The Frog Prince (11 page)

“Are you planning on putting on your shoes?” he says with a curious look at the sandals in my hand.

I sigh and mumble “I guess so” before slipping my feet into them. I hope the car drives us right up to our table, otherwise this could end disastrously. “We’re not going to do a lot of walking, are we?” I ask.

“No, but there’ll probably be dancing. You can’t really have a dance without the dancing.”

Sure you can
, I think, recalling my senior prom. “Dancing? What kind of dancing?”

“Most of the people here have had ballroom dance training,” he says.

“Damn bluebloods,” I mutter. At least I don’t have to worry about stumbling all over the floor while unleashing my Denver clubbing, white-girl dance moves on the crowd. I will happily stay seated.

The car pulls up to a different entrance than the one we went through earlier today.

“The ballroom is just through those doors and down the hallway to the right, Mr. Lorraine,” says the driver.

“Thank you,” says Roman, already out of the car and reaching back inside for me. I suck in a deep breath, take his hand, and step from the car.

Chapter Nine

The ballroom is spectacular, something out of Cinderella. Two-story arched windows line the perimeter of the room, spaced by marble columns. High above each window is a curtained balcony, like in an opera house. Delicate crystal chandeliers hang every twenty feet or so, casting soft light and giving the whole scene a dream-like quality. A chamber orchestra at the far end of the room plays Mozart’s
Eine kleine Nachtmusik
.

There is a lot of white, crystal, and ivy. The tables assembled around the perimeter of the dance floor are draped with white as are the chairs. A long sprig of ivy sprouts from the back of each chair, giving the appearance of green tails. The rolled white napkins stand upright from crystal holders on crystal plates, linen sentinels wrapped by sprays of ivy.

A tower of white roses and ivy erupts from the center of each table. Positioned around the base of the centerpieces are Sydney Opera House-shaped crystal figures lit from the inside with white lights.

Roman spots Mikhail and his cohorts and steers me in that direction. I am simultaneously pleased and embarrassed when Mikhail’s mouth falls open at the sight of me. I look away, searching the length and breadth of the room for Princess Menen. I finally find her standing at the fringe of a group, beautiful and statuesque in a simple gold, knee-length dress. I would rather insert myself uninvited into her group than have Mikhail slobbering all over my hand again.

“I see Menen,” I say to Roman. “I’m going to see where she plans to sit.”

“Don’t be too long,” he says. “I want a chance to show you off.”

I flush at the thought of being paraded around the ballroom like a show dog. Well, like a show dog that trips on its dress.

Roman squeezes my hand and releases me. I totter carefully across the room, taking baby steps. Menen spots me when I’m a few yards away and walks forward to greet me, taking both of my hands.

“You are dazzling,” she says with quiet enthusiasm.

“Your dress…” I say, at a loss for the right words. “Wow.”

“Leigh, what a beautiful gown!” says a falsely cheerful voice from the circle. I instinctively flinch as I recognize Isabella’s frosty voice, and look up in time to catch her studying me with obvious distaste.

I take a step backwards as she breaks rank with the group and bears down on me. Her dress is black, an eye-catching contrast against her golden blonde hair. It’s a simple strapless piece with a slit in the hem cut so high I think I can see her vulva. The rest of the women sort of shift and reorganize around the two of us, as if they’re expecting a cat fight. Isabella circles me while I stand there, frozen to the spot.

“What a revealing style,” she says, having done a full orbit around me. “Where did you get something so…different?”

This is a trap. Isabella was probably weaned on Versace and Dior. Her well-trained eye would recognize that I am definitely not wearing couture. On the other hand, she probably doesn’t recognize it from the off-the-rack selection at Nordstrom or Macy’s, and I detect a note of real curiosity in her voice.

“My mother made it,” I say.

I hear gasps from some of the women, whether from contempt or surprise I’m not sure.

“Your mother made
this
?” says Menen, taking my hands again and holding them away from my sides so she can get a better look. “Such a talented woman!”

I shrug. Might as well tell the truth. “She’s a seamstress.” This time there are whispers.

“And the design… this is from a pattern?” says Menen craning her head around to my rear to examine the design more closely.

