#a glimpse into Maries life in savoy

[ourplaceinthecosmosphff]

Chapter 6. Meet Cute

‘You're the only person I've ever met who seems to have the faintest conception of what I mean when I say a thing.’

Virginia Woolf

Harry had a bottle of Champagne on one hand, which he’d grabbed from a waiter waiting in the hall. I had two fistfulls of my dress in mine, trying to keep up with his fast, slightly giddy pace, as we made our way towards emptier parts of the palace, passing by bored security officers on our way.

We continued playing as we did.

“Truth or dare?” I asked.

“Truth.”‌‌

“Have you ever killed anyone? Be honest.”‌ I asked, seriously, and he immediately started laughing. “Even by accident.”

“No! Have you?”

“Not yet. I’m saving my youth.‌‌ We’ll see what happens in the future.”

“If you knew you would never be caught, which crime would you commit?”

“Who’s to say I‌ would commit any crime?” He gave me a teasing look. “Fine. I‌ want to drive at a really ridiculously high speed.”

“Boring.”‌ He said, right before grabbing my hand and quickly pulling me into a hard right through big golden doors that led us into a beautiful, green drawing room. “Okay, protocol. Which really wild thing you wish you could do, but can’t because the press would never forgive you?”

“Hm.”‌ I thought on it for a while, distracted by the pretty painting near the window. “Wear a crop top.” I‌ confessed, to his amazement. 

“Really?”

“You have no idea how hard it is to be a woman in this position.‌ Anything I‌ do is scrutinized a lot more than anything my brother does. So yes, there’s a lot of fashion options that are simply not open to me.”

He held open the door for me, “Okay, I’ll allow it. I would also like to see you in a crop top.”‌ He added, quickly, in a low tone. “Now, what’s the wildest thing you have done that the media doesn’t know about?”

This was trickier; I‌ looked around at the high ceilings and spotted the black, round glass fixtures at strategic positions.

“Go on, there ought to be something!”

“Oh, I‌ have an answer… I‌ just can’t answer here. Is there a room around with less, or hopefully none, cameras?”

His smile grew, as he started pacing a little more determinedly. “...I’m intrigued.”

“While we wait, truth or dare?”

He sighed. “I can’t focus now!”

“Tough. Choose.”

“Truth.”

“If you had to choose between going naked or having your thoughts appear in thought bubbles above your head for everyone to read, which would you choose?”

He grinned. “Hm, well, most people have already seen me naked, it was a pretty popular tabloid front page, not to brag, so... I suppose I would rather you didn't know the extent of what you do to my thoughts… yet.”

My first instinct was to blush, fast. He added that yet with such vigor, such promise, it was hard not to wonder, it was hard not to immediately ask what I did to his thoughts. Tell me everything, my heart begged; I want to know all the dirty details. 

But something wasn’t right. The more I thought about it, the more his lighthearted, casual, overtly nonchalant tone seemed like a cover. The essence of what he was saying, after all, didn't feel like a laughing matter.

I remembered what he was talking about, albeit faintly. Something about a wild night in Vegas, an untrusted, unchecked female guest, and a nude picture snapped in secret and sold to the highest bidder.

“I'm sorry that happened to you.” I told him as he guided me into a room.

He looked at me, surprised, and shrugged. “...I should have known better.”

“Your security sure should have.”

He sighed; a small, resolute, forced smile hadn’t left his lips yet. I hadn’t thought I was able to dislike a smile on him, but I didn’t love that one.

“What can you do?”

“Still. I'm sorry.”

He nodded, looking at the carpet. I walked in, hearing the door close. Once inside, I realized this smaller than average palace room was mostly a deposit area with well organized boxes along some shelves. 

I walked to the end of the room, so the lights streaming in from outside would help him see it, as I reached to the zipper on my side.

“So, what have you done?” He asked. When I looked back at him, his smile was a little more sincere. “I can’t wait to find out. I do have a few guesses-What, what are you doing?!”

I was unzipping my dress. I smiled at him and approached, sustaining his look as I‌ did. Then I turned to the side, holding the fabric to my chest, but allowing the back of my dress to fall open slightly.

“Oh.”‌ He let out, softly; almost in slow motion, automatically as it didn’t seem like he had even noticed this, his hand reached over to me.

He touched the back of his delicate, cold two fingers to the skin over my ribcage, under my right arm, where a tattoo of one tiny daisy, barely as thick as two of my fingers, laid just below my arm, a little under the direction of my breasts. I moved my bra so he could see it, green stem and white petals and all. I felt his fingers draw them out softly, agonizingly slowly, making it feel bigger than it was, making chills erupt over my entire body; something I hoped he wouldn’t be able to see. 

“Any particular meaning?”‌ He wondered, whispery. 

I shrugged, slightly. When I answered, it was in a tone that matched his, making the moment feel all the more fragile.

“Margueritte means daisy in French. They can symbolize innocence, purity, or new beginnings. I like the new beginnings meaning. There's also the Roman myth of Vertumnus, god of seasons and gardens, who fell for Belides, a nymph. He pursued her, who in order to escape his affections, turned herself into a daisy.”

He looked up at me, the corner of his lips curving up slightly, one brow reaching up. 

“A metaphor?”

“Ha-ha.” I said, monotone, making him smile. "You know, daisies are actually two flowers combined into one. The inner part and the outer petal section, and because they blend together so well, some people also say they symbolize true love."

“I like that meaning more.”

I rolled my eyes, but my smile was sincere.

“They also mean the person who gifts them can keep a secret, so I appreciate the irony.”

“Nice.”

His touch was so delicate I was barely aware of it; it rested there for a few seconds before he seemed to shake out of a trance, and removed it quickly, coughing a timid laugh.

“Sorry.” 

I shook my head, smiling. “I don’t mind.”

