Chapter 11Sofia
Chapter 11
Sofia
News of Princess Sofia’s mystery man at long last, good people! Spotted attending a function at the palace late last week was one Lord Strozzi, aka Enzo Revera. What was a young Ledonian business-leader doing meeting Eastern European dignitaries alongside royalty? I wager this man is Princess Sofia’s intended!
But, as excited as I should be at the prospect of seeing our dear Princess Sofia shake off the “pitiful” moniker and finally meet her match, I do have a few questions that desperately need answering. Specifically:
1. Why do the two of them look like they’d rather be with anyone else but together?
2. Could they have both eaten some dodgy prawns at lunch?
3. And most importantly, to quote the Black Eyed Peas, “where is the love?”
This cannot be the man who swept in and rescued the princess at the Husband Hunting Ball from the ring-wielding madman. And if it is, I would hazard a guess he’s clearly not the man she hoped he was.
Perhaps our Besotted Princess is still Pitiful after all?
Your ever devoted royal correspondent,
Fabiana Fontaine xx
#ForcedFairytale
#AwkwardDoesntEvenBeginToDescribeIt
#BackToPitiful
I chew on my lip as I gaze at Fabiana Fontaine’s column in the Ledonian Herald , one of our national newspapers.
It’s fine. Everything is fine.
So what if people are asking questions about Enzo and me? We barely know one another, and besides, what I choose to do with my life is none of their business. The photo snapped of us at the event may not have been all that flattering, but what do they expect? For us to be clinched in some romantic moment in front of my family and foreign dignitaries? Hardly appropriate for a princess of the realm.
I look around the sea of portraits on the walls of the drawing room. All of them are posed and stiff, appropriately regal and dignified—read chins lifted, shoulders back, almost-but-not-quite smug looks on their faces. That’s exactly the image Enzo and I are projecting in our photo, but has the relationship between the people in the portraits been put under the spotlight? Forget the fact many of the portraits were painted hundreds of years ago and their subjects are now long gone, but the answer would be a resounding no .
I huff out a breath.
So, things are a little awkward with Enzo. It’s no big deal. Really, it’s to be expected this early on. You can’t simply meet someone and click with them straight away, can you?
The memory of my easy rapport with Marco bounces up and down in front of my eyes, shouting “yes, you can!”
I push it away. Marco could never be the right person for me. I’m moving on. I’ve got important things to do today, just as I have every day. I’m due at the National Ledonian Portrait Gallery to open the new wing. So, I fold the newspaper in half and head to my waiting car, where George, my usual driver, is waiting. He’s been my driver for years now, and he probably knows more about me than my own family.
“Good morning, Your Royal Highness,” he says as I slip into my seat.
“Good morning, George. A little rainy for an outing.”
“The traffic is heavier as a result, ma’am, so I’ll go the fastest route to Ronan's place, and then onto the Portrait Gallery.”
“Thank you.”
A short drive later, I make a quick visit to Ronan. His leg is in a cast, but he seems bright enough, offering to return to work in the next day or two.
“It's perfectly fine, Ronan. You take the time you need to recover. I've got everything handled,” I tell him.
He offers me a smile. “It has been rather nice to be able to relax at home.”
“Make sure you do that.”
“I promise.”
I leave him with a hamper of delicious treats, promising to return to visit soon, and then George drives me to my first official appointment of the day.
He pulls up outside the imposing neoclassical facade of the National Ledonian Portrait Gallery. With Alex’s decision to move to Malveaux, and with Max still away at Cambridge, both Amelia and I have stepped in to take on more public appearances. Even though Amelia would rather pluck her eyelashes out slowly, one by one, as she told me, I for one enjoy the work.
A crowd’s gathered at the steps that lead up to the gallery, and I notice there are more people here than usual. I suppose with all the chatter in the media about my love life, people want to see for themselves.
I do one last check of my hair and makeup in my compact. As usual for official royal appearances, I’m wearing a simple skirt suit with a string of pearls at my neck, my hair tied up in a French twist with my favorite diamond studs in my ears.
