The Frog Prince (23 page)

The plane drops suddenly in altitude again, and I concentrate all my efforts on not throwing up on the pretty leather.

Ten minutes later and we’re taxiing on the runway. Jared throws caution to the wind, unbuckles, and walks back to talk to me. I’m pretty sure he’s committing some federal air crime by doing this.

“We have everything coordinated,” he says. “A car will be waiting for us at the gate so we won’t have to worry about the terminal.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “So there won’t be any reporters.”

“Uh…well, not at the airport.”

“Where are we going from the airport?”

“We decided on the Brown Palace. We’ve already reserved a suite for you. Your family too, of course.”

“Do we get to sneak through the back entrance there too?”

Jerrod clears his throat. “Well, not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

Jerrod sits in the chair across from mine and leans forward, his hands clasped together. “Leigh, I don’t want to freak you out, but reporters are going to be shadowing your steps for a little while. We’re going to do the best we can to shield you from it, but it would be better if you would prepare to–”

“Define ‘a little while,’” I say.

He shrugs. “At least for the next few weeks. The longer you put off talking to the press, the worse it will be. We have consultants you can meet with, people who can prep you for media interviews.”

I stare at him in horror as I realize what he’s trying to talk me into. “You want
me
”—I point at myself as if he’s not clear who we’re talking about—“to give media interviews?”

He twists his mouth to the side as if he’s thinking about whether he should say whatever’s on his mind. “Leigh, I want you to know that I believe in being totally honest with clients. If you decide to keep me around on this little adventure of yours, I’m going to become the best friend you have. I’ve done PR for Hollywood stars and Washington politicians. You may be offended by what I have to say, but I promise not to steer you in the wrong direction.”

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react to this pronouncement. Should I ask for his resume? A list of references? So I just stare at him and wait for him to say something that would makes sense to people who aren’t politicians or Hollywood stars.

“You and Prince Roman are in a relationship, correct?”

I nod.

“Right,” he says. “So now he’s in full protection mode, trying to keep you out of the public eye.”

I shrug. “I guess so.”

“I’m telling you–and if his advisors are any good at their jobs, they’ll be telling him the same thing–the worst thing you can do right now is hide from the press.”

“Why?”

He holds up two fingers. “Two reasons. Number one: supply and demand. The media always wants what it can’t have. If you won’t talk to them, they’ll talk to your friends, your acquaintances, the guy at Seven Eleven who makes your Slurpee. They’ll make your life miserable.”

“Reason number two?” I prompt him when he doesn’t go on.

“If you do an interview or two you can control the message.”

“Control the message?” I parrot. “What message?” The jet comes to a stop, but I stay where I am.

“You’ve heard them talk about you on TV,” he says. “They know you’re dating Prince Roman, and they want all the details. This is the best Cinderella, rags-to-riches story they’ve seen in twenty-five years. Their patience is limited though. Eventually they’re going to get tired of trying to drag your story out of you. That’s when the message will change.”

“Change to what?”

Jerrod leans back in the chair. “My staff’s been monitoring the news channels since the parliamentary vote was announced. Once they knew your name, you were mentioned in almost every news story about Prince Roman until his speech.” He curves his fingers and touches them to his thumb in an O shape. “Since then you’ve been mentioned zero times.”

This cheers me right up. I straighten in my chair and smile. “Really?”

“Really,” he says. “Now every story leads off with a photo of Princess Isabella of Denmark and Prince Roman hugging and”–he holds up two fingers on each hand and wags them up and down like quotation marks–“‘whispering to each other intimately.’ Usually
that’s
followed up with speculation about how a marriage between the two would unite the royal houses of Glücksburg and von Habsburg-Lorraine.”

My smile vanishes. “Roman told me not to believe anything that I heard on TV,” I say tightly.

Jerrod holds up his hands towards me, palm sides out. “He’s absolutely right, you shouldn’t believe it. I looked at the footage and saw a guy talking to a former girlfriend who happens to be an old family friend. But the reason he gave you that advice in the first place is because he understands how this works. And you might follow his advise–at first. But Leigh, you’re only human. Eventually the rumors and innuendo are going make you question everything and everyone.”

