I step out again, armed with a host of Stella Catalan paper bags.
Digital cameras busily click away.
The headlines the next day show:
‘DIZZY LIZZY OPTS FOR MOLDAVIAN DESIGNER.’
*
Next, I’m actually wearing those Moldavian designer clothes, which are every bit as fabulous as something you’d get in Milan or Paris. I walk down Rue Grenadiers with Madame Fournier and Jasper (whose face is as black as thunder) in this eclectic flouncy chiffon piece in blue. The skirt falls down to my calves asymmetrically and I wrap my top up in a sharp blue and black jacket.
The shutterbugs go off again, and this time I’m really smiling.
The next day:
‘DIZZY LIZZY LOOKS SHARP IN A SIGNATURE STELLA CATALAN JACKET AND DRESS.’
The pictures and story carry all over the world.
Madame Fournier has to field calls from magazines as far as the United Kingdom who want to do photo spreads on me in Moldavian designer clothing.
The gist of the headlines:
‘Moldavian design gets thrust into the world spotlight.’
‘Who knew Moldavian fashion would rival Italy?’
‘Dizzy Lizzy not so dizzy anymore? Stuns in Cara Bouchard original.’
‘Liz Turner comes into her own commendable fashion style. Fashion gurus comment that she may become a fashion icon in her own right.’
Oh wow.
Who’d ever thought that I – who will largely be found in an oversized T-shirt as my nightgown – would be considered a fashion icon?
*
Next stop: food.
“Does Moldavia have any local delicacies?” I ask.
“Our cuisine is mostly French,” Madame Fournier says, “but we do have a few street food snacks here and there. This time, I want both you and Alex together. Eating is an activity best done in the company of a handsome prince.”
I can’t help feeling like a puppet as they whisk Alex and me off to a local farmer’s market. The press release here will read:
‘Prince Alexander and his American girlfriend, Liz Turner, take a break from their hectic life to share a bowl of Moldavian watercress noodle soup with black nut bread.’
“There’s a technique to eating while being photographed,” Alex tells me.
“How?”
“You don’t really eat.”
Great.
How do I pretend to eat?
The market is thronged with bustling people. Stalls everywhere sell produce such as cheeses and vegetables. Moldavia imports most of its food from France and Italy, having very little land for farming. The market is filled with the aroma of freshly baked products turning in open brick ovens, French pastries, strudels, delicately painted glass dolls and other interesting bric-bracs. Legs of lamb turn upon racks, sizzling with spices.
Reporters and photographers follow our every step as we stop at each stall, smiling and posing. Alex chats happily to the locals in French. I nod every now and then, not understanding a word, but still smiling. I’m terribly afraid that I would look bad in the photos if I smile too widely or if my teeth show too much.
How does he stand being under scrutiny all the time?
But of course, he’s gorgeous and he photographs like a Guess male model.
“You’re doing well,” says Madame Fournier. “When anyone offers you something, take it and pose with it.”
Naturally, every market vendor would like us to sample their product. When they offer us a whole bun, we break off a little bit of the bread and put it into our mouths for the photographers, all the while maintaining our smiles. Alex buys sweetmeats and red-cheeked apples and luscious purple grapes. We look every inch the happy young couple in love.
Well, we are in love.
If only everything wasn’t so staged.
When the paps have had their fill of photos to be rushed and sold to every corner of the world, Alex says to me in the car, “My father has been transferred out of critical care this morning.”
“Oh wow, that’s great news!”
I mean it. Alex has been so worried, and he has spent hours and hours every day at his father’s bedside.
“One little catch.” He clasps my hand, as though preparing me for a momentous announcement. “He wants to meet you … alone.”
Chapter Four
My press escapades have not gone unnoticed by Alex’s father, it seems. Ensconced in the Royal Suite in the hospital, he has demanded full access to television, cable, media and the Internet, even though his doctors have cautioned him against too much excitement.
My heart is at the bottom of my new shoes – Moldavian designer pumps, to be exact – as I walk to the Royal Suite with Alex by my side.
“Relax,” he says.
“Easy for you to say. He doesn’t have his knives out for your guts.”
He manages an uneasy smile. “I don’t think he has them out for you, Liz. Just be yourself.”
That’s the trouble. Alex’s family doesn’t like me because I’m me. Why should his father be any different?
“Will I excite him in any way?” I say anxiously. “I don’t want to be the cause of his second heart attack.”
“I’m sure you won’t. My mother was dead against this, of course, as are his doctors. But my father is … well, you know.” Alex sighs.
Yes, I know. His father is the King of Moldavia.
We stand before two handsome paneled doors. This section of the hospital does not resemble a hospital at all – a plush hotel corridor, more like, with its soft yellow lighting, tasteful wallpaper and watercolors of Moldavian landscapes. Two black-suited guards with earpieces immediately stand at attention upon our arrival.
“Your highness.” They nod to Alex respectfully, and turn to face me. “Miss Turner.”
“Is my mother still inside, Fabien?” Alex asks one of them.
“Yes, she is.”
“Just wait here a sec,” Alex says to me.
He knocks quietly and enters the room. I’m left out there, standing awkwardly in my cerise blouse with its leaf detail, paired with my new simple white pencil skirt. Everything is very well cut and encapsulates my curves appropriately.
“Don’t worry,” Fabien says. “You look great.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you like the watercress noodle soup?”
So he has been keeping up with the newspapers. To be honest, I had only taken a sip from it. Not even a single noodle got through my teeth, if I want to be totally honest.
“Yes, very much, thank you.” Well, I would have enjoyed it had I actually tasted it. But for some reason that day, my taste buds went on strike.