“I’ve received notification that Lord Strozzi is in the car behind us, ma’am,” George says.
Enzo. I’d forgotten he was attending today. Marco and I set that up the day we met in the library. I swivel to look out through the rear window to see a polished black car. Unlike mine, it doesn’t have a couple of Ledonian flags sitting proud at the front, but other than that, it could be royal.
“Right. It’s showtime. Ready when you are, George.”
George climbs out of the car and holds my door open for me. As I step out onto the footpath, there’s an instant buzz of excitement as reporters and the public lurch forward to snap my photo and call out questions.
“Are you dating?” someone calls as camera flashes snap.
“Where’s your husband from the ball?” from another.
“Is it love with Lord Strozzi, Princess Sofia? Because it looks more like duty to me.” This from Fabiana Fontaine herself, the journalist whose column I read only this morning. As usual, she’s right at the front of the pack with her blonde hair in a high ponytail, looking intently at me through her tortoise shell glasses. She’s brandishing a microphone at me, expecting me to answer, and when I don’t, she moves on to her next question.
“What about that knight in shining armor who came to your rescue at the ball? Is he your choice?” she asks. “Word amongst the guests was you were rather taken with that man.”
I blink at her, not sure how to respond, when a man in a pinstripe suit offers me his hand, giving me a welcome reprieve. “Your Royal Highness, Samuel Beatson at your service. It’s wonderful to have you here today to open the new wing of the gallery.”
“Thank you for having me, Mr. Beatson,” I reply, recalling his name from the prep document I was given for today’s appearance, and shooting him a grateful smile .
I need to get far away from Ms. Fontaine and her probing questions.
Enzo appears at my side to shouts from the crowd of, “Are you the princess’s new squeeze?” and “Do you even fancy her, mate?”
Although he looks dapper in his three-piece navy suit and tie, his hair brushed back from his face in his usual style, he scowls at me. “How rude. We’re not even in a relationship. What do they expect?” he growls.
“Enzo,” I warn. I know he’s new at this, but people can overhear what you say and, worse yet, they employ people who can lip read.
“Let’s just smile sweetly and go inside,” I say through a plastered-on smile.
Was it a bad idea to meet him here at such a public event?
I don’t want to dwell on the answer.
“Mr. Beatson, allow me to introduce you to Lord Strozzi. He’s a friend of mine,” I say, and the two men shake hands as the crowd around us buzzes, like an excited hive full of bees.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Strozzi,” Mr. Beatson says.
People continue to yell questions at me, vying for my attention. But as a member of the royal family, I don’t often pass comment on anything in public, other than through the official channels. So, I studiously ignore everyone, and instead concentrate on moving up the steps into the gallery, and away from this intense scrutiny.
I suppose I just got a small taste of what it’s been like to be my brother, Alex, all this time.
Once the door thankfully swings closed behind us, Enzo says, “Is it always that much of a circus?”
“Not for me, no. That sort of behavior is usually reserved for my brother. Everyone loves him.” The insinuation is that not everyone loves me, of course, although if he notices, he doesn’t pass comment.
“You should send a communication to the press, telling them you shouldn’t be treated this way. You are HRH, Princess Sofia, not some actress, looking for notoriety,” he tells me in a low tone so only I can hear.
“It won’t make any difference, in fact, it would probably make things worse.”
“It’s only right,” he sniffs. “You are due the respect of your rank and these people need to know that.”
“Really, Enzo, don’t let it bother you.”
He lifts his brows but says nothing more.
Someone clears their throat behind us, and we turn to see Mr. Beatson with a group of others, all dressed head to toe in black.
“Mr. Beatson, I do apologize,” I say. “All of this attention is all very… new and unexpected.”
“There seems to be quite some speculation in the press following the recent ball held in your honor, ma’am,” he replies, his gaze jumping to Enzo as though to question whether he’s about to be announced as my fiancé right here and now.
“And we all know the media is never wrong,” I reply smoothly.
“Quite.” He turns to Enzo. “Are you an art lover, Lord Strozzi?”