The whispers cease as everyone awaits my answer. “No, my mother designed it. She’s always made my clothes for me.”

“The outfit you wore to the luncheon?” says Menen.

“Mom strikes again,” I say with a smile. “The only clothes I really have to buy are underwear and shoes.” This actually gets a laugh from everyone except Isabella whose lips are mashed together in a hard line.

A petite woman with a mound of overprocessed blonde hair piled precariously on her head leans in front of Menen. “Does your mother have her own label?”

“She’s just a seamstress in Denver,” I say. “She’s not a designer.”

Menen clucks her tongue. “If she designed this dress then I would say she is most certainly a designer. There are women who would pay a great deal of money for a dress like this.”

“Does she have a shop? How can I reach her?” says Beehive Barbie.

Isabella is clearly not pleased with the fawning turn the conversation has taken. Before I can respond to Beehive she interrupts. “What a nice way to save money. I’m sure every penny makes a difference for you.”

I just stare at her, my heart pounding angrily. I can’t imagine what Roman ever saw in this petty, silly woman.

“Sure,” I say. “Making your own clothes really frees up a lot of cash. We hope to have enough money soon to carpet our cave.”

Isabella holds her tight smile in place while everyone around us snickers.

“Hi, Leigh,” says a cheerful-looking twenty-something with short brown hair. Her white gown has a high collar with a keyhole neckline. I can see her freckled cleavage through the peephole. She holds out her hand and I automatically shake it. “I’m Ana Romanov.”

“Hi, Ana,” I say. “Are you and Mikhail…?” I trail off, waiting for her to supply the next word. I certainly hope it isn’t “married” or I foresee her getting as nasty about me as Isabella is.

“Mikhail is my cousin.”

“Ah,” I say, relieved.

“Mikhail says that you’re here with Roman.” says Ana, either in league with Isabella, oblivious to her presence, or just not giving a damn. “Where did you two meet?”

“At my great-aunt’s funeral,” I say. “I stepped on his foot with my stiletto and sort of crippled him.”

Ana’s face crunches up into a look of pain. “Ow.”

“They have only been acquainted for three days,” says Menen enthusiastically. “Aren’t they lovely together?”

“Oh, well Roman and I only knew each other for a week before he flew me to Barcelona.” says Isabella dismissively.

“So, what do you do for a living?” says Ana, ignoring Isabella. “Besides wear fabulous clothes.”

“I oversee human sexual and psychological research studies,” I say. This, of course, unleashes a torrent of questions, and before I know it I'm having in-depth conversations with the world's female almost-royalty on topics ranging from masturbation to the average human male penis size.

“Between five and six inches fully erect,” I say of the latter. “Three and four inches flaccid.”

These statistics produce a hushed outcry of disagreement. “You can't rely on what your sex partner tells you,” I say, interrupting one of them. “Self-report of penis length is notoriously unreliable for obvious reasons.”

“Well, if you are not satisfied with your partner, there is always the
consolador
,” says Infante Luisa Victoria of Spain with a smile.

Almost everyone except me giggles at Luisa’s pronouncement. I am so busy being charmed by her accent that I missed it. “The wha’?”

More giggles.

“The
consolador
,” Luisa repeats. “In English it is ‘the comforter.’ In America you call it–how it is said?” she says, turning to Ana.

“Dildo,” Ana says matter-of-factly.

Suddenly all eyes are turned towards me as if waiting for my expertise pronouncement on the subject. My face gets warm, and I feel the Balloon of Silence expanding until I finally blurt out, “The world's oldest dildo dates from the Upper Paleolithic.”

“Really?” says Ana, her eyes wide with interest.

This only encourages me to continue my panicked, rambling dildo lecture. “Archaeologists have found evidence that ancient Egyptians used dildos. A Greek vase from the fifth century BC shows a woman using one.”

I see a woman behind Ana stiffen, and remember being introduced to her as the wife of Petros Alexander of Greece. This only encourages me to try to insult every nationality equally and impart my dildo knowledge to them even more rapidly.

