The Princess and the Billionaire (10 page)

“You think I’m getting fat.”

“I wouldn’t be saying that.”

“Then what would you be saying?” She mimicked Maxine’s particular rhythm with wicked precision.

“That there might be something better to be doing with your time than eating fancy meals with useless people.”

Isabelle leaped to her feet and ran to the refrigerator. She flung open the door then pointed at the contents inside. “Leftovers, the Americans call them,” she announced to Maxine and anyone else who might be in earshot. “My fancy luncheons and dinners are providing sustenance for us both.”

Maxine made a dreadful face. “Food that isn’t fit for a rabbit.”

“We don’t all require potatoes, Maxine.”

“Don’t you be turning your sharp tongue against me, missy. I’m gainfully employed and I have half a mind to find myself my own little place closer to the shop. There are times when a body needs some peace and quiet.”

“That’s what
Tante
Elysse said.”

“And what would that be tellin’ you, lovey?”

“That you’ve become bloody impossible since you started working at that factory,” Isabelle snapped. “That Igor must be a dreadful employer.”

“His name is Ivan, and he is fair-minded and generous.” Maxine paused a beat. “Which is more than can be said for some.”

Isabelle tossed her hair back with a quick, sharp gesture. “If Igor’s so wonderful, why don’t you go and live with him?”

“And don’t be thinking I haven’t considered such a thing.”

“Maxi!” Isabelle was stricken with horror at the thought that Maxine would actually leave her. “You wouldn’t—would you?”

Maxine’s smile was too sly for Isabelle’s taste. “You’ll be makin’ your own dinner tonight, lovey. I have a date.”

Isabelle’s jaw dropped open. “With Igor?”

“Ivan. And I won’t be tellin’ you that a third time.” Maxine placed her napkin on the table and rose from her chair. “Now, if you’ll be excusin’ me, lovey, I am off to work.”

“Good,” said Isabelle as the door slammed shut behind Maxine. “I am quite tired of your company as it is.”

A fitting retort, but somehow it didn’t satisfy the way it would have a few short months ago. Since her father died, there had been too many changes for Isabelle’s comfort. Leaving Perreault forever hadn’t hurt half as much as leaving behind her dreams of a happy future shared with the people she loved and who loved her. If it weren’t for Maxine’s steady presence, there were times when Isabelle feared she would cease to exist with no one in the world to notice or care.

A pang of conscience gnawed at Isabelle as she thought of Maxine slaving away at that dress factory. The woman had left behind a life of relative ease in order to follow Isabelle into exile, and how had Isabelle shown her gratitude? She hadn’t, that was how. She had accepted Maxine’s loyalty as her due, then watched as the woman ventured out into the hostile world in search of employment. Lately all Maxine did was talk about this Ivan person. He seemed nice enough. After all, he had sent over a stack of samples, plain silk shirts and dresses in classic styles that would soon bear more famous labels. Still, Isabelle was of a mind to march over to Seventh Avenue and take a look at this man who suddenly figured so prominently in their lives.

But it was dreadfully hot out, and the air conditioning inside the apartment was so comfortable that Isabelle sat in front of the television for the next two hours letting herself float on a sea of surreal entertainment. American television was the most amazing thing. Twenty-four hours a day she could flip on a channel and find someone waiting to entertain her in a wonderfully mindless fashion.

After lunch she thumbed through the stack of mail that had been accumulating in her basket, stacking invitations in one pile and bills in another. There was an odd request from a man named Silverstein who claimed to be a producer of something called “The Morning Show.” She couldn’t imagine what he could possibly want with her. Gemma had sent an amusing note about her latest conquest, and Isabelle smiled as she read it. Gemma certainly hadn’t done much smiling while Isabelle and Maxine were in residence. Isabelle considered jotting off a quick response, but a fascinating chat show had just begun on a cable station, and she found herself staring, mesmerized, at the flickering screen.

“Our topic today is fractured families,” said the serious young star of the show. “Why they break apart... how to put them back together.” Three real-life families sat right there on the stage, willing and eager to spill their deepest secrets before the television camera.