“Only for work created before the advent of the Impressionists,” he replies.
“You don’t like the Impressionists?” Mr. Beatson asks.
“You do know the term ‘impression’ derived from an insult to the art movement, critics calling them impressions because they regarded them as unfinished? Anything after they took over is a waste of time, in my opinion,” he says .
Did he really just write off the entire modern movement as a waste of time? One hundred and fifty years of art?
Mr. Beatson regards him in surprise as I question why I ever thought it would be a good idea to bring him here with me.
I spring into action. “I suppose it’s wonderful then that many of the artworks in your collection are dated prior to the Impressionist movement. Isn’t that right, Mr. Beatson?” I say.
“Err, yes,” he replies, clearly thrown.
“Ah, proper art,” Enzo replies, and I gawk at him in disbelief.
Before I have the chance to say another word—like keep your opinions to yourself , for instance—Mr. Beatson says, “Allow me to introduce you to Jacinta Clayton, ma’am, one of the country’s up and coming portrait artists.” He gestures at one of the people dressed in black, a slim woman who is probably only five to ten years older than me.
There’s no way she painted any of the portraits prior to the 1870s.
“Ms. Clayton,” I say, extending my hand and offering her a warm smile. “Of course, I know your work. You’re a very talented artist, and it’s an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” she says with a curtsy before she flicks her gaze to Enzo.
“Do you have a new piece here at the gallery?” I ask before Enzo offers any more of his firm opinions on art made following my great-great-great grandparents’ time.
“I completed a painting of our Prime Minister recently, which I am very proud of,” she replies.
“Jacinta’s work will be hung in a prominent place in the new wing,” Mr. Beatson says. “Alongside a number of other portraits painted within the last hundred years.” He looks pointedly at Enzo. “Tell me Lord Strozzi, what do you think of Picasso?”
“Illogical,” he replies and the group murmurs.
“Dali?”
“Clearly drunk.”
A muscle in Mr. Beatson’s cheek twitches, but there’s no other outward sign that he’s offended, although it’s clear to me he is.
“I understand I’m here to open this new wing officially for you,” I say brightly, pulling focus back to me and away from Enzo the Liability. “I can’t wait to see it. Should we go there now?”
“If you could come this way.” Mr. Beatson gestures down a wide hallway. “We have select members of the press waiting as well as the members of the gallery’s board.”
I gesture for Enzo to walk beside me. I’m not sure I can trust him not to say the wrong thing if I were to let him loose on the art crowd here today.
We lead the group across the black-and-white tiled floor, through the whitewashed rooms with their high ceilings and columns, with portraits of famous Ledonians through history, including a large portrait of my family, painted when I was about eight years old. I remember posing for it. Alex was six and a total terror, always fidgeting and trying to run free. At one point he tugged on the curtain behind us and the whole thing came toppling down, making baby Max cry and Amelia laugh so uncontrollably that she wet her pants. I was the only one who behaved myself, but that’s always been the way with my siblings.
There’s a red ribbon, stretched across the entrance to the new wing, which has been integrated seamlessly into the old building, providing a large, whitewashed, pristine space to showcase paintings to their best advantage. Unlike in the old wing, the ceiling is lined with wood with sky lights revealing snippets of the blue sky and clouds above. It’s quite breathtaking, and it takes me a moment to take it all in before I focus on the waiting crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Beatson begins after we’ve been painstakingly introduced to all the board members. “We are honored to have Her Royal Highness, Princess Sofia with us today to open the new wing we are so very proud of. Designed by a talented group of architects, Matthewson, Boris, and Giovani, this addition to our already impressive building will allow us to house many more portraits of great Ledonians, showcasing them with an abundance of natural light and a sense of serenity and space.”
Applause ripples through the group.
“And now it is my great honor to ask Her Royal Highness, Princess Sofia, to officially open the wing.” He hands me a pair of scissors, and just as I’m about to snip the ribbon, there’s a loud bang when a door hits the wall, and the sound of a distant voice.
I freeze in position, wondering what the commotion is. Has the crowd from outside somehow managed to get in to the gallery, prepared to throw more probing questions at me?
