“I haven’t agreed to anything yet!” I protest when Adam pitches his idea to Phoenix.
I give him the side-eye while a make-up artist paints my lips. I’m seated in a chair in the center of Phoenix and Max’s spacious living room, which might look like a regular living room except for the ancient tapestry hanging on one wall and the blue and gold rug on the floor. Aubusson, Phoenix called the rug the first time I admired it. I had to Google what that meant. Turns out they’re made in this little village in France – by hand.
“It’s a great idea,” Phoenix says. Then she glances at me, noting my clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. “I’m not suggesting you’re not good enough as you are, but when I first came to live here in the palace I was clueless about so many things and embarrassed myself on more than one occasion.”
I can’t imagine Phoenix ever being embarrassed. She’s always so poised and confident.
She shakes her head. “But I had Max to help me, and the palace protocol secretary.”
The make-up artist stands back to admire her handiwork.
“Great, then the protocol secretary can give me lessons.” I’d rather spend my time with him than with Adam.
Phoenix pulls a rueful face. “Unfortunately, he’s all tied up with wedding stuff.”
“I could just hide out here in the palace and keep out of sight,” I say hopefully. After all, there’s that lovely big library I could lose myself in. The only Disney princess I ever wanted to be was Belle, and the Beast’s library was the reason why.
“Nonsense!” Phoenix laughs. “Just think how useful your new social skills will be when you graduate and start going for job interviews.”
Ugh. Of course, she’s right. I’m a realist; I know how competitive the job market is, and if I don’t want to be a waitress forever I need every advantage I can get. I throw up my hands in surrender. “Fine, I’ll do it.” I pin Adam with an icy stare. “But I’m agreeing to lessons only. You keep your hands to yourself.”
The make-up artist makes a spluttering noise. I can’t work out if she’s laughing or in shock.
“Yes, ma’am.” Adam keeps a straight face, but amusement lights up his eyes.
Next it’s the turn of the stylist. She’s a local woman, with a Germanic accent that I’m learning is the local Westerwald accent. The puppy dog look in her eyes every time she looks at Adam leaves no doubt how well he knows her. I’m going with ‘in the biblical sense’. I feel sorry for her when I remember Adam’s disdain as he told Elena he never comes back for seconds.
She wheels in a rail of clothes, and Adam flicks through the hangers while Phoenix and I look on, bemused. Neither of us has ever been big into fashion. Since there’s nothing on that rail resembling my usual uniform of jeans or hot pants, I feel lost just looking at it.
“No, no, no.” Adam discards one outfit after another, then he takes one hanger off the rail and holds it up. It’s a baby-blue suit with a knee-length skirt and looks very chic. I can imagine myself wearing it to a job interview. If I were interviewing for a job as a school principal.
I glance at Phoenix and she stifles a chuckle.
For a laugh, I try the outfit on. It makes me look like a politician’s wife. “I’d rather be photographed in my pyjamas,” I tell Adam. Fortunately, he realizes I’m serious.
By the time I try on the fourth outfit, I remember why I hate clothes shopping. The gray jersey dress makes my figure look stunning, but “too funereal” Adam says. The pretty dusky-pink, feminine floral dress is discarded too.
“But I like that one!” I object.
“We’ll save it for Saturday’s polo match,” he says. “That’s going to be your first public outing when everyone knows who you are.”
I try to ignore the sudden anxious flutter in my stomach.
He and the stylist finally settle on a plum-colored pencil dress with a wide collar. I scrutinize the stranger’s reflection in the portable mirror. I don’t feel like myself at all, but I suppose that’s the point. The make-up is so subtle it’s barely there, my hair has been tamed and pulled back into a neat French twist and the dress makes me look taller, more sophisticated.
“There,” Adam says, giving me a critical head-to-toe evaluation. “Now you’re ready.”
The photographer is waiting for us in the Yellow Drawing Room, which has been cleared of all evidence that it hosted a party last night. I walk there in bare feet, dangling the high-heeled, strappy sandals the stylist gave me from my fingers.
For half an hour the photographer makes me pose in at least a dozen different positions, while her assistant runs around tweaking the lights. I’m exhausted by the end of it, even though I’ve done nothing but sit and smile or stand and smile. All this for just one photo?
When I see the pictures, though, I agree the fuss was worth it. The woman on the laptop screen looks like a supermodel. My own mother wouldn’t recognize me. “Can I get one of these to send home?” I ask.
“You have someone special back home you want to send it to?” the photographer asks with a knowing wink.
Is it my imagination, or does Adam tense, like a dog sniffing the air?
“My brother Calvin. He’ll get such a hoot out of this.”
Adam relaxes, and I know it’s not my imagination. I’m flattered at his interest in me. Then I remember the way the stylist looked at him and it’s as good as any cold shower.
When we’re finally done I sag back on the antique sofa. “I could murder a coffee.” I’d also love to get back into my jeans and pumps. Just standing in these heels has killed my calves.
Phoenix looks apologetic. “I have to meet with the press secretary to go through the press releases for tomorrow, but I’ll see you later. We’ll have a nice quiet dinner en famille in our apartment, so I’ll see you then.”
She leaves, followed closely by the photographer and her assistant, and Adam uses the internal house phone to order us tea and coffee. Then he moves to sit in the armchair across from me. “What are you studying?” he asks, casually crossing an ankle over his knee.
“Accountancy and finance.”
His eyebrow rises. “An unusual choice for someone with a passion for history.”
“There’s not a lot you can do with a degree in history.”
“How close to graduating are you?”
“One more semester.”
“Your brother – is he older or younger?”