Another chat show followed with a different serious young star. “Famous people, infamous lives. Join us as some of your favorite movie stars tell about the sorrow behind the glamour.”

Andy Warhol had said everyone in America would be famous for fifteen minutes, and Isabelle sat up straight in her chair as she finally understood what he’d meant by that.

She glanced toward the stack of magazines piled on the table next to her. Whole issues were devoted to the cult of celebrity, and it seemed those celebrities were getting rich simply for being famous. She couldn’t cook or clean or type or do any of the other things average people did to earn a living, but there was one asset that she’d possessed since the day she was born: She was a princess with a story to tell, and American television was the place to tell it.

She plucked Silverstein’s note from the stack and kissed it. Unless she missed her guess, “The Morning Show” would be the start of something wonderful.

D
ressing room one at the ABC studios was a ten-by-twelve-foot rat hole of a place, crowded with garment racks, rickety stools, and more pots, jars, and bottles of makeup than Daniel had seen in one place in his entire life.

“C’mon, Mr. Bronson.” The makeup artist motioned him toward a stool. “It’s almost showtime.”

Daniel took a seat, keeping one foot on the ground for balance.

“Number two,” the woman mumbled. “Maybe a three base. We’ll talk about the eye cover later.”

Daniel stood up. “We’d better talk about it now. I thought you were going to comb my hair.”

The woman gave him the once-over. “I’m not a magician, honey. You need yourself a haircut.”

He looked at his reflection in the mirror. “You might be right.” He looked back at her. “What’s all that stuff about number two?”

“Makeup, honey. Gotta even up that skin tone for the camera.”

“I like my skin tone the way it is.”

“Well, sure you do, but you’re gonna look like day-old toast to the viewers.”

“Sorry,” Daniel said. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Your choice,” said the makeup artist with a shrug. “Your father never gives me any trouble.” Matty Bronson was a frequent guest on many of the local television and radio shows.

“Believe me when I say I wish my father was here right now.” Matty had been scheduled to appear on “The Morning Show” for a segment on people who were born rich versus people who worked their way up from the bottom. An unexpected bout of flu had caused Matty to back out and Daniel to be pushed into the spotlight in his father’s place, despite the fact that he had just stepped off a plane from Japan two hours ago and was facing terminal jet lag.

He reluctantly submitted to a brief encounter with a puff of powder.

“Such great raw material,” the red-haired woman said with a sigh. “I could have done wonders with you.” She tossed the cotton puff into a wastebasket. “Tell Matty that Sheila was asking for him.”

“Will do.” He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway. “Any idea who else is on this show?”

She rolled her eyes. “A former child star, a man who made millions in salad dressing, and—”

“Two minutes!” A fresh-faced intern raced down the hall. He skidded to a stop in front of Daniel. “You Bronson?”

“That’s me.”

“Your spot’s up next. Come on.”

Daniel followed the kid down a long, drab corridor, picking his way across a maze of thick cable, skinny wires, and discarded paper cups. He recognized some of the famous names on the doors, noting with amusement that the glamorous world of show business looked anything but glamorous from this side of the footlights.

“So what can I expect?” Daniel asked as the intern pushed open the heavy red door that led into the studio itself.

The kid cast a look over his shoulder. “Didja do a preinterview?”

He shook his head.

“Great,” mumbled the kid. “Okay, it’s like this: This guy named Bob Harris is subbing for the host. He does all that celebrity shit in syndication. Anyway, he’ll set up the whole segment, they bring you out, you do two minutes of shtick, the rest do their thing, and they take a few phone calls. Piece of cake.”

“Shtick? What the hell do you mean, shtick? I’m not a comedian, I’m a businessman.”

The kid shot him a look. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

* * *

“Sweetheart, you look like a million bucks!” The hairdresser turned Isabelle’s chair toward the mirror. “Whaddya think?”

Isabelle nodded at her reflection. “Wonderful eye makeup, but isn’t my hair a little—big?”

“You’re a gorgeous girl, honey. You wanna stand out in a crowd, don’t you?”

