Gorgeous

by Rudnick, Paul

  We reached a library where the double-height walls were lined with tiers of bookshelves fronted with golden chicken wire; there was a narrow catwalk midway up, running around all four walls. Expensively comfortable antique furniture, what Rocher would call “you know, real grandma stuff” was arranged in at least five separate groupings with a central family of armchairs and couches facing a white marble fireplace carved with marble vines, cherubs and animals, all climbing to the room’s coffered ceiling, which was inset with layers of moldings and gilded and painted crests. The room would have outraged Tom Kelly because floating in the shafts of sunlight from the high, stained glass windows, there was dust.

  “Your Majesty?” said Lady Veronica. “I have Rebecca Randle.”

  The Queen rose from a tufted, high-backed, green leather armchair by the fireplace. As she stood, the carpet near her feet came to life, because eight small dogs had been dozing at her feet. These were the corgis, which were the weirdest dogs I’d ever seen, each with the tiny, alert ears of a fox, the sleek snout of a collie, the body of a long-haired beagle and the stunted tootsie-roll legs of a dachshund. They were sniffing the air busily, as if something in the at mo sphere might allow them to grow taller and wider. As with short men, they were hypersensitive, straining and adorable and I wanted to pick each of them up. But, as with short men, I knew they’d be offended.

  “Good afternoon,” said Queen Catherine. “So pleased to meet you.”

  The dogs, in unison, let out an ominous, low growl and while they didn’t lunge they all leaned toward me, with only their stubby little legs preventing an attack.

  “Hush,” said the Queen, and then, to me, “I was speaking to the dogs.”

  As Rocher had directed, I curtsied, which gave me a second to size up the situation. By now I’d met tons of celebrities and almost none of them came even close to matching their magazine covers or baseball cards or ads for vitamin-infused bottled water. Queen Catherine, however, looked exactly and only like herself and I wanted to pull out a five-pound note and hold it up to her face just to check, and marvel at, the similarity and the Queen’s lack of vanity. She’d refused to have her nation’s money Photoshopped.

  Her face was both sharp and sweet, like an efficient yet maternal postmistress in an ad for some new overnight shipping service. She wore oversized, pinkish eyeglass frames and a carefully applied coat of baby-pink makeup, more powdered sugar than concealing mask. Her lips were the shiny cherry red of a Life Saver and her hair had been shellacked into a glistening, untouched snow bank. But what really wowed me was her outfit: She was wearing thick opaque stockings in the mature-shopper shade called nude, a pleated gray, just-below-the-knee cashmere skirt and a silk blouse with tufted shoulders, billowing prairie-pirate sleeves ending in wide gauntlet-style cuffs fastened with ten mother-of-pearl buttons apiece and, at the neck, a bow so full and cheery that it belonged on one of those holiday wreaths that fills an entire front door. The bonus was the color. The Queen’s blouse was a vibrant black, which set off the different sizes, from half-dollars to Frisbees, of happily Crayola, rainbow polka dots. The Queen looked like the most wished-for birthday gift or a blue morning sky dancing with jubilant hot-air balloons and before I could help myself, I blurted out, “You look fantastic!”

  “As do you,” replied the Queen. “It’s dreadful, isn’t it — so many people are afraid of color.”

  I almost went for a high five or a fist bump in support of bold color but the dogs revved up their growling so I kept my distance. I was about to say, “I like your house,” but I knew it would sound dumb and then I didn’t know what to say, because meeting the Queen of England to discuss my potential marriage to her grandson was something that no one, not even Rocher, had really prepped me for.

  “Your Majesty,” I began, settling for being as open and truthful as I could, “thank you so much for agreeing to see me….”

  “Of course I would see you,” said the Queen, gesturing for me to take a seat opposite her on a bottle green tufted leather sofa with rolled arms. “You have saved my grandson’s life, for which I am profoundly grateful.”

  “He’s worth saving.”

  “Much of the time.”

  As she said this the Queen smiled and I could see her resemblance to Prince Gregory.

  “And now that he’s on the mend,” the Queen continued, “I take it he wishes to marry you.”