“I wish I could have one.” He told me, as I closed my dress again, with some difficulty.

He approached, offering me his hands with a questioning look; I nodded, and he closed my zipper smoothly, barely touching my skin again. 

“How have they never seen it?”

“No crop tops, remember? And one-piece bathing suits.” I told him. “And a healthy disregard by the media for any monarchies other than yours.”

He laughed. “You don‘t know your luck.”

“Oh, I do.” I assured. “Anyway, that’s me. Wild, I know.”

“Yes, your tiny flower tattoo is very wild, Mary.”

We exchanged an amused smile.

“So, where to next?.”

He looked around, raising his hands to showcase the boxes. “What, are you not entertained?”

Laughing, we made our way out of the room and continued walking.

He walked us out of the room and through the majestic halls of Buckingham Palace we went, me always stopping by the beautiful artwork or vases to try and commit them to memory, and him always telling me I could google that later, he wanted to show me the spaces not everyone got to see, which was a pretty great pitch.

Eventually, I had to sit down in a red velvet sofa. 

“You try walking through an entire palace in these shoes!” I told him when he rushed me again. 

He replied by coming over, picking my shoes in one hand, and offering me the other. “I’ll carry them for you, let’s go.”

“Harry,” I started, laughing, taking his hand and reaching over for my shoes, “I’m not going to walk around Buckingham Palace barefoot!”

“Why? Everyone is across the palace in the state room.”

“Yes, but if we run into anyone, it’ll be a scandal! This is the type of thing people leak! I will bring shame to my country!”

“Dramatic.” He rolled his eyes. “But alright, how about this?” He kicked off his own dress shoes, carrying them in the same hand as mine. “Now we’re both bringing shame to our countries.”

And so we continued.

He pointed out the rooms where famous, important people had been hosted through the years, dared me to touch a fancy, expensive looking statue and when I got very close slowly, he said ‘boo!’ and I jumped three feet back. Eventually, he grandly opened the double doors that led into a wide, white room filled with gold fixtures in every crevice.

“Oh. Wow.” 

The first thing I did was to walk right to the center of the room, spin around slowly trying to look at everything at once, and then carefully sit down and lay on the floor, one hand to my tiara to make sure it wouldn’t fall.

“Uhm. What are you doing? You can’t be that tired!”

“First of all, rude. You clearly have no idea how easily I get tired. And secondly,” I offered him my free hand, “come here.”

Smiling, he left our shoes on one corner of the room and approached, holding my hand with his and laying by my side carefully. “Now what?”

“Look.” I told him, looking up at the ceiling. 

It was high, wide, and with white and gold in a beautiful round, geometric pattern. Even from a distance, it… gleamed.

“Oh... Huh.” He said, slowly. “I had never noticed that before. It’s… kind of nice, isn’t it?”

My only response was to smile. We allowed the silence to reign for a while, our breaths filling in the space it left out. Our hands were still clasped together lightly, but it didn’t feel weird. It felt… just right.

“Sometimes it’s really easy to forget how awful it is being royal, isn’t it?”

From the corner of my eyes, which I kept fixed above, I noticed him turn his head to watch me.

“Yes.” He replied. “It is.”

The ceiling was really just part one of the amazing things in this room; there was a marble statue of Sappho, a classic painting of Queen Alexandra, crystal chandeliers, and a 1775 french roll-top desk. 

Harry was looking at me, expectantly, as I examined each little thing.

There were two mirrors on each of the side walls, another atop a fireplace, and three sets of mirror double doors.

“Why were our ancestors so obsessed with their own image? There’s a whole mirror hall at the Palace in Wolhounn, done as a replica to the one in Versailles.”

“They didn’t have TVs.” He replied, with a shrug. “Mirrors were like magic.”

He pushed open the double doors to the far end of the room and guided me through a few other magnific rooms until we were in what he called, ‘the center one’. He left our shoes in the floor, then pulled me to the center glass doors and pulled open the curtain covering it, only a tiny bit, to allow me to locate myself within the view. We were exactly in front of the mall, the front of the palace, right before the balcony where his family walked out regularly on formal occasions. 

I was already impressed, but he wasn’t done. He crouched down and asked me to follow him, opening the door carefully and sneaking out on his knees. Realizing what he was doing, I followed, careful with my dress. If we stayed down, even the reporters waiting to see us leaving the palace after the dinner wouldn’t be able to spot us.

“This is usually covered when we come up here,” he told me, gesturing to the holes in the front of the balcony wall. 

We sat down next to it, peaking over under the moonlight, at the view ahead. I could see the black and golden gate of Buckingham, the big fountain ahead, with Queen Victoria's monument in gold atop it. Far beyond, the mall's long, straight street, surrounded by the Hyde Park trees, and the lights of the city of London ahead.

“This is… just amazing.”

He smiled. “My mother taught me this trick.” 

There are no fairytales about honest conversations. We never got Cinderella’s heartfelt conversation with the prince, explaining what she’d been through at the hands of her family; if the prince ever asked Snow White what did it feel like to die, we didn’t get to hear about it. Did Rapunzel ever get nightmares about being back in the tower? What was that therapy session like? I suppose, at the end of the day, there’s no right time to have a difficult conversation. 

I don’t remember what made me decide it was now or never; was it the way the gleam of the moon and lights of the outside shone in Harry’s eyes, and only I could see it at that very moment, when the whole world had no idea we were there? All I remember in hindsight is taking in a deep breath as I watched him, and turning around to stare back at the closed glass doors, as I told him:

“We met when I was eight.” 

He looked at me, confused.

“I’m sorry. I… I didn’t intend to make a thing out of it. It sort of just… happened. And now I feel bad. And I feel that if I don’t tell you now, it might be worse later. Because it’s not actually a fun story.”

His brows furrowed, betraying the worry as much as his gulp did. He nodded.

