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When I used the word “stroll” earlier to describe what we’re doing, I was imprecise. This isn’t a leisurely promenade. We’re here on a mission to buy a gown, a pair of shoes, and new eyeglasses for Camille. She’ll wear those items for our inaugural reception as Mount Evor’s emissary to France and his dazzling wife. If I’m being honest, I don’t think “dazzling” is achievable anytime soon. But the ambitious goal of the present expedition is to move Camille as far away from “trashy” as we possibly can.
Which is why we’re here.
Unlike the anointment banquet, this time around I opted for prêt-à-porter for Camille. It’ll be a gown by a top designer, but not bespoke. I can’t afford to have her pull another trick like the one at the castle. Whether through cajoling or browbeating, she got one of our best designers to cough up some haute couture that was much too unwieldy and far too experimental. While it might’ve worked for the catwalk, it was all wrong for a celebratory dinner in the presence of the royal family.
When we reach France’s most iconic designer’s boutique, I invite the ladies to step inside.
“No way,” Camille says. “Everything in there will cost a fortune. And those gowns won’t look good on me. Why don’t we—”
I press my palm to her mouth, shutting her up. “You lost the bet. Go in.”
She tosses me a withering look and stalks into the shop.
Grinning, I follow her. Angie follows me.
To the helpful shop assistant, I explain I’m looking for an evening gown for my wife. Something that would hug her curves without plunging too deep at the front or down the back.
“Sexy and chic, and classy,” the shop assistant sums up. “You’ve come to the right house, Monsieur!”
Tipping her head to the side, she sizes Angie up. “Let’s see…”
I point at Camille. “This is my wife.”
The poor woman goes white in the face, looking as if she’s about to faint.
“Madame, that’s all right, really!” Camille flashes her a big, friendly smile. “My unique style isn’t why he married me.”
“That is absolutely one hundred percent true,” I confirm.
The shop assistant regains her composure.
Fifteen minutes later, Camille asks Angie and me to wait at the other end of the shop, by the window. Alone, she heads to the changing rooms with the three gowns and three pairs of shoes that I preselected for her.
Happy with my picks, I obey without discussion.
“I’m not reassured,” Angie says, stopping at my side.
“Despite the lessons she’s been taking? You don’t think she’s ready?”
Every day since we arrived, for several hours a day, Camille has been learning good posture, comportment, etiquette, and general culture from a specialist I hired.
Angie wrinkles her nose. “Your Grace, you could tell the guests she’s bedridden with food poisoning. She could skip the reception altogether. It will buy her time.”
I give that idea some thought. Angie may be right. Camille isn’t ready to play Madame Emissary, assuming she ever will be. If at the MINDFUCH reception she looks, talks or acts weird, the foreign diplomats will gossip. It will reflect poorly on me. On the other hand, those who know who she is—and many high-ranking diplomats do—have been gossiping already.
In the end, my inner fatalist wins.
“I hate postponing the inevitable,” I say. “Que será, será.”
Angie releases a heavy sigh. “You’re making a mistake, Your Grace. But you’re the boss.”
“Any news from Magdalena or her agent?” I ask her.
“None, I’m afraid. And on your end?”
I shake my head. “She must be mad at me because of my sudden marriage.”
Now that I secured the funds for the film, it would be such a shame if Magdalena bailed on us! The future of Royal Riviera hinges on that feature film. And the success of the film depends on Magdalena. Ultimately, she holds the studio’s future in her hands. She has the power to turn a relic from a bygone era into an active movie set filled with actors, directors, decorators, wardrobe supervisors, special effects foremen, local folk hired as extras… The gem that it was during Grandpa’s youth. The gem that it deserves to be.