  As she said this, all the dogs yipped in outrage, a canine Hallelujah Chorus of high-pitched protest. I wasn’t sure if the Queen had discreetly signaled them or if the dogs had been following our conversation, but either way, they weren’t pleased and they weren’t about to shut up.

  “Pups!” the Queen commanded in a firm, louder tone, silencing her pets. “I’m sorry, but they’ve been extremely concerned.”

  “About Prince Gregory getting married?”

  “Of course. You see, these are corgis, which are the most highly intuitive mammals next to man, although in my opinion, their speculations are far more accurate. They shredded my last undersecretary’s shoe, which led me to demand a thorough investigation of her past and my representatives discovered that she had in fact forged several checks on my household accounts. I have spoken with our prime minister about including corgis in our nation’s judicial system although he’s been sadly reluctant.”

  I was about to jabber about how much I loved dogs and to ask the corgis’ names but I knew I wouldn’t be fooling them. I’d sound like I was pretending to be interested in someone’s bratty children by asking them which grades they were in and whether they liked their teachers.

  “Pups,” said the Queen and the dogs formed a half circle around her, like dutiful students on a field trip. “Of course Gregory wishes to marry Miss Randle. She is an extremely beautiful and accomplished young woman.”

  One of the dogs began to whine and the Queen addressed her. “I beg your pardon, Natalie, but acting in a film can indeed be considered an accomplishment. Of sorts.”

  The Queen lowered her teacup onto its saucer and placed the saucer on a side table. The initial friendly, getting-acquainted portion of our meeting had ended.

  “I shall ask you three questions. And if we are satisfied with your responses …” She and the corgis exchanged a righteous nod, as judge and jury. “Then we shall offer our blessing and wish you only the greatest and most lasting happiness in your marriage to Gregory. If, however, your answers are unsatisfying or incorrect …”

  All of those beady little eyes, including the Queen’s, glared at me. “Then today, after you leave the palace, you will never see my grandson, or England, ever again. Not a note, not a phone call, there will be absolutely no further communication between you of any kind, let alone a wedding. Are we understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “First question.”

  One of the corgis began to whimper and the Queen told him, “No, Patrick, you may not ask the first question. She won’t understand you. Not with that lisp.” The corgi sat down, disgruntled but silent.

  “First question: Which person have you loved most in your life? And do not name my grandson, that’s too easy.”

  I swear I didn’t imagine this but the corgis all lowered their heads and rolled their eyes. Only English dogs are capable of sarcasm.

  “My mother.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she was my mom, and because she didn’t have an easy life. She came from nothing and when she got pregnant my father left her and never came back. And she worked at three jobs, from 6:00 A.M. till midnight, until she gained too much weight and had to go on disability.”

  “She did?”

  “But before all of that, she had another life and she was unbelievably beautiful. And it must have been hard for her to give that up but she never felt sorry for herself, or whined or even talked about it. And she always made sure that I had clothes and food and a roof over my head. I’m still not sure what happened to her but I loved her more than anything. She was the best person.
”

  “You’re correct. Because, you see, I knew your mother.”

  The Queen of England knew my mother? Did the Queen own a trailer? “How? How did you know my mom?”

  “Question Number Two.”

  I was flustered but if the Queen was forging ahead I must’ve done okay with Question Number One.

  “If you should marry Prince Gregory you will become a Princess Royal. At some point, if and when the mood strikes me, I shall die. And you will become Queen. Which royal figure do you most admire and hope to emulate? And don’t say Queen Catherine, because I wasn’t born yesterday. Although I do have lovely skin.” The corgis began obligingly licking the Queen’s smooth pink hands. “I feel that corgi saliva is the finest emollient.”

  “Okay …”

  “Which royal figure?”

  “Princess Alicia.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she was beautiful but she knew that wasn’t enough. Because she used her beauty to make good things happen. Because she was smart and strong and opinionated and …”

  “Stop. Please. I know just which adjective you’re reaching for.”

  “Headstrong? Fierce? Generous?”