“So what are you suggesting that I do?” I say tightly, hoping he suggests a winner-takes-all boxing match with Princess Isabella.

“Take control of it before it takes control of you.”

“Which means?”

Jerrod stands up and pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it now. I’ll take of everything.”

Chapter Twenty

“Did you know that there’s a dent in the fireplace mantle where President Eisenhower hit it with a golf ball?” I say into my brand-new cell phone.

“Don’t change
das Thema
,” says Roman.

“You’re doing it again,” I say as I continue pacing the living room of the Brown Palace’s Eisenhower Suite.

“Doing what?”

“Switching from English to German in the same sentence.”

He groans. “God, I think I’m losing my mind. Two weeks of speaking nothing but German and I’m starting to
dream
in German. I think I was trying to tell you not to change the subject.”

“Sorry. I’m just a little nervous.”

“You don’t have to do this, you know. Put Jerrod on the phone and I can put a stop to this right now.”

I inhale deeply and exhale. “No way. Not after all the practice sessions I’ve been put through in the last week. At this point I’m ready to run for president. Plus, a whole battalion of makeup artists and hair stylists just spent the entire morning making me look presentable.”

“Really, Leigh, what could they do to you that would make you look better than you already do?”

I look at myself in the reflection of the glass of the curtained windows. The makeup is darker than I would wear, but everyone has assured me that it wouldn’t appear as dark in the photographs. My eyes have been heavily shadowed and lined, the yellow flecks in them glittering like gold. It’s hard to believe that the person in the reflection is me.

“Hey, I just remembered!” I say.

“Remembered what?”

“In one of the practice sessions Jerrod asked me why you were born in the Unites States. I mean, your mom and dad are Austrian, right?”

“They’re both Austrian.”

“So why were you born here?”

“Uh…well, a mistake mostly.”

I look away from my reflection in the window. “A
mistake
?”

“My mother and father came here on a summer trip when she was pregnant with me. She developed preeclampsia and her doctors told her not to fly home. So I was born in Los Angeles.”

“But why did they stay?”

“The Habsburgs weren’t even allowed back into the country until the nineteen sixties,” he says. “Laws were passed preventing members of the Habsburg family from running for certain national offices. My parents wanted to avoid the scrutiny–positive and negative–that I would have gotten in Austria.” He pauses. “Besides, my mother liked the warm weather in California so they decided to extend their stay. The short vacation became a long visit, which turned into twenty-something years.”

“So you can still be king even if you’re not an Austrian citizen?”

“I
am
an Austrian citizen. I have dual citizenship.”

“You are…how?”

“Citizenship in Austria works a little differently than it does in the States. In Austria you’re a citizen if your parents are Austrian regardless of where you were born.”

“Oh.” I sigh, the butterflies in my stomach returning full-force.

“You can always change your mind,” he says.

“C’mon Roman,” I say. “I promise I won’t embarrass you.”

“You know that’s not what I’m worried about. I’m sure Jerrod told them what was off the table question-wise,
aber
die Reporter nicht immer folgen
—sorry, sorry!” he says before I can tease him. “I meant to say that reporters don’t always follow the rules.”

I giggle.

“What?” he says defensively. “That was English, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was…eventually. And you can’t hide me forever. The world deserves to know what a social misfit you’re dating. Might as well give the Austrian people a head-start towards revoking the crown.”

He laughs. “You’re crazy. Who’s doing the interview again?”

“Uh, Crystal Tallant from
Vanity Fair
.”

“Oh, right. I had a few people here check her out a couple of days ago…she seems pretty fair.”

“Jerrod says we’ll have the chance to edit the article before it’s published.”

“Perfect,” he says. “What are you wearing?”

“Oooh, are you being naughty?”

He chuckles. “No, but I can get naughty if you want me to.”

“Are you on a landline? Because I’m not. Remember what happened to Prince Charles.”

“I
am
on a landline,” he says. “And no I don’t remember…apparently even
I
don’t follow the world’s royalty like you do.”