“Hm, Okay? So, you… You were eight?” He seemed to do the math in his head.

I‌ nodded. “You were twelve.”

He blinked, once. Looked back outside through the hole in the balcony wall, and then nodded as he turned around to sit next to me. “Oh.”

I held in a deep, bracing, breath for two seconds, and began, at last, to speak.

“My aunt Marilou was living in Britain at the time. Her husband is Irish-Scottish, they lived in London, so my father and I came to visit and we met them for a holiday in Scotland. It was meant to be a family trip, but my brother had the flu so my mother stayed home with him. Eventually, after we were in Scotland for a few days, he sat me down to talk.”

I ventured a look at Harry, who was still stoically looking ahead.

“My great-grandfather had passed away only a year before, and even though I was too young to fully grasp the gravity of the situation, I remembered how… somber the whole house was for the whole following month. Well, my father asked me to remember that, and then told me that a friend of his had passed away only that week. Her family was staying nearby, and he wanted to stop by to offer his condolences on our way back home. He wouldn’t normally bring me to something like this, but we were already on schedule to leave, and it just made sense. He told me to be quiet, and respectful, like when grandpa died, and dressed me in my most serious dress, a green one, and we rode into this beautiful, big stone house with ivy covering the walls.”

Harry fidgeted with his hands in his lap, and laid his head back.

“I remember now.”‌ He said. “In the garden… It was you?”

I‌ smiled, sadly. “I‌ walked over to you, and sat down beside you where you were sitting behind a stone wall nearby the fountain. You looked like… like you were hiding.”

“I‌ was.”‌ He confessed.

“I’d met her, just a couple of years before. I remember like it was yesterday. She was wearing this white flowy dress, with shoulder pads. She was just so pretty. She looked like one of my Barbies. I was completely blown away… It was a royal tour to Savoy that she did with your father, I must have been six. After she said hello to my parents, she… she lowered down and said hello to me, but I just looked down, I‌ was so shy... She brushed my hair with her hand, and said I‌ looked really pretty in my bow. My mom had tied this black ribbon around my head as a headband, and had made a bow in the top. Very nineties.”

He smiled, slightly. But it was enough to make me feel better. Slightly.

“I‌ managed to say thank you, and she asked if she could borrow it, so I‌ nodded, and she smiled. It made me feel… grown up, you know? Seen. She was just so nice… I spent the rest of the trip waiting for the right time to give her my bow, but ended up not seeing her anymore, so every time I looked at it, I thought of her. And when I‌ realized that was the friend my father was there about, in that beautiful stone house-”

“Balmoral.”‌ 

“Yes, Balmoral. I‌ felt heartbroken. So I found my black ribbon in my suitcase, before we got there, and kept carrying it around in my hands as my father had tea with your father and grandparents. He told me I could go see the garden if I wanted, so I did. That’s when‌‌ I found you.”

“You didn’t speak English.” He smiled.

“No, you didn’t speak French.” I returned, making his smile grow a little bigger. “But I think we got on alright.”

“I’m going to be honest,”‌ he started, “I just wanted you to leave me alone.”

“Oh, I’m sure! Now. Back then, I‌ was just happy to find another kid. You helped me sit up on the wall with you. And you asked who I was. I did understand a little bit of english, so I said I was Princess Margueritte, of course, but in French, so you just stared ahead and pretended to understand. And I said, in French, we were there about the nice Princess who’d died… and then you said your mother was dead... I understood that too.‌”

“How come I barely remember this?”‌ He wondered, more to himself than to me.

“It was a difficult time. Memories are… fragile.” He nodded.

He looked at me, eyes wide, brows still furrowed. “You gave me a ribbon.”

I‌ smiled. “‌I did. The one I had in my hand, the one your mother said I‌ looked pretty in, and asked if she could borrow.‌”

“You said it was hers.”

I‌ grimaced. “I’m sorry. I was eight. I meant, I‌ wanted to have given it to her, I didn’t mean to lie.”

“No, it’s okay. I‌ just…” He sighed, heavily, running a hand down his face. “I still have it. I‌ saved it. I‌ have it in my drawer. I‌… I don’t know how I‌ forgot about it until now, but I‌ always just kept it because it was… hers.”

“Sorry I basically lied about it.”

He smiled. “Let’s chalk it up to a mistranslation.”

I‌ nodded. “So, anyway. That’s how we met.‌ Soon after, my father’s aide came to get me and we left back home to Savoy. A few days later my parents attended the funeral.”

A few seconds went by, then a few minutes, as we breathed peacefully watching the reflection of the moon and stars on the glass of the double doors, with our backs to the street. I couldn’t know what he was thinking about, but I was thinking of the irony of all our privilege being almost relative to the unfairness that came with it. I wondered if that was what he was thinking of, and if this was weird enough for him to take his distance now.

Instead, I felt his hand reach for mine, which he held firmly, warmly, in his.

“Thank you.”

“For… for what?”

“I don’t know… For telling me.”

“…I should have just said that three days ago.‌ I’m sorry. It’s weird, isn’t it?”

He shook his head, and looked at me. “Thank you for giving me a piece of her, all those years ago, at the time when‌ I‌ needed it most. I‌ was…”‌ he shrugged, “devastated. And then I had that piece of fabric in my hand that was hers. Every day afterwards, I‌ held it in my hand, thinking of her. I still do, sometimes. And it was because of you.”

We sat there, holding hands, for a long while. Passing champagne back and forth, drinking straight from the bottle, trying to find a way back to ourselves.

“Truth or dare?” he asked, and I smiled.

“Truth.”

“Why did you and Christopher break up?”

He’d talked about something awfully personal, so I figured it was only fair I did the same.

“He… We weren’t... There just wasn’t a way to make it work.” 

He looked at me with his piercing blue eyes for a long while, and I sighed, knowing deep down that wasn’t the truth.

