things--“
“He invented the coin for Ancient Asia Minor. Up until then, it was mostly barter.”
“Right, there you go, he invented the coin.”
“Yes, and it was a huge success. The King’s riches became legendary.”
“Exactly. What a kingly innovation. And after that kind of stuff, who cares about my cousin Rose scalping me? You know they’re only making you write this biography because of the horrid biography my personal secretary wrote about me.”
“Alistair wrote a biography about you?”
“Wow, Lizzie, I really like you. Where on earth did they find you? You know nothing about me. Don’t you watch the news? The biography wasn’t written by Alistair. It was my last personal assistant, Alfred Tarkins who wrote that piece of trash.”
My brain goes into overdrive. First of all, the Prince of Wales told me he likes me, and what single woman in the world wouldn’t let her imagination run away at this pronouncement? But then, the follow up to that, the part about me not knowing anything about him and not watching the news — that part stung. Although it’s true. If it happened after 1875, forget it. That’s as far as I got in my college history classes.
“You still there, Lizzie? You’ve gone quiet. I didn’t mean any of that in a bad way,” the Prince continues when I don’t respond. “I really do like the fact that you know nothing about me. It means you have no preconceptions. Stay that way. So many people see me on TV or in the tabloids, and they think they know me. You’re an open book and an open mind…..oh, hold on a second,”
In the background I can hear a woman’s sultry voice.
“Time to go already?” Alex asks her.
“I’m sorry, Lizzie, I’ve got to go. It’s really late here. Or should I say early. Would you mind if I call you back? I promise I will, as soon as I get a free moment in my schedule.”
He says all this with a quick goodbye. In the background I hear the woman purr, “Who are you talking to?” As soon as Alex hangs up, I am dressed and out the door. I don’t care if it’s late at night. This is New York. There’s an all-night bookstore in Times Square. I scour the place searching for the Prince’s “unofficial biography.” As soon as I find it, I race home and read in bed. I click my tongue several times in disapproval as I devour the book’s two-hundred pages in less than an hour. Is it true? Is the Prince’s past really this checkered?
Chapter 7
Emmeline Vance appears to be shocked by the size of my apartment.
“It’s a closet,” she muses.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Writing biographies doesn’t pay?” she asks and glances at my sad assortment of clothes that hang on the rod above my bed.
“Filthy ones do,” I add, thinking about the unauthorized biography of the Prince I read last night. Emmeline follows my gaze to the bed where the book lays open.
“Oh that, I read that. Claims the Prince has slept with everyone from here to Kentucky. The Palace is suing the man who wrote it you know. They’ll probably win, too, since the writer was a formerassistan t . I’m sure he was subject to a confidentiality agreement.”
Something on my face makes Emmeline glance at me sadly. “You’re not…you’re not….”
“Not what?”
“Well, you’re right about his age, and most young ladies who meet the Prince, well, they fantasize about him. Who wouldn’t? His future wife will live in a palace.”
Even though I’m only wearing a bathrobe and slippers, I puff up with dignity. “I am a professional, a professional. Our relationship is strictly professional.” I am sure that, by repeating the word “professional” three times in two sentences, the true meaning of my sentence is clear: I do fantasize about the Prince romantically. Quite often, actually.
“Uh-huh,” Emmeline draws out. “Well, back to the real world. I need to tell you a few things.” She looks around as if she would like to sit somewhere, but other than my bed,