It came as some surprise then, when, upon raising her glass in Daisy’s direction, the Queen toasted, “To you, my dear. Now, then, perhaps it is best that we get right down to business. Have you and Charles discussed a date yet?”
Had Daisy been in a physical state where she could have stood the consumption of food or beverage, it would be a safe bet to place that she would have spewed it all over the Monarch at this juncture. This day was not going at all as she had anticipated. Not only was the Queen not indicting her for her bad display of behavior, but she also actually seemed to be rather joyfully awaiting the announcement of Daisy’s future intentions. And, somehow, the implications of it all was far more disturbing than if she had been set out on the cold curb with the empty milk bottles and yesterday’s news. She found herself thrust into a blind panic.
“Where shall the wedding take place?” was the Queen’s next item on the agenda. “Westminster? Hm? After all, it certainly cannot be St. Paul’s. Charles has already ‘been there’ and ‘done that’ as you might so aptly put it.”
One might think that Daisy would be still swimming about in a state of shock, perhaps in total awe of the situation that she found herself thrust into. But, one would think wrong. It is surprising how resilient one’s personality can become when, all around you, people are losing their heads, and they all seemed to be blaming it on you; to a .monarch, assuming that you would marry the future King, and having the gall to presuppose that it should all be on the groom’s family’s terms.
“How about an intimate ceremony in a small synagogue?” Daisy found herself muttering under her breath.
“Excuse me, dear?”
“I merely said, ‘How about a Primate-conducted teensy ceremony in Prague?’”
“Yes, you might have something there with the ‘teensy’ part. Perhaps it would not be in our best interests to make such a great big show of this one. It is refreshing to see you grasp