinned with a large, silvery Tom Kelly logo. There was also a boxy, battlefield-ready purse in a red, pink and magenta leopard-skin pattern and, crisscrossed over the jumpsuit’s chest, from shoulder to waist, there were bandoliers of what were either hundreds of Tom Kelly Hot Combat lipsticks or runway-perfect, gotta-have-em glossy red bullets.

  The outfit may have been Tom’s idea of a uniform but it would only camouflage me if I was dropped behind enemy lines into a card shop on Valentine’s Day.

  “If I wear that,” I said, “people will shoot at me. People should shoot at me. I’ll look like a clown at a gay kid’s birthday party.”

  “Rebecca,” said Tom, “I believe we have an agreement. That, if you wish to remain Rebecca, you will wear what I tell you to wear. And do everything I say.”

  I mentally ran through my options: I didn’t have any. I stared at Tom, hoping he’d cackle and shout, “Kidding!” but he didn’t. As Mrs. Chen zipped and buckled and buttoned me into the jumpsuit, she handed me a bayonet with the handle stitched in red calfskin and the blade etched with the words “Tom Kelly.” It could only be used to slash other designers.

  “But … but …,” I sputtered, still hoping for a reprieve
. “It’s so … not Tom Kelly. It’s so over the top. Why are you making me wear this?”

  “Because people have accused me, at times, of playing it safe. Of sticking to clean lines and simple silhouettes. Well, I’m going to prove that I can step outside my comfort zone and still create a sensual and flattering look. And not only is the camouflage print a classic, it will disguise any bloodstains. So please put down the bayonet and stop pointing it at me. Mrs. Chen, show her where it’s supposed to go. Yes, in that hidden pocket on the thigh. Perfect.”

  When Prince Gregory first saw me at dawn on a private airstrip outside London, his face didn’t move. I could see his mind ticking off possible explanations for what I was wearing although the only reasonable answer was that all of my other clothes had been stolen and I’d been forced to borrow a costume from an especially garish musical about Che Guevara’s showgirl sister, Tiffany-Kelli Guevara. Because the prince was the kindest man I’d ever met and because his parents had raised him to be polite and because he didn’t know how to begin even discussing my jumpsuit, he didn’t say anything except, “Good morning — I’m so glad you’re here.”

  We were flown in an unmarked, private 747 on a ten-hour flight to a secure airstrip outside Kabul, the Afghan capital. Then we were moved onto a smaller military plane for a two-hour hop to a remote base that housed troops from both England and America. The prince had served in the English military and while he hadn’t been allowed onto any battlefields, he was respected by all of the officers and soldiers we were introduced to, especially because he was fluent in all sorts of soccer and rugby scores that left me blank. I tried to fold in on myself and become as inconspicuous and obedient as possible so that no one would notice what I was wearing, which was like trying to hide hundreds of torrid red helium balloons by asking, “What hundreds of torrid red helium balloons?” So far everyone had been very nice and a female recruit had suppressed her laughter, although she had asked me if Tom Kelly had started his own army.

  “Are you all right? Hanging in?” said the prince over the grinding roar of the military plane’s engines. I knew I’d become spoiled because I found myself longing for the billion-dollar hush and the cuddly cashmere bolsters of Jate Mallow’s borrowed jet but I suspected that it wasn’t a good time to whimper, “But aren’t there any magazines?”

  “I’m fine,” I told the prince, although my stomach knew I was lying. “What exactly do you need me to do?”

  “You’ll need to become two things: every man’s dream girl and every woman’s best friend. It was my mother’s specialty — the charm assault. Once she brought me with her on one of those puddle jumpers in the Congo. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with the logo of a relief organization, and I watched her as she spoke with a tribal warlord. She was asking him to allow a shipment of food and medical supplies to reach a remote village. And she worked her magic but I remember noticing that, tucked into the waistband of his pants, the warlord had a gun.”

  “Your mother was fearless,” I said, and then I got very quiet, because the prince’s story had made it clear that we were on a plane headed for an extremely dangerous and deeply foreign part of the world. I’d been experiencing all sorts of high life but I’d never been so far, not just from Missouri, but from safety.

  “Are you scared?” the prince asked gently.

  “Yes.”

  “So am I. I mean, we’ll be surrounded by security, we’re completely coddled, but we will be meeting a great many very brave people in a very difficult region.”

  “But — you’ve done this before.”

  “And I’m always scared. I’m scared that people will laugh at me, which they have every right to do. And I’m scared that they’ll call me a brat and a tourist, which they also have every right to do.”

  It had never occurred to me that someone in the prince’s position would ever be scared of anything and I wondered if, just maybe, we weren’t all that different. Maybe on some level everyone’s just a Becky, trying to be a Rebecca.

  “Oh, and while we’re here,” the prince added, “if you can, I’d also like you to end global warming, promote gender equality and erase thousands of years of religious and ethnic strife.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “That’s why I wore the beret.”

  Then the prince leaned forward and took my hand.

  “You’re going to be great,” he said and he was suddenly so sincere and so deeply concerned with my happiness that I wanted to hug him or cry or throw myself out of the plane without a parachute but mostly, I wanted to make the prince proud of me.

  Our transport was met by only a small contingent of officers since Prince Gregory had requested as little royal deference as possible. As I was introduced, everyone was welcoming and it dawned on me that despite far-reaching, Internet-driven snipe these people had better things to do than either be aware of my existence, or hate me.