“Older.”
“Any other siblings?”
“No.” Where is this game of twenty questions going?
“The weather has been warm and clear this week.”
And what is it with this obsession everyone in Europe has with the weather? I’m saved from having to respond by the arrival of a maid with a tray filled with cups and saucers, two teapots, milk and sugar, all in the same dainty floral-patterned porcelain. She sets the tray on the coffee table between us.
I lean forward. “Thank you, but I asked for coffee.”
Adam uncrosses his long legs. “The coffee pot is the taller, thinner one. Tea is the shorter, rounder pot.”
Yet another thing I’m clueless about. The maid sends me a sympathetic look, then leaves, and I hide my embarrassment by shifting forward to pour. “Tea or coffee?”
“I’ll have tea.”
I pour tea into one of the dainty cups and pass it to him, before pouring my own coffee. “So when do we start my first lesson?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“But all we’ve done is chat.”
“Exactly. Your first lesson is how to make small talk. Conversation is like a game of tennis. I lob a ball at you, and I expect you to pass it back. When I ask if you have a brother, I’m not just looking for an answer, I’m giving you an opening to ask me back. Each question is an invitation. Try to avoid dead-end answers. Expand your answers, or ask a question in return.”
“How is talking about the weather supposed to start a conversation?”
“It’s an icebreaker, a neutral topic, something that affects everyone. So your response could have been, ‘Yes, it has been lovely weather for sightseeing.’ That gives the person you’re talking to the opportunity to respond with, ‘Oh, are you new to Westerwald? What sights have you seen? What did you think of the cathedral?’ And that opens another whole avenue of conversation.” He sets his teacup down. “Let’s start again. Pretend I’m the complete stranger sitting next to you at dinner. So you have a brother – is he older or younger?”
I try to imagine Adam as the rather dull young man at dinner who only wanted to talk about the weather. I can’t. “He’s a few years older. Do you have any siblings?”
“One younger sister, but she acts like she’s the older one. What does your brother do?”
“He’s a lawyer.” I say it with pride. Calvin was the first person in our family to go to college, let alone graduate.
“My little sister’s a lawyer too. She heads up the legal affairs and HR departments in our family firm.”
I imagine his sister’s job is a whole lot more glamorous than Calvin’s. He works for a small non-profit that mostly handles divorces and maintenance battles for women who can’t afford legal help. He’s overworked and underpaid. I’m going to guess those are both completely foreign concepts in the Hatton family.
Adam grins. “See, that’s not so difficult, is it?”
Actually, it is. Making small talk requires a great deal of concentration, as I try to think of ways to keep the conversation flowing without digressing into the forbidden topics of politics and religion (and money), all the while trying hard not to divulge more about myself than I need to. I’m not ashamed of where I grew up or my family but, remembering Adam’s Lesson Number Two, I don’t want to give him any information that can be used against me. And it turns out direct questions along the lines of “What do you do?” are also considered gauche and American – who knew? There are more things we can’t talk about than we can.
An hour later, I’ve not only learned how to make bland conversation with strangers, how to listen and make eye contact, how to sit right (without crossing my legs, keeping my back rigid as a plank), but also the correct way to pour tea if I’m the hostess (milk first, then tea). And I learn that here cookies are called biscuits.
“What’s so funny?” Adam asks when I laugh.
“I’m imagining myself serving tea and biscuits back home. We don’t get a lot of guests.” We don’t even own teacups.
“We?” he asks.
“I still live with my mother.” His eyebrows lift in surprise, sparking my defences. “Rent is expensive. I could either go to college or I could get my own apartment, but not both.”
Trust me, if I wasn’t so determined to graduate and make a better life for myself, I would have moved out long ago, but I didn’t have the benefit of a football scholarship the way Calvin did. It’s not that I don’t love my mother, but we’re such different people it’s hard to believe we’re related. She’s a hopeless romantic, always believing that the next job is going to be The One, that the next man she dates is going to be her knight in shining armor. By now you’d think she’d realize there’s no such thing. You want a job to be The One, you have to stick with it. If you find a good man, you don’t let him go, hoping something better will come along. Instead of being satisfied with the good things she had, she’s still chasing dreams, and she’s still alone.
“Where’s your father?” Adam asks, as if sensing the direction of my thoughts.
I shrug nonchalantly. “I have no idea. He took off before I was born.”
He bolted the moment my mother told him she was pregnant. I’m not hurt that he abandoned us. Many men leave when the going gets tough, and that’s just the way life is. What hurts is the mean voices of the playground bullies telling me I’m not worth sticking around for. I’m a grown-up, I know that’s not really true, but sometimes I still hear those voices.
Adam looks at me thoughtfully, and I feel stripped bare again. “You know, with a little less Goth Girl eye make-up and a little more polish, it won’t be hard for you to find yourself some rich man so you never have to work another day in your life.”
My anger is swift and blinding. Pretend he’s just another drunk gambler who needs to be humored or handled. It doesn’t work. “Are you suggesting I sell myself for money?” My voice is deadly calm. Anyone who knows me would start running at that tone.
“It’s not as if I’m suggesting prostitution. People marry for money all the time.”
What is this – the eighteenth century?
With shaking hands, I set down my half empty coffee cup and rise. “I am no gold-digger, and not in a million years will I rely on anyone to support me.” I turn and, with as much dignity as I can muster in these heels, stride from the room. As soon as I’m out of Adam’s sight I pause to strip off the offending shoes and hurry down the main staircase to the front door. I hand them to the footman on duty, ignoring his bewildered expression, and head out into the gardens.