That’s a relief to hear. But I’m still not out of the fire when it comes to assassination.
Tatiana turns a shade more serious.
“No, Elizabeth Turner. Neither I nor my father will be protesting this turn of affairs, although when it is made public, I cannot gauge the reactions of my fellow countrymen. They have been primed to accept it, however, thanks to the endless stream of photos featuring you with Alex for the past couple of months. No, the enemy is much, much closer to your home.”
“What do you mean?” I say.
“Exactly what I mean,” she replies cryptically. “It would do you well to keep your eyes and ears tuned. When the strike comes, it would be from the most unexpected of places.”
5
I spend the next four months being afraid of my own shadow.
I’m jumpy and nervous. “Is our food tasted before it’s served?” I ask Alex. “You know, as by royal food tasters?”
He’s astonished for a split second, and then he throws back his head and laughs.
“Oh Liz, darling.” He wipes tears from his eyes. “Where did you get that? We’re no longer in the middle ages.”
“It never hurts to be safe,” I argue.
“Yeah, but who in the hell wants to poison us?”
You never know, Alex, I think soberly. You just never know. It’s like the proverbial sword hanging over our heads. I don’t know when the strings tethering it to place are going to be severed.
To calm my nerves, I take French lessons. I spend a voluminous time with Marie Vassar whenever she has time for me. Now that her brother is King, their business and social calendars are filled with engagements and appointments. Marie has taken over a large chunk of the casinos so that her brother can be left to tend to more kingly matters.
My mother came to visit for two weeks. Alex paid for everything, of course – first class all the way. It was the first time my mother had ever met Alex, the first time she has ever been to Moldavia and the first time she has ever flown first class. In fact, it’s the first time she has ever been out of the United States.
Her jaw has not left the ground.
She has seen the pap photos, of course, and has been hounded by tabloid reporters to tell her side of the story. Or rather, my story. How I was as a child. Where I grew up. If I had any boyfriends as I was growing up.
Unlike Deanna, she never took the bait. Not even when they offered her a hundred thousand dollars.
Mom was like a fish out of the water everywhere. She never lost her awe of Alex (“But he’s a King! Yes, I know he’s very young and handsome, but he’s still a King, sweetheart.”). She had one tea with the Queen and Marie, and she clattered her way through with the teacups, spilling half her Darjeeling on her cheese and tomato finger sandwiches. She is clueless about dining etiquette.
I know I ought to be embarrassed for her, but I’d rather have my Mom for a Mom anytime than Alex’s mother, who is polite and smiling throughout, without the smile quite touching her eyes.
“I don’t belong here, sweetheart,” Mom says, abashed.
“Of course you do, Mom.” I hug her.
“No, I don’t. And neither do you, Lizzie, as much as I hate to say it.”
I hate to admit it too, but she is right.
“I have a bad feeling about this place, Lizzie.” She shudders as she looks around the grand palace. “It’s as though we are being watched all the time. Nothing feels safe. Nothing is private.”
Those are my exact sentiments, though I have learned to ignore it. Mom is far wiser than we give her credit for.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Lizzie, giving up college and all. But Alexander is a good, good man. He loves you very much.”
“I know, Mom. I know.”
I say a teary goodbye to Mom as she leaves for the airport. The time has now come for another major confrontation – the announcement of my official engagement to Alex. So far, the family knows about it and they have been majorly uneasy, except for Marie.
But it’s time to make it public now. It’s time to drag that-which-shalt-not-be-discussed into the limelight.
Let the mudslinging begin.
*
The official announcement will be to the press. Under Madame Fournier’s careful guidance, Alex and I hold our first interview for Telemonde Moldavia, our local TV station. But CNN, FOX, BBC. Al-Jazeera and all the big world news reporters are here too, not to mention the gossip rags.
I’m dressed in a deep blue velvet dress. It has a demure neckline and a very flattering waist. My hair is brushed and coiffed to shining ‘natural’ perfection. I am bright-eyed and innocent-looking. My face has been touched up so as not to make me look too young, lest Alex be accused of robbing the cradle, even though we are only a few years apart in age.
Alex is so impossibly handsome that I can’t take my eyes off him. Which is a good thing. He helps me focus on what we are here to do. We have to sell our love to the world and come off not looking like the bad guys.
The interview is conducted in English. Our interviewer is the most famous talk show host in Moldavia, Yvette Dupree. She’s the Oprah of her little corner, and we are about to make her world famous.
We are seated on her couch together. She is placed in her usual armchair facing us. There is no live audience today. A bevy of cameras – more news cameras than I have ever seen in my entire life – decks the entire podium to the front of us. I’m frankly dazzled by all the lights.
My hands are numb. Come to think of it, I can’t feel my legs either. Madame Fournier has made us rehearse what we’re going to say again and again, but there’s always the chance of Yvette Dupree throwing us a curveball. She’s a journalist after all and you can’t curtail the freedom of the press, even in Moldavia.
Even if you are royalty.
Yvette is a stunning blonde. She is not beautiful if you take her individual features apart. Her nose is too narrow. Her eyes too close together. Her lips trend to the voluptuous side. But put together, she is stunning, especially with her huge mane of hair.
“Are you ready?” she says in her low, smoky voice. She is far from deferential, though she is clearly excited. This is her coup and she knows it. Her career is about to go stratospheric.
“Yes,” Alex says.
He clasps my clammy hand.
“You’ll be OK,” he whispers.
It’s like a test I have studied ten times for. I keep telling myself I’ll be OK, and yet, now that I’m here and my examination orals have begun, I am tongue-tied and frozen.