  “Irritating.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve only known the public Alicia. I was her mother. As a child, she was willful and fretful and thoroughly obnoxious; she wouldn’t sit still, not for a moment. She’d go missing for hours, and we’d find her at the stables, renaming all of the horses in honor of her favorite mass murderers, or on the street, asking passersby if they’d like to purchase one of my handbags, which she claimed were ideal for smuggling infants out of the country. And when she was a teenager I thought she’d have to be handcuffed and manacled, so she wouldn’t keep running off with some dreadful boy to purchase drug paraphernalia and knickers printed with crude portraits of me, which she’d reveal from beneath the skirt of her school uniform. It wasn’t until years later that she took hold of herself and found some direction in life. And even then she was terribly vain, she’d ask, ‘Mummy, am I too tall, are my shoulders too hulking, are my ankles too thick?’ Which they were. But she could look marvelous and she knew how to put herself together or, more precisely, she knew whom to ask for guidance. And that was how we both came to know your mother.”

  “How?”

  “There was a designer, named —”

  “Tom Kelly?”

  “Don’t interrupt. Yes, Tom Kelly, an American, and he arrived in London to open some enormous boutique, a flagship. And Alicia was thrilled beyond all measure, as she adored Tom Kelly. She thought he was so handsome and she’d clip his advertisements and tape them to her mirror.”

  “So how did you meet Tom? And my mother?”

  “Alicia convinced Mr. Kelly to open his shop with a gala benefit, raising funds to inoculate millions of children in Africa. And Mr. Kelly agreed, provided that Alicia would put in an appearance, although, of course, Alicia would have happily cooked those needy children into a steaming broth, for an opportunity to meet Tom Kelly. So off she went and at the gala, Tom introduced her to a lovely young woman, whose face appeared on all of the packaging. Her name was Roberta Randle.”

  Almost no one had ever used my mother’s proper name. In East Trawley she’d been Robbie Randle or even Robbie Jo.

  “Well, the two girls hit it off, like a house on fire. Alicia dragged Roberta back to the palace for a girls’ sleepover. They were up all night, chattering away about clothes and Tom Kelly and astrology and about which film stars were, I believe their word was, ‘hunk-tastic.’ They became inseparable and soon Roberta had met Prince Edgar, Alicia’s husband, and their children. They called her Aunt Robbie.”

  This couldn’t be true. Yes, like just about everyone, my mom had been obsessed with Princess Alicia and she’d filled shelves of scrapbooks with the most obscure details of the princess’s life, and she’d encouraged me to appreciate Alicia’s every good deed, one-shoulder Grecian gown and disarmingly shy smile. My mom had known Alicia’s favorite treat — a thick, chocolate-frosted English cookie called a digestive — and the entire playlist of pop hits that Alicia had preferred while working out on her elliptical trainer. But I’d always assumed that my mom had acquired this intimate information from magazines and from the tell-all books written by Alicia’s servants and distant cousins, within weeks after her death.

  “Together, your mother and my daughter convinced Tom Kelly to use his success and his shops to support worthwhile projects around the world. Your mother had been with Alicia, in Kenya, on the day she died. She was supposed to share the same flight for their return to London. But instead Tom Kelly rang your mother and he summoned her back to the States. There was some sort of emergency. And so she stayed behind to board a more direct flight.”

  “So what you’re saying is, my mother might’ve died, along with Alicia? If Tom hadn’t called her?”

  “Oh, I’m not blaming Tom Kelly or anyone else. Alicia’s plane went down due to the worst weather and a freak electrical storm. It was no one’s fault.”

  But had Tom known something? Or had a premonition? Had he saved my mother’s life, or had he been implicated in Alicia’s death?

  “When Alicia died I was, as one might expect, bereft. Yes, she could be self-dramatizing and silly and she was always after me to exercise and to drink the most repellent protein shakes but as you’ve said, with all things considered, she was a wonderful girl. And she would have become at the very least, a truly original Queen of England.”

  The color had drained from the Queen’s face and she looked away. The corgis bunched at her feet, nuzzling her ankles. I wanted to ask a thousand more questions, about my mother and Alicia and Tom Kelly, but I couldn’t. From what Gregory had told me, the Queen almost never discussed his mother.