“Someone recorded his cell phone conversation with his mistress years ago. He told her he wished he could be reincarnated as her tampon.”

There’s a few seconds of silence as Roman digests this. “Wow,” he says drily. “What a smooth-talking romancer that guy was.”

“It must have done the trick,” I say. “He ended up marrying her.”

“Okay, okay, I can’t listen to this. I’ll probably have to meet them one day. It would be nice if I could keep a straight face if and when that happens.”

“Sorry.” All the pacing back and forth is making me sort of motion sick so I plop down on the navy blue chaise covered with gold
fleur-de-lis
. “To answer your question, I’m wearing a black dress my mother made me. Princess Menen has personally given her stamp of approval to all the outfits.”

“‘All the outfits?’ How many outfits do you need for a magazine interview?”

Even though he can’t see me I roll my eyes. “Roman, it’s
Vanity Fair
, not
The Wall Street Journal
. It’s an interview-slash-photo-shoot.”

“Photo shoot…nice. Hey, send me some of the pictures, will you? I don’t have a single one of you here.”

“I don’t think they’re going to be shooting this with a Polaroid. I’ll be there in a week. Can’t you just wait a week?”

“Probably not. I want to see you now.”

“Turn on the TV.”

He laughs. “That only works if I turn the sound off. Otherwise I just hear things that piss me off.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“What?” he says, his voice suddenly anxious. “What did you hear?”

“Don’t worry, I’m following orders. I don’t believe any of it.”

“Good.”

The door to the suite opens. I raise my hand to Menen who smiles gently in response.

When the plane doors opened at DIA two weeks ago, no one was more surprised to see her standing on the tarmac than I was. As soon as she heard about the parliamentary vote, she called Roman and offered her help. Her Zen-like presence–in total contrast to my constant agitation–has a calming effect and her advice has been invaluable. I can’t imagine how I would have gotten through the last fourteen days without her.

From the doorway she holds up a perfectly-pressed dark gray suit. “Menen is back with more clothes,” I say to Roman. “I’d better go.”

“Yeah, I’d better get back to work here.”

“What
is
‘work’ for a Crown Prince?” I tease. “Going to another ribbon-cutting at a grocery store? Or is it just hard work to find drugs to blow your money on?”

“Very funny. No, I’m meeting with the Home Affairs minister and someone from UNESCO. We’re trying to figure out how to secure an area in Schönbrunn for a private residence without damaging the building or changing the architecture.”

“Why don’t you just build a tree house in the garden and mount a grenade launcher in the window?”

He laughs. “I’ve thought about it, believe me.”

I look up to see Menen still standing politely by the door. “Okay, I’ve got to go.”

“Call me after you’re done. I want to hear how it went.”

“I will.” I disconnect and throw the cell phone onto the couch.

“All those worries for nothing,” says Menen, coming forward and holding the suit out to me.

“Hmmm?” I say, distracted by removing the jacket from the hanger. “Oh, yeah…turns out that I can call his office line directly. They’ve finally given him a secure cell phone too.”

Menen says nothing in response, which is one of the things I love about her. She says exactly what she needs to say and not a word more. I could learn a thing or two from her.

“Where's the royal courtesan?” says a booming voice. It’s followed by the slamming of a door.

I turn around to see Kat hauling in more clothes wrapped in plastic garment bags. I sigh. “How many more of these are there?”

Kat shrugs. “Your mom had these in her shop. She said you might want them for the photo shoot.”

Menen’s expression is suddenly eager. “May I see?”

“Bring them in here,” I say, heading to the bedroom to change into the suit. Except for when I’m actually sleeping, I try to avoid the Eisenhower Suite bedroom as much as possible. The red floral wallpaper and bedspread, red carpet and red-striped furniture make me feel like I’m trapped in a vat of psychedelics and pureed beets.

Kat hangs them on a garment rack in the middle of the room. They’re still swaying on the rack when Menen eagerly unzips the first one. “Beautiful,” she murmurs. “Have you seen this?”