“Shakespeare refers to them in
The Winter’s Tale
,” I say, quoting: “‘He has the prettiest love-songs for maids; so without bawdry, which is strange; with such delicate burdens of dildos and fadings.’ And Thomas Middleton used it in
A Chaste Maid in Cheapside
: ‘Now he's out of work he falls to making dildos.’”

Not wanting to leave out Africa I add, “Michael Haberlandt illustrated double-sided wooden dildos in his ethnography on nineteenth-century Zanzibar natives.”

I see the horrified look on Menen’s face and abruptly snap my mouth closed.

The concentration of estrogen in one area of the room has attracted attention from the men. They have dispatched scouts, including Roman and Mikhail, to find out what's going on.

“I’m really sorry,” I mumble to Menen before they reach us. I am dangerously close to tears now, and I take a deep breath and swallow hard to fight them off.

Luckily Menen is kind. She smiles and pats my arm. “In my family we do not often discuss…dildos,” she says, covering her mouth as she laughs at the understatement.

Roman slides up behind me, and whispers in my ear, “They’re getting ready to serve dinner.” He looks up at the gaggle of women crowded around me. “Have you found anyone to join us?”

I'm shocked when about a half a dozen of the group around me eagerly raise their hands.

“Wow,” he says, taking a step back. “What were you doing over here... running for mayor?”

“Not exactly,” I say, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me. He leaves me to ask Mikhail how many seats are left at our table.

“Good god, is she a little obsessed with sex or what?” I hear Isabella say from somewhere behind me, just loud enough for me to hear.

I turn around and stare at her.

“I thought she was
never
going to stop talking,” agrees her friend with a roll of her eyes.

“There’s a reason silence is golden,” Isabella adds with a smile, looking right at me.

“There’s a reason duct tape is silver,” I snap just as Roman returns to claim me. I turn and stalk off as well as I can in my tight dress.

Chapter Ten

“We’ll have just enough room for Menen and Ana,” says Roman. “Petros’ wife too, of course. Mikhail says there are…hey, is everything okay?” he says, looking at my face.

“I’m fine.” I smile and take his arm as we walk. “What’s for dinner?”

Dinner, it turns out, is a bunch of stuff I can’t pronounce or identify. A card at each place setting lists things like “Beef Périgourdine,” “Haricots Verts,” and “Opera Cake.” Us common folk know these better as “Cow with a Side of Fungus,” “Green Beans,” and “Coffee Cream Cake with Edible Gold Leaf.”

I am shocked to discover how much I like fungus.

When it comes time for the wine, the waiter brings a tray to Roman with the cork, just like in the movies. I expect him to pick it up and sniff it, just like in the movies. Instead, he just sort of spins it slowly through his fingers, looking it over. Something about it pleases him because he looks across the table at Mikhail and grins. The waiter then gives him a glass with a small amount of wine in it. He waits while Roman inhales the scent and takes a taste of it.

“Excellent,” says Roman to the waiter, who proceeds to circle the table and serve everyone.

“I would pay a great deal of money,” says Mikhail, after having a taste, “to know what you did for Faisal that gives you such access to his cellars.”

“It’s the only reason you scheme to have me at your table,” says Roman, knocking back another swallow.

“Absolutely correct, sir,” says Mikhail, raising his glass.

Now, I’m not sure what looking over a wine cork tells you, but I can you this: it was
delicious
, maybe the best-tasting wine I’ve ever had. After a few glasses I’m starting to feel fuzzy, too full and content after the sumptuous main course to take more than a bite of the cake. I stare at my slice, wondering if leaving all that gold leaf is rude. I consider licking it off the top.

“Better now?” asks Roman, leaning in close to whisper in my ear.

“Much,” I say. The alcohol has dulled my awkwardness. I boldly touch his cheek with the back of my hand, and trace the line of his square jaw with my finger.

Roman starts to say something when we are interrupted by louder music, a waltz. I watch as couples around the ballroom stand and make their way to the dance floor.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to waltz,” says Roman, playing with a lock of my hair.

“All I know how to do is triple step, remember? You should dance though,” I say, looking around the table. Mikhail has already claimed his cousin, but several women are eyeing Roman hopefully.

Roman sighs. “Dance lessons when we get back to Denver. A number one priority.” He stands up and extends his hand to Menen. “Would you like to dance?”