  “She can’t,” he’d said. “She misses her too terribly. And she has no idea what to do with that.”

  “But that was all a very long time ago,” said the Queen quietly. “And your second answer is acceptable.”

  “But, and I promise, I won’t ask you anything else — how did you know that Roberta Randle was my mother?”

  “I didn’t. Of course, Scotland Yard has thoroughly researched your entire existence and found almost nothing. It’s as if until a few short months ago, you didn’t exist. But I’d been shown photographs of you and I’d noted a resemblance and when you walked in, I knew. I felt it. You had to be Roberta’s daughter. You couldn’t be anyone else.”

  “But …”

  “Question Number Three. For, what is that expression? For all the marbles. You marry Prince Gregory. You become Queen. Years pass. Despite your lasting and affectionate union, one morning you receive a tearful phone call from a close friend. And you discover that your beloved husband, King Gregory, is cheating on you. Who knows why? Who can say? Your beauty might have begun to fade imperceptibly. Perhaps your popularity exceeds his own. He’s growing older and knows it and requires a diversion. Whatever the cause, there it is. In your lap.”

  The corgis were eyeing me smugly, as if they’d known about the affair months before I did. If they had eyebrows, they were arching them.

  “What do you do?”

  I couldn’t answer, because my mind was still on my mother and her friendship with Alicia. My mother had hated talking about Alicia’s death; when we’d watched that TV documentary about Alicia and the narrator had reached Alicia’s final days, my mom had shut off the set before being confronted with the expected map of the rough African terrain where the plane had gone down and the close-ups of the smoking wreckage. “It was just so sad,” my mom had said, “and so unfair. Alicia was just getting started. There was so much more she wanted to do.” Then my mom had shut her eyes and whispered, more to herself than to me, “But people die. Everyone dies. That’s how it works.” Was that why my mom had run away from her life with Tom Kelly? Had she felt guilty because she hadn’t flown on Alicia’s doomed jet? Was that why she’d left me Tom’s
phone number, so I could fulfill not her own goals, but Alicia’s? And make payment on some sort of cosmic debt?

  “Take your time. But we need your response.”

  “Well, um, I guess there’s a few different ways to look at it. I mean, I could become really sophisticated and ignore the whole situation and assume that it’s just a meaningless whatever and that if I wait, it will take care of itself.”

  “Yes, that is a possible solution. And is that your answer?”

  “Or, or, I could confront the king and tell him that while our marriage is over, we should stay together, for the sake of the country. I’m sure that other royal couples have handled things that way, they figure out their priorities and then they lead separate lives.”

  “That is not an uncommon choice, and is that your answer?”

  “My answer is …”

  One of the corgis yapped and another corgi nipped the Queen lightly on her shin.

  “Sheila?” asked the Queen. “What is your problem? Oh, oh, of course, thank you. How thoughtless of me. Bless you. Wait just a moment,” the Queen said to me. “I’d almost entirely forgotten but Sheila and Teddy have reminded me. It’s been so many years.”

  The Queen went to a nearby cabinet, opened the chicken-wire doors and slid out a small flat box that had been wedged between books. She handed me the box, which had the Tom Kelly logo. Inside I found a sterling silver picture frame with a photo of Princess Alicia and my young mother standing on either side of Tom Kelly, who had his arms around the waists of both women. Tom was in a tux and both women were wearing red, although not identical, Tom Kelly gowns. The trio was standing in front of the tall silver doors of what had been Tom’s just-opened London store and everyone in the picture looked so terrific and they were all laughing. It was such a joyous and carefree photo but then I began to think about what had happened next, within a few months’ time: The princess had died on a flight my mother might’ve shared. My father had left, leaving my mom pregnant and alone. And my mother’s life had collapsed around her. I’d always been hard-nosed and I’d tried never to think about my dad, because I hadn’t wanted to betray my mother. But now I wasn’t imagining some faceless, unknown deadbeat. I was thinking about Tom Kelly.