“I’ve known him my whole life. He was my first crush, kiss… everything. We started dating officially just out of school, he also went to college in America, he’s a year older than me, so he was already there when I moved. We were only about one hour away from each other. But then he graduated and got a job in Chicago and we broke up because it was just too far away. We got back together a few months later, he got a job in New York, and we moved in together after I graduated while I did a one year internship there.”

“I didn’t realize you lived in America that long.” 

“It was four years in University, Harvard offers a special degree where I could get a bachelor’s and master’s at the same time, so I graduated from Law School at the same time as undergrad.”

“Nerd.” He teased, making me laugh.

“He got an offer in Savoy, and I had to come back because, well… I’m me. But my job is in Tallmound, which is a big city about two hours away from the capital. It’s sort of the business center of Savoy. And Chris’ job was in the capital. So we went from living together to doing sort of long distance again.”

“That isn’t that far, though, right?”

“No, and I wasn’t worried. But… with our long hours, it was just… hard. Still, he was my only serious relationship for the past… eight years. My family has known him forever, they love him. And the press has known of us for that long, too. I guess they assumed as soon as we were back home, with our degrees, there was nothing stopping us from getting married. And eventually, they started… asking.”

I heard him let out a long sigh, which more than anything he could have said, let me know he understood.

“Suddenly, there was this… understanding that we were supposed to be planning on getting engaged soon. And Chris, I think, started to realize what marrying me would really mean.”

“Would he be expected to work?”

I sighed. “Yes, I think. As a spare, I’ve been allowed to have a private career so far, and I’ve been able to plan for a future career, as well. There are limitations, of course. I can’t work criminal cases, for example. So I think he would have been able to do his own thing, too, with limitations, maybe, which I told him. But, eventually, I think we would both be expected to help my family full time. And, honestly, I don’t mind. I like working, I like the royal work, and I think I’ve found a good balance, I think with some talking we could find something that worked for us. But… Well, he never gave me the chance. I guess, maybe, he didn’t think it was worth the hassle.”

There was a silent pause as my words hung in the air.

Then, he sighed. “What an idiot.”

I held down a smile for as long as I could, but then I looked at him, and we started laughing. And then we laughed so hard it was a little too loud, so we thought it was safer to crawl back inside.

I adjusted my dress; Harry put the empty bottle on a center table as I walked around the room once more, noticing the gleaming details in the matching Chinese vases by the doors, pretending I didn’t know he was watching me from afar.

“Do you-” I started, “Do you ever think of just… walking away? From all of this, I mean?”

I didn’t know why I asked, but I think maybe I wanted to know if his answer would match mine.

“Every day since my mother died.” He shrugged. “It’s sad, isn’t it? We were born into some of the most beautiful places on Earth, and all we want to do is leave.”

I smiled, not daring to look at him. Those were the words inside of me I had never dared utter.

“Wait.” He said. “So, when you got here, three days ago, and you were sexily mad at me-”

“Sexily?” I asked, in a shocked chuckle.

“Were you mad because I didn’t remember meeting you when we were kids?”

My smile froze on my lips; “Not… exactly.”

“Okay?”

Sighing, I adjusted my posture, and looked back at the vase, which was almost as tall as I was. 

“So… when I was about eighteen,”

“Ten years after we met.”

“Yes, I had recently graduated from boarding school and finished my military training-”

“Your what?!”

I rolled my eyes, impatient. “Six months military training is mandatory for all the men in Savoy, and optional for the women. As members of the royal family, we are encouraged to opt in to promote our country’s military.”

“Oh. So, you… you have a uniform and stuff?”

I tried to emulate his best dirty grin, which I had grown to memorize, “Why? Are you into women in uniforms?”

He smile, wide. “I’m into you in a uniform.”

I laughed loudly. “God…”

“You asked!”

“Okay, so, moving on… I was about to move to America for University, but a friend from boarding school who is British was having a big party for her 18th birthday, so I took the train to go to her party and see my friends before moving across the Atlantic…” I turned to look at him, trying to ignore the red still in his cheeks, “Do you know a Clara Clearmont?” He seemed confused. “Big house in West Brompton-”

“As in Timothy Clearmont?”

“Yes, that’s her brother.”

“Oh! Yes, I know Tim. Well, we have friends in common.”

“Do you remember being invited to his sister’s birthday party?”

His eyes became unfocused, and then he squinted. “Yes, he would usually invite everyone, their house is huge… It was a cool, wild part- Oh.” He looked down. “Oh, I’m not going to come out well in this story, am I?”

I smiled, ignoring his question. “So, I was having a grand old time, hanging out with my friends, trying to avoid these really loud, drunk British boys who’d just arrived-”

“Oh, God…” He murmured.

“I went to the bathroom, and right before I opened the door to leave, I overheard some people just outside, talking about the birthday girl… Apparently now she was 18, Clara was, and I quote, fair game.”

“Okay-” He tried to interrupt, but I wasn’t done.

“One of the boys talking mentioned her friends from boarding school were hot too, and one of them, can you believe it, is a princess as well!”

He sighed, longingly, avoiding my eyes.

“And then a voice, now familiar to me, responded, in a slur, oh I saw that one, she has a weird face!”

“Marie…” He started, now using the exactly right pronunciation to my name.

“I opened the door, because I wasn’t about to just stand there and listen to how wrong my face was, but before I could even get past them, the same voice pointed to one of my closest friends and said, and I quote, that one I could just bury myself into all night.”

He used both his hands to cover his eyes, and brushed them up to grab two fistfulls of his hair, eyes still closed. I gave him his time.

In truth, it was hard even for me to conciliate the boy I’d heard say such ridiculous things in a drunk haze years before with the smiley, flirty guy I’d spent the last three days being increasingly charmed by. Sure, he was a flirt, but 29 year-old Harry did not come off as rude, or drunk. Especially not after tonight.