  “Welcome to Her Majesty’s Base K-51, Ms. Randle,” said a lieutenant in properly sand-colored camouflage gear and a helmet. “Good to have you. I’m sure our troops will be very happy to see you.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said, trying not to sound pathetically grateful for his good manners.

  “And I’m loving the boots.”

  We were shown just a fraction of the base because the prince had to remain under heavy guard at all times and we were quickly ushered into a block-long canvas tent draped with netting, which served as a mess hall. There were rows of battered folding chairs and wobbly cafeteria-style tables and the prince and I were installed behind a central food-service station to dish out soup, mashed potatoes and bread onto the dented metal trays of the soldiers who were beginning to straggle into the tent. A line formed and I suspected that the soldiers were more interested in a decent meal than in gabbing with royalty or whoever I was.

  “Good to meet you,” said Prince Gregory, expertly scanning the name tag of the first soldier to take his place in line. “Private Krenley. I’m Greg. Where are you from?”

  Prince Gregory asked each recruit for his or her hometown and how long they’d been in the service and in Afghanistan. The prince had been conducting these mini interviews since childhood but the effort and his interest in the details of the soldiers’ lives wasn’t rote and he didn’t seem to be congratulating himself on reaching out to lesser mortals. He’d mastered the most accomplished form of celebrity; he looked each soldier in the eye and picked up on details which led to further, personalized questions. I paid attention to the prince’s example and I tried to make sure that my friendliness wasn’t fleeting or phony as I met Private Drew Hemplers, from Maryland, Colonel Colin Stannard, from Sussex, and Sergeant Stacey Craddow, from Butte, Montana.

  I didn’t see who was next in line because my steel ladle had become embedded in the vat of mashed potatoes and I was jiggling it. “I’m sorry,” I said without looking up. “I’ll be right with you.”

  “Take your time, ma’am,” said the next soldier and when I jerked the ladle free, before I could read his name tag, he said, “I’m Cal.”

  It was Cal Malstrup and I knew that he was from East Trawley, Missouri. I’d heard that he’d enlisted and here he was, in uniform, with his head of once center-parted, dishwater blond hair all but shaved. Like many very young soldiers he resembled an angelic serial killer, all nose and ears and sunburn.

  “Ma’am, I hope this doesn’t sound rude or outta line,” he said, “but you sure are, well, I don’t think the word ‘pretty’ even begins to cover it. Or even ‘beautiful.’ You’re like the final frontier.”

  I was both terror-stricken and ecstatic. I was sure that Cal would recognize me and part of me wanted him to. I hadn’t seen him since our graduation ceremony in the East Trawley High School auditorium, where he’d sat with his arm around Shanice, who’d partially unzipped her black robe so everyone could see her lacy pink camisole and her lacy pink cleavage and she’d tilted her mortarboard to one side, as if it were a f
un, new hat thing that she’d bought to wear while playing miniature golf or for going to the Jamesburg Shopping Plaza with her friends to buy more fun hats. When I’d marched down the center aisle, holding my rolled-up diploma, Cal had looked away and then, I think, nodded at me, imperceptibly. I’d kept my black robe zipped all the way up and I’d worn my mortarboard centered and low so I’d looked, according to Rocher, like I was graduating from the nerd academy and applying to night school in pest control.

  “Thank you, soldier,” I told Cal, in the mess hall. “I’m Rebecca Randle.”

  “Really? That’s so weird, ’cause back home, I knew a girl named Becky Randle, just like you. Only, whoa, I mean, she wasn’t anything like you.”

  “Was she your girlfriend?”

  “Oh no. I mean, we almost went to a dance once and she was nice and all but we were more, like, just hangin’ out. You know, not hookin’ up or anything.”

  “Was she pretty?”

  “Becky? I … well, I guess she was okay looking but I mean, she wasn’t the sort of girl where that’s the first thing you’d say about her, you know?”

  I inhaled sharply. I felt even worse than when I’d first heard that Cal was taking Shanice to prom and more hurt than when I’d been rated “nada special” on Pretty Or Shitty? I’d thought that Rebecca would be my armor, my emotional Kevlar vest, so that I’d never have to feel that bad or that small or that completely obliterated ever again.

  I wanted to smash my ladle over Cal’s head and scream at him. I wanted Becky’s head to shoot out of my mouth and give Cal a heart attack. I wanted to make him crawl and apologize; I wanted Rebecca to stand, with her arm around Becky’s shoulders, and inform Cal that Becky was smart and pretty and popular and that he didn’t deserve her. And then I wanted Becky to give Cal a well-rehearsed, high-minded lecture on how to treat people and about how looks and popularity and family money shouldn’t mean anything and about how Shanice was personally responsible for the attacks on the World Trade Center.

  Why did Cal’s approval and his romantic attraction mean so much to me? I knew that he wasn’t the only person who’d describe Becky Randle as mild and faceless, as a girl who kept her head down and succeeded at not being noticed. And now I was Rebecca, the most beautiful woman in the world, and Cal was right where I thought I’d always wanted him, standing in front of me and all but pawing the ground with lust. So what was I after? Respect? Justice? Worship? No. Because he’d known Becky and now he’d met Rebecca, I wanted Cal to do the impossible. I wanted him to stop me from going crazy. I wanted him to do what I couldn’t because I wanted him to tell me who I really was.