Isabelle touched the top of her hair and stared as her hand bounced off the surface. “I always thought I did stand out in a crowd.”

“Well, sure you do, but this is TV. You need a little extra oomph.”

“Oomph?”

“You know. Pizzazz.”

Pizzazz was almost as bad as oomph, but Isabelle got the general picture.

“Does this outfit have enough—oomph?”

The hairdresser inspected her slinky royal blue chemise. “Must’ve cost a mint. Get a load of that beading along the neckline.”

“I did the beadwork.”

“You?” The hairdresser inspected the work more closely. “Great job. You woulda thought a machine did it.”

Isabelle, uncertain if she had been complimented or insulted, merely smiled.

The television studio was a confusing maze of corridors, doors, trailing wires, and harried people. Isabelle followed a frantic young man through that maze.

“Damn,” the young man muttered as they stopped in front of a closed door. “The red light is on.” He glanced at his watch, and Isabelle noted the beads of sweat at his temples.

“What is going on?”

“The show, that’s what. God, my ass’ll be grass.”

The notion of green grass sprouting on the man’s derriere made Isabelle laugh out loud. “The American idiom is surely filled with surprises.”

The man shot her a look. “Idiom, shmidiom. You’re up next, and we can’t get inside until the damn light goes out.”

“They’ll wait for us,” Isabelle said.

“Honey, you’re not back in the palace. This is the US of A. People don’t wait for anybody.”

“But if I’m the star of the show, they’ll have to, won’t they?”

The man rolled his eyes. “You’ve got a lot to learn about living here, sweetheart.”

Moments later, the red light went out, the door swung open, and the man pushed Isabelle toward the light.

“Be funny,” he advised, “be sassy, and sparkle!”

Sparkle,
thought Isabelle.
I can’t do that.

“Ten seconds,” yelled a skinny black woman with red hair. “Five... four... three... two... we’re on.”

“Welcome back, everybody.” A man’s voice rang out. Isabelle rose on tiptoe in an attempt to see over the cameras but failed. “My name is Bob Harris, and we’re talking about fame and fortune. You’ve already met Carl Lindemann and little Sallie Gleason who had to work hard for every penny they earned. Now let’s introduce the other side: two lucky people who were born with platinum spoons in their mouths. Let’s welcome—”

“Go!” The young assistant placed his hands at the small of Isabelle’s back and pushed. She stumbled forward into the blinding lights. She couldn’t make out the audience or the crew; all she could hear was the applause drawing her in. Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her chin and walked toward the set.

Bob Harris was a jovial sort. He extended his hand, then kissed her on the cheek. It took all of her self-control to keep from dressing him down. You would think an Englishman would have more respect for royalty, but he was in America now, where such things didn’t matter. How quickly they all forgot the things that were truly important in life.

She nodded toward the two guests already standing there, then turned toward the fourth guest as he stepped into the spotlight.

“Bronson!”

He stopped a few feet away from her. “What are you doing here?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

The audience erupted with laughter. Both Isabelle and Daniel started and glanced about, as if they’d forgotten where they were.

“What have we here?” asked Bob Harris as they took their seats on either side of him. He winked into the camera. “Is there something going on that we should know about?”

Isabelle tossed her big hair off her face and smiled. “Mr. Bronson and I are old friends,” she said with false cheer. “We met last year at the Perreault Tricentennial. He and Greta Van—”

“In fact, the princess and I danced at her sister’s wedding,” Bronson broke in smoothly, meeting her eyes. No one had eyes that green, she thought. They had to be contact lenses. “Her waltzing needs a little work.”

“Americans!” she said breezily. “So in love with truth as they perceive it. Whatever happened to the graceful social lie?” She hoped everyone recognized him for the skunk he was.

“Fighting words,” bellowed Bob Harris, current purveyor of glitz and glamour. “Now let’s get to the heart of it. You two lucky people were born rich. Why work if you don’t have to?”

Bronson obviously found the question beneath contempt. “Once you get out of school, it’s up to you to build your own life. Trust funds only go so far. You have to rely on brains and ambition to take you the rest of the way.”