He let out a long breath. “I am so sorry.” I smiled. “Really, I am. I… I was in such a- no, no… no excuses. I’m, I’m just really sorry.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

“In my defense,” he started, and I tried to prepare for whatever came next, “I was an arse at that age.”

I laughed. “Yes, I know.”

“No, really, I was just… a dick.”

“Yes, I believe you.” I nodded still, teasingly.

“I was… I was just all over the place, I… I had no idea what I was doing… And I promise you, I soon realized just how much of a dick I was and started… trying to be better. I still am, actually. But… god, I’m sorry, Mary.”

“...I know.”

I wasn’t sure how, or if I was right at all. But I did believe him. No one was perfect at twenty-two. Particularly people who went through what he did at such a young age. Royalty screws most of us up, some more than others, and he had it particularly bad. 

“Honestly, now that I say it aloud, it does feel… stupid to have held it against you all these years when I didn’t even know you.”

“I don’t know, I think you were right to.”

“Well, I guess. But still, people change. I have. I believe you have, too.”

He smiled, and let out another long breath. “God, Jane Austen would be disgusted at us.”

We laughed. “Yes, resolving the main conflict in three days with a simple, honest conversation? She’d be out of business.”

He smiled.

“Truth or dare?” I asked.

“Truth.”‌

I‌ turned to look at him, hands clasped behind my back. “Do you find a girl to flirt with on every state dinner you attend?”

He laughed, blushing. “No, actually. In fact, this is my first state dinner.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I must say, 10/10. Would definitely recommend state dinners to a friend. The company is particularly interesting.”

“Wow, how momentous. I‌ didn’t know I was witnessing history tonight. Did you also think there would be dancing like in a Disney movie ball? It’s what my sister thinks.”

He smiled, offering me his hand. “Why not? Let’s do it.”

I‌ twirled in my dress towards him, making him laugh, and took his hand with a grandiose gesture. 

“This way I can tell her that there was actually dancing this time!” 

“Exactly.” He nodded, pulling me close, passing an arm around my waist faster than I could understand. I wasn’t sure if I was dizzy because of the champagne, the smell of citrus on him I could smell again, or the way his blue eyes felt so invasive from up close.

“What shall we dance to?”‌ I asked, in a whisper. 

He reached into his pocket, clicked away in his phone, and then returned it to his pocket. We waited as the song started, and he put a delicate, questioning hand on my waist. I was just starting to appreciate his citrus smell when a strong, beat, following a male voice started on a song that was definitely a lot more upbeat than he had intended. I knew this because his eyes widened and he hurriedly found the phone to change the song, but I‌ was already dancing to the beat, still holding on to his hand as I did, laughing at the shock in his face.

“I‌ clicked on a random playlist.” He justified. “It was supposed to be romantic songs…”

“Well, it is!”‌ I‌ returned, “It’s just a happy, romantic song!‌ Come on,‌ Harry”

The song went on to the chorus, now even dancier, ‘Now my feet don't stop movin', and my eyes won't stop lookin', and my mind won't stop racin' with the thought of you’.

He finally surrendered, and started dancing with me, moving his hips in a way no British person should be allowed to. And when the singer said, ‘If you could come one step closer, and just hold me a bit longer’, he pulled me closer in a quick, smooth motion, and passed an arm around my waist so we could dance up close; we swayed to the rhythm, twirling around to the sound of this song that was unknown to us, and the swish of my dress as we moved, ignited by champagne and starlight, and the utterly energetic feeling of being alone with each other in the very symbol of what we both wanted to escape from one way or another: a palace.

I wasn’t sure how it happened, but we were soon breathing the same air, our feet moving fast, his arm around me tight, and his breath along with mine; I joined my arms around his neck, and he laid his forehead in mine, with his eyes closed. His hand caressed my back, my hips, slowly hovering over where he knew my tattoo was as he reached higher to caress my shoulder and follow along my arm, feeling my skin with his palm as we danced; as the room felt warmer, smaller, brighter and darker all at once, as only us existed, no past, no overwhelming future, no lines of succession. 

Just Harry and Mary.

And then we heard a noise at the door, and I almost tripped on my own feet stepping back from him too quickly. 

“I’m sorry, so sorry, ma’am.” Joyce, my security officer, apologized as she popped her heard in. “Your party is ready to leave, only waiting on you, ma’am.”

“Yes, thank you, I’ll… I’ll be right with you!” I said, a little hoarse.

I cleared my throat when she closed the door, taking in a deep, calming breath. I was glad to see Harry was a little awkward himself. He picked up my shoes, and returned them to me with a sad smile, so I sat down in a velvet green sofa in the corner, and put them on as he did the same with his. 

He held the door open for me, and we made our silent way back the same way we had come, with Joyce following a few steps behind. I wasn’t sure I was imagining it, but maybe we were walking a little closer than strictly necessary in such a wide hall, with our hands brushing against each other often, and my lower lip almost swollen at how much I was biting it to keep from smiling.

Once we were back at the gallery where guests were congregating, we tried to act normal, and not many people seemed to have noticed we were gone. But it was hard pretending I couldn’t see the almost too casual smiles on my brother’s face, matching the one in his brother’s and sister-on-law’s. 

Auguste came to tell us it was time to make our formal goodbyes, so I gave Catherine a light, quick hug, wishing her the best and thanking her for the lovely three days, which she shakily returned.

“I hope we’ll be seeing you again soon.” William said, with a cheeky smile it was hard not to mimic.

Finally, I curtsied once more to the Queen, thanked her for her hospitality, and stepped back so my father and her could walk out together, as they talked.

Before I could step out of the room, however, I felt a delicate hand hold on to my elbow. 

“Truth or dare?” Harry asked, in a whisper.

I looked back at my father, far enough not to hear, but walking slowly enough that I had some time.