“But you can’t come in this way, sir,” a nervous voice exclaims.
“I’m late, you see. I got held up. So, I’ll just sneak in. No one will even notice me,” a deep velvety voice replies, and I know instantly who it is.
Marco.
“But sir,” the voice replies, rising in agitation. “Sir! ”
And then, striding toward the group across the new wing’s pristine floor in a pair of green cargo pants, a grubby white T-shirt, his hair in a tousled mess, and a pair of muddy wellington boots, is Marco.
At the sight of him, that group of pesky hummingbirds in my belly that always seem so excited to see him, spring to life. He takes long-legged strides toward me, his T-shirt formfitting enough to show each and every rippling muscle of his torso, and I can’t stop staring at him, stunned.
His lips pull into a smile as his eyes land on mine, and those dang hummingbirds turn up the volume.
“You’re late and you came in the wrong door,” Enzo grumbles as murmurs erupt in the group, everyone’s eyes riveted on this man who looks more like he should be on the cover of a sexy gardener magazine—if such a thing exists—rather than a pristine white art gallery.
“Don’t mind me,” Marco says with his characteristic grin. “Pretend I’m not even here.” He slips between a couple of people on the outer edge of the group, trailing dirt from his boots. He turns to look at me, still smiling as though his unexpected, disheveled appearance hasn’t completely interrupted this important moment.
Noticing the dirt trailed across the floor for the first time he says, “Oops,” with a shrug, that smile still on his face, as though turning up late, coming through the wrong entrance, being chased by a security guard as he creates a trail of dirt in the new wing, all while wearing grubby clothes, isn’t something to be embarrassed about at all.
Between him and his brother’s traditionalist and uninspired opinions on art, I’m utterly mortified.
“Is she cutting the ribbon?” I hear him ask a prim looking older woman with a chic grey bobbed haircut.
“She was about to when you interrupted,” she replies with a smile .
“Is she doing it in super slow motion or something?” he asks and as the woman lets out a girlish giggle, I’m suddenly aware that I’m still holding the scissors in my hands, rooted to the spot, the ribbon still uncut.
“The ribbon. Yes. That’s what I’m doing. I’m cutting the ribbon,” I say needlessly to the group. I snap the scissors shut, the ribbon floats to the floor, and the group breaks into polite applause.
Enzo leans in and says, “I am sorry about my brother putting you off like that. It’s unacceptable. I’m going to have some stern words with him on your behalf.”
Try having some stern words with yourself while you’re at it.
I don’t say it. That might be a conversation for another time.
I glance over at Marco, who has now struck up a conversation with several of the art crowd, all of whom look to be enjoying themselves with him. How can he turn up here in his gardening clothes, interrupt the formal proceedings, and still manage to charm them all, while the man I’ve chosen to be here with me today has done his best to offend everyone, myself included?
I watch in stunned silence as Marco tells a story about a worm, making the people around him laugh, all of them hanging on his every word as though they’ve bought tickets to the Marco Revera Show.
Meanwhile, Enzo is standing rigidly at my side, not saying a word, and certainly not charming anyone.
I couldn’t get a more stark comparison between the two brothers if I tried. One of them looks the part, but offends people, and the other looks like he belongs on a farm, but manages to charm everyone.
Marco flashes his smile at me, and instantly my breath catches, despite the fact that he’s so very far from the sort of man I know I should be with. And yet I find myself drawn more and more to his easy nature, his good looks, and his zest for life.
But I’ve made my choice, and my choice is not Marco. He wouldn’t check any boxes on my prized spreadsheet. He’s younger than me, he’s led a life of adventure and irresponsibility, and he wants to be a gardener. Okay, a landscape gardener, which sounds very grand but when it boils down to it, it’s just the same thing.
No. No matter how attracted to him I am, no matter how easy it is to talk to him, no matter how much I want to let my guard down around him, Marco Revera is not the man for me. I’ve had enough. Whatever I do, however I manage it, I must stamp all my inappropriate feelings toward him out once and for all.