“Easy for you to say,” said Lindemann, the salad dressing king. “I didn’t go to Harvard Business School. I had to start from scratch. Worked three jobs just to get my seed money.”

“Right,” said little Sallie. “Bet you didn’t have to audition for jobs when you were still in training pants. Try being three years old and on unemployment. Does something to a person’s self-esteem, I can tell you that.”

“Absolutely,” Isabelle chimed in, feeling one with them all. “Can you imagine how it feels to be cast to the four winds by your own sister with nothing but the clothes on your back?”

Bob Harris seized the moment. “Do you mean your sister, Princess Juliana, the ruler of the little principality of Perreault, threw you out of the castle?”

There was a gasp from the audience.

“I certainly do,” said Isabelle, warming to the subject. She cast a quick glance toward Bronson and was rewarded by the look of surprise on his face. “She threw both Maxine and me—”

“Maxine?” Harris broke in. “Is Maxine another princess?”

“Maxine is my governess.” Bronson’s groan was audible over the laughter of the audience, and she leaned across Bob Harris to glare at him. “I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself, Mr. Bronson.”

“No, no,” said Bob Harris. “We’d love to hear what Daniel has to say, wouldn’t we, audience?” Wild applause confirmed his opinion. Harris really was the most annoying man.

Bronson met her eyes. “I think a family’s problems should remain that family’s business.”

“Spoilsport,” said Harris, turning away from Bronson. “I know we’re all interested in the princess’s story.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Harris,” said Isabelle with a sweet smile. So much for Bronson’s opinion. “It’s terribly difficult to be alone in a strange city with no one to help you find your way. I have done my solitary best to—”

“What about your governess?” Daniel interrupted.

“You make governess sound like a dirty word,” Isabelle snapped. “It’s not an unusual occupation.”

“Aren’t you a little old for a nanny?”

“And aren’t you a little old to be working for your father?”

“I work with my father, not for him. There’s a big difference.”

“I’m afraid that difference escapes me.”

“The difference is, I don’t travel around with my own personal slave.”

“How dare you! Maxine is not my slave. In fact, she’s working for a man named Ivan on your Seventh Avenue in order to make ends meet.”

“To make ends meet? You have your nanny out there in some sweatshop while you sit around on your royal—”

“Finish that sentence, Mr. Bronson, and I shall see to it that your attorneys are kept busy for the next six months.”

He remained unchastened. “Where are you living, princess? The penthouse of the Plaza? Big comedown from the castle, isn’t it?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, I am living with my aunt.”

“Rent free?”

“Yes, but—”

“And you still need to have your nanny out there bringing in some bucks?”

“For your information, my sister cut me off without a
sou.
All I have is what I brought out of Perreault with me, and as my aunt does not have unlimited funds, we are doing the best we can.”

“You mean your nanny is doing the best she can. What are you doing, princess?”

Isabelle opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Bronson, the wretch, grinned at her. “Come on. You must be doing something constructive.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” she said in exasperation.

Bob Harris laughed louder than anybody. “I’ve never heard a talk show called constructive before.”

“I’m quite serious,” Isabelle persisted. “One afternoon last week I took stock of my skills and I realized the one thing I was quite adept at is being famous.”

“I didn’t know being famous was a skill,” Harris said.

“Of course it is. Isn’t that what you Americans do best?” She launched into a spirited description of the television shows, books, magazines, and radio programs she’d come in contact with since her arrival in America. “It seems to me that being famous is a full-time occupation in this country. How else can you explain the existence of Charo?” She offered a dazzling smile to the camera. “This is the land of opportunity, and since I am in need of gainful employment...”

The audience burst into uproarious applause, and Isabelle found herself positively basking in their approval. The director signaled Bob Harris to cut to a commercial.

“Two minutes thirty, folks, then we’re back on,” called an assistant.

Little Sallie ran off for the ladies’ room. The salad dressing king waved frantically for the makeup artist to powder down the shine on his bulbous nose. Bob Harris unclipped his mike and strolled over to chat with the audience, which left Daniel and Isabelle alone beneath the lights.