“Dare.” I picked, looking at him with, well, hope.

He smiled. “I dare you to go on a date with me.”

I grinned at the floor, brushing one strand of my hair behind my ear. 

“Next weekend. I’ll take the train to Savoy. I have a friend who’s got a place there, so I think I can make it without being seen. I can pick you up at… seven, or whenever you leave work.”

“Yes.” I said, nodding. 

I think it was the ‘whenever you leave work’ that did it. The willingness to make it work, whatever it took. That’s what made me say yes.

“Okay.” He nodded, offering me his hand.

When I took it, I felt a folded piece of paper, which made my smile grow bigger as I assumed it must have been his phone number.

He raised my hand to his lips, laying a delicate kiss on my knuckles, as his eyes never left mine.

“Your Royal Highness.” He said, bowing his head.

I curtsied, “Sir.”

Then I bit down my smile, quickly hid the piece of paper in my handbag, and followed my grinning brother out of the palace; the future gleamed with possibility.

--- ---- ---

[A/N: Thank you SO MUCH for reading!!! I’d love to know your thoughts! What do you think? What can I improve? What would you like to see?? Drop a message! Thanks <3]

#phff #prince harry fanfic #prince harry fanfiction #princeharryfanfiction #princeharryfanfic #prince harry #brf #chapters #Modern Royalty AU #modern royalty fanfic #modern royalty fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #NEXT WEEK #a glimpse into Maries life in savoy #and she and harry develop an interesting texting relationship

[paralleljulieverse]

Periodically, the Parallel Julieverse likes to profile some of the many talented photographers who have worked with Julie over the years. One of the more fascinating, and possibly lesser known, was L. Arnold Weissberger (1907-1981). 

An entertainment lawyer who first rose to prominence as legal representative for Orson Welles -- he drafted the actor’s much-ballyhooed 1940 contract with RKO (Chapman, G-3) -- Weissberger was for many years the resident go-to attorney for the theatrical haut monde. “[O]ne definition of high and mighty,” claimed a newspaper report, “is to be a client of his” (Hunter, D3). Indeed, with a client list featuring everyone from Sir Laurence Olivier, Cecil Beaton and Lillian Gish to Garson Kanin, Billy Rose, Helen Hayes and Igor Stravinsky, Weissberger could have given MGM a run in the “more stars than there are in the heavens” stakes. 

A gentleman of the old school who always wore a suit jacket and trademark white carnation, Weissberger was as admired for his charm, grace and unerring discretion, as his legal nous. Quipped Orson Welles:

“Like the Rolls Royce, this lawyer is valued not only for the pleasing elegance of his appearance, but for performance, which can be formidable. A terror and a scourge to producers, he is a wonder to observe. Yet the loudest thing on Arnold is his Patek Philippe watch.” (Weissberger 1973, 337)

 Weissberger was also life partner to Milton Goldman, a successful theatre agent in his own right and vice-president of International Creative Management. Together the two men -- equal bons vivants and talented socialites -- formed a show biz power couple that presided over the trans-Atlantic theatre scene for decades. Their weekly Sunday cocktail parties were legendary and their swanky Sutton Place apartment “became the party place for theatre personalities from three continents” (Lawrence and Lee, 227). Each summer, the couple would relocate to Europe, spending a month in the River Suite at the London Savoy where they would host a whirlwind of social affairs with "every famous name you have ever wanted to meet” (Harris, 47).

It was in this context that Weissberger developed what he fondly called his “double life” as a celebrity photographer (Wise, B-1). A self-avowed “shutterbug” since youth, Weissberger never went anywhere without his trusty twin Leicas, “loaded at all times, one with outdoor, the other with indoor colour film” (Glover, 10-A). Though unabashedly amateur -- he was entirely disinterested in the the technical dimensions of photography, “never uses flash, hates to be bothered with filters and won’t have a light meter around” (ibid.) -- Weissberger honed his talents through a good eye and sheer voluminous slog. By the mid-70s, he estimated having shot 50,000 pictures of people and another 60,000 on travels (Anderson, 25).

It didn’t hurt, of course, that Weissberger had ready access to some of the most famous people in the world. How many photographers, marvelled one newspaper report, “run into Orson Welles, Marlene Dietrich, Noel Coward, Lord Snowden...Alice B. Toklas, Marianne Moore, W.H. Auden, Peter O’Toole, the Redgraves, Beatrice Lillie and Judy Holliday in their daily rounds?”  (Wise, B-1). The fact that he knew these celebrities personally and was, for the most part, photographing them in the context of private social events afforded a genuine intimacy and unguarded spontaneity unmatched in most other celebrity photography of the era. 

“His subjects are his clients and his clients are his friends,” noted Orson Welles, “We all smile in front of his camera because Arnold is behind it” (Weissberger, 1973, 337-338). In a similar refrain, Douglas Fairbanks Jr remarked that Weissberger “is a gregarious host with a catholic taste in friends” all of whom “have long since learned to repose their collective confidence in [his] gentler disposition and infinite discretion” (ibid, 183).  

For the most part, Weissberger took his photos for the simple fun of it and as personal mementoes. He was known among intimates for compiling the shots as “gifts for friends, to be presented in elegant gold-tooled, white-bound albums on Christmas or birthdays” (Weissberger, 1973, 282). As Weissberger’s archive of celebrity photography grew, however, so did its fame and in the late-1960s he was invited to hold several exhibitions of his work, including a major showing at the Museum of the City of New York (Weissberger, 1967). 

The highpoint of public recognition was undoubtedly the 1973 publication of Famous Faces, a lavish 450-page coffee table book from prestigious art publisher, Harry Abrams, that featured almost 1500 of Weissberger’s portraits taken over a 25 year span from 1946-1971. The literal heft of the tome was such that, when Weissberger gifted a copy to longtime friend, Hermione Gingold, she quipped, “Thanks but this isn’t for my coffee table. From now on, this is my coffee table!” (Lyons, 13).

