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For the next hour, I schmooze and work the room, keeping Camille close. She’s gracious and full of warmth. If she were chattier, she’d be the perfect hostess. But even so, I can’t believe my eyes.
Feeling inordinately proud of her, I find Angie in the crowd and shoot her a triumphant look.See? I gambled she could pull this off, and I was right!
Another half hour passes without the slightest incident.
Alexandra “Sasha” de Croy, Prince Arnaud’s fiancée, is among the guests. As is her royal half. Sasha beckons to Camille and me. She’s a historian and a journalist who has a column in the most popular gossip magazineVoilà.She’s the only reporter who is authorized to interview my young wife.
While she takes a series of photos of Camille, I murmur to Sasha, “I count on you not to mention the problematic staff.”
“Rest easy,” she says. “Arnaud and I may refuse to move to Mount Evor, but we joined ‘the Firm’ all right.”
Her photo op finished, Camille comes up to us. “What will you write about, then? I haven’t had a chance to do anything yet as Madame Emissary.”
“Your Grace, have faith in my skills,” Sasha says. “I can whip up a two-page article out of thin air.”
Camille’s shoulders relax and she smiles that yummy smile of hers that does weird things to me. “Really? I can’t imagine what you could write about in this particular case.”
“So many things!” Winking, Sasha counts on her fingers. “Your Chanel gown. Your Cartier neckless. Your adorable haircut. The catering. The pastry chef I caught having a meltdown in the kitchen because his chocolatebûcheis so popular with the guests that he may run out of it before everyone has had a slice.”
Camille’s eyes become round. “Is that true? Or did you make it up?”
“Ouch! You hurt my feelings, Your Grace.” Sasha gives Camille a sad puppy look. “I’m a professional. I’d never make up something so tragic.”
They burst out in laughter.
I notice the Polish ambassador looking at me. We had the most stimulating conversation at an event in London a couple of months ago. But we were interrupted. I go to him, letting Sasha interview Camille.
After Sasha is done, a woman who I’ve seen before approaches Camille. I believe she’s an attaché at one of the bigger embassies.
She praises the reception and Camille’s gown. Camille thanks her. They go on talking about Paris, and I focus on my own conversation.
From the corner of my eye, I notice Camille pivot slightly preparing to move on to another guest. Her body language should be easy to read for the other lady.
But she keeps talking. “Where will you spend New Year’s Eve, Your Grace?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Saint Barth? One of the British Virgin Islands? The Exuma Cays?”
Camille shrugs. “I truly don’t know.”
The woman swats her hand playfully. “Don’t worry, I won’t be stalking your handsome husband!”
“I’m not worried.” Camille half smiles and turns away a little more.
“So, which island carries your favor?”
Is her security clearance so low she hasn’t been read into Camille’s background and doesn’t know how new this lifestyle is to her? Or is she just being mean?For fuck’s sake, leave her alone!Can’t you see you’re making her uncomfortable? What sort of diplomat are you?
Apparently, a crappy one.
“We’ll be going to Saint Barth,” she plows on.
Sensing trouble, I apologize to my conversation partner and start moving toward Camille.
Where’s Angie?Is she closer to the imminent calamity than I am? She is, but she isn’t looking at me.
The undiplomatic attaché insists. “What do you think of it?”