Famous Faces is an astonishing catalogue of mid-century Anglo-American celebrity culture and a dynamic visual immersion in a long vanished world. “[A]s succinct as Boswell’s Diaries and [with] an even larger cast of characters,” notes Anita Loos in one of several appreciative celebrity “comments” peppered through the tome, “This is more than history; it is poetry and it is art” (Weissberger, 1973, 283-84). 

Certainly, these charmingly candid shots of our Julie, which are drawn from Weissberger’s gallery of greats, possess a decided poetic allure. Disarmingly simple, they arrest with their potent combination of playful ordinariness and historical import. The shot of Julie glimpsed in the background between Flora Robson and Judith Anderson is especially entrancing. Taken in 1960 when Julie had not long wrapped her long star-making turn in My Fair Lady and was about to embark on Camelot, it captures a spontaneous moment of apparent banality  -- “three women at a party” -- and, through serendipitous framing, lighting and, even, costume (the contrast of matronly black and virginal white), imbues the scene with a symbolic cast that borders on the epic. A triangulated drama of looks as the once and future queen of musical theatre apprehends her own - as yet only glimpsed -- grande dame destiny. 

Weissberger had ambitions to develop a second volume of photographs and was also working on an autobiographical memoir to be titled “Double Exposure” when he died suddenly of an embolism in 1981 at age 74. His partner, Milton Goldman organised a special memorial at the Royale Theatre on W. 45th -- where incidentally Julie made her bow in The Boy Friend -- which, by all accounts, played to an adoringly packed-house. “The outpouring of affection was so enormous,” reported famed Broadway correspondent, Earl Wilson (1981), “that VIPs sat in the balcony or stood” (15B) as from the stage a series of heartfelt reminiscences were delivered by, among others, Orson Welles, Ruth Gordon, Garson Kanin, Martha Graham, Louise Rainer, Douglas Fairbanks Jr, Meryl Streep, Beverly Sills, and Lillian Gish. 

It was a fittingly star-studded close to an extraordinary life for this man who remained enthralled by celebrity culture both professionally as entertainment lawyer and artistically as “the Proust of American photographers” and “the chronicler of the headliners” (Wise, B-1).

Sources

Anderson, George.”A Man of 1,500 Faces, None of Them His.” The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. 15 March 1974: 25.

Chapman, John. “Orson Welles, the Movies’ New Mr. Moneybags.” The Chicago Tribune, 13 October 1940: G-3.

Glover, William. “Fastest Shooting Lawyer Shoots Uses Camera in Hobby.” The Daily Times News. 6 March 1968: 10-A.

Harris, Radie. Radie’s World. New York: Putnam and Sons, 1975.

Hunter, Stephen. “Christmas is A-Coming and the Books are Getting Fat.” The Baltimore Sun. 6 December 1973: D3.

Lawrence, Jerome and Lee, Rober E. “Inward Bound.” William Inge: Essays and Reminiscences on the Plays and the Man. Eds. Jackson R. Bryer and Mary C. Hartig. Jefferson, NC: McFarland and Co, 2014.

Lyons, Leonard. “Lyons Den.” The Times. 7 January 1974: 13.

Weissberger, L. Arnold. Close-Up: A Collection of Photographs. New York: Arno Press, 1967.

____________.   Famous Faces: A Photograph Album of Personal Reminiscences. New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1973.

Wilson, Earl. “They Faced the Critics...” Fort Lauderdale News. 12 March 1981: 15B.

Wise, Gabrielle. “'Faces’ Author Likes Unusual Mixes of His People.” The Baltimore Sun. 15 March 1974: B-1.

© 2017, Brett Farmer. All Rights Reserved.

#julie andrews #photography #celebrity #arnold weissberger #milton goldman #Broadway #tony walton #richard burton #jason robards #flora robson #judith anderson

[delphes]

Making my researches for my Louis XIV books gives me little glimpse of his private life and OMG I'm having feelings. 

In February 1669, his illegitimate children with La Vallière, Marie-Anne de Bourbon(3 yo) next to be known as Mademoiselle de Blois, and her younger brogher Louis (2 yo) next to be Count of Vermandois, are baptised. In a letter to the Duke of Savoy, the Marquis de Saint-Maurice says that after the baptism, the king took the boy with him to his legitimate son, the Dauphin (8 yo). He asked the young prince to caress (aka give a hug) and love him, for he was his brother, to which Saint-Maurice says the Dauphin obeyed graciously. Now I just can't stop myself from imagining the three Louis together and the two boys being awkwardly cutewith sun dad observing both of them as "you get along ok ?"

#Louis XIV #Versailles #history #Grand Dauphin #Vermandois #Louis de La Vallière #upthebaguette

[newyorktheater]

Below are 20 recently published or forthcoming books about theater, listed under four categories:

Scripts and Play Anthologies;

Biographies and Memoirs

Theater History, Criticism and Reference

Beach Reads (although I personally recommend you read these at home.)

Each title is linked to its page of Amazon where you can learn more, get a sample, and purchase.

Scripts and Play Anthologies

American Utopia The text from David Byrne’s Broadway show accompanied by more than 150 of Maira Kalman‘s colorful paintings.

The 24 Hour Plays Viral Monologues: New Monologues Created During the Coronavirus Pandemic (Audition Speeches) The texts of monologues that have been written, rehearsed and presented on Instagram weekly since the pandemic lockdown began. The short plays included in the anthology are by such writers as David Lindsay-Abaire, Clare Barron, Hansol Jung, Stephen Adly Guirgis, Christoper Oscar Peña, Jesse Eisenberg and Monique Moses. The book is pitched as material for auditions, but it is also likely to offer a glimpse at the way we are living now.

Slave Play Jeremy Harris’s play about three interracial couples engage in sexual/S&M power plays on a Southern plantation as part of Antebellum Sexual Performance Therapy. It’s safe to say this was the most talked-about play of the Broadway season.

The Methuen Drama Anthology of American Women Playwrights: 1970 – 2020 The plays included are: Gun by Susan Yankowitz Spell #7: geechee jibara quik magic trance manual for technologically stressed third world people by Ntozake Shange The Jacksonian by Beth Henley The Baltimore Waltz by Paula Vogel In the Blood by Suzan-Lori Parks Intimate Apparel by Lynn Nottage

Plays Worth Remembering – Volume 1: A Veritable Feast of George Ade’s Greatest Hits

George Ade was famous in his day as a humorist, columnist and playwright, whose plays were produced 21 times between 1901 and 1936. His nickname “Aesop of Indiana,” may help explain why, if you’re not from the Midwest, you might not have heard of him. Volume 1 focuses on George Ade’s full plays. (Volume II includes musicals and Hollywood screen plays.)

Biographies and Memoirs

Lot Six: A Memoir

Playwright David Adjmi (The Marie Antoinette , 3C) tells of his journey from a miserable childhood in Brooklyn as a gay kid in an insular religious community, to a new adult identity pieced together from the pages of fashion magazines, tomes of philosophy, sitcoms and foreign films, and practically everyone he meets

Dancing Man: A Broadway Choreographer’s Journey

An easy read that offers a light, slight overview of the six-decade career of accomplished and well-connected theater artist Bob Avian, who worked with Michael Bennett on landmark shows “Company,” “Follies,” “Dreamgirls” and “A Chorus Line,” and then went on to choreograph “Miss Saigon” and “Sunset Boulevard.”

Eubie Blake

A new biography of one of the key composers of 20th-century American popular song, subtitled “Rags, Rhythm and Race.” Together with Noble Sissle, he ccreated Shuffle Along in 1921, generally recognized as the first commercially successful all-black production on Broadway. (A re-envisioned version of the musical was brought back to Broadway in 2016)

This Is Not My Memoir

In collaboration with Todd London, theater director, actor and writer André Gregory tells his story “from wartime Paris to golden-age Hollywood, from avant-garde theaters to monasteries in India”

Ann Miller: Her Life and Career

Peter Shelly’s biography tells the story of the dancer and actor who began her career as a child child acting and accumulated three Hollywood studio contracts, two retirements for marriage, and appearances in film, stage, variety shows, sitcoms. She made a comeback in the stage musical Sugar Babies, earning a Tony nomination as Best Leading Actress in a Musical.

Theater History, Criticism and Reference

Ever After: Forty Years of Musical Theater and Beyond, 1977–2019 Originally published in 2003 as a comprehensive history of the previous twenty-five years in musical theater, on and off Broadway, this new edition of Ever After extends the narrative, taking readers from 2004 to the present.

Flop Musicals of the Twenty-First Century: How They Happened, When They Happened (And What We’ve Learned)

A sort of sequel to Ken Mandelbaum’s “Not Since Carrie,” but Stephen Purdy, a member of the musical theater faculty at Marymount Manhattan College, explores just ten shows: Spider-man Turn Off the Dark, Lestat, Urban Cowboy, The Pirate Queen, Rocky, King Kong, Escape from Margaritaville, Glory Days, Bullets Over Broadway and Dance of the Vampires.

Macbeth in Harlem: Black Theater in America from the Beginning to Raisin in the Sun

Clifford Mason details how African American performers fought for a century and a half to carve out a space for authentic black voices onstage, at a time when blockbuster plays like Uncle Tom’s Cabin and The Octoroon trafficked in cheap stereotype.

Pal Joey: The History of a Heel

A behind-the-scenes look at the genesis, influence and significance of this 1940 Rodgers and Hart show that upended musical comedy convention.

Shakespeare in a Divided America: What His Plays Tell Us About Our Past and Future 

A fascinating book by James Shapiro that looks at eight controversial events over two centuries involving Shakespeare, which he calls “defining moments in American history.” Each chapter focuses on a specific year, a specific play by Shakespeare, and specific issues of the day, reflecting long-standing tensions involving race, class, gender, immigration and other fault-lines in American culture.

Tarell Alvin McCraney: Theater, Performance, and Collaboration

A collection of scholarly essays  that consider McCraney’s innovations as a playwright, adapter, director, performer, teacher, and collaborator, who is the author of Choir Boy, Head of Passes, the  trilogy The Brother/Sister Plays, as well as the play that inspired the Oscar Award–winning film Moonlight

Understanding Tracy Letts (Understanding Contemporary American Literature)

Thomas Fahy views the playwright of August: Osage County, Bug and Superior Donuts, etc. through the lens of disability studies, the conspiracy genre, food studies, the feminist politics of quilting, and masculinity studies.

Beach Reads

Deadly Drama (A Britton Bay Mystery Book 4)

In the latest in a series of mystery novels by Jody Holford, newspaper editor and amateur sleuth Molly Owens takes center stage when it’s curtains for a theater director

Shakespeare for Squirrels: A Novel

In this novel, Christopher Moore turns A Midsummer Night’s Dream into a murder mystery

The Summer Set: A Novel

In this slick new romantic novel by Aimee Agresti, Charlie Savoy was once Hollywood’s hottest A-lister. Now, ten years later, her film career long kaput, Charlie’s latest hijinx gets her sentenced by a judge to community service at the summer Shakespeare theater in the Berkshires that launched her career—and where her old flame, Nick, is the artistic director, and where the ambitious young apprentices also have a summer full of sexual tension.

20 New Theater Books for Summer Reading 2020 Below are 20 recently published or forthcoming books about theater, listed under four categories: Scripts and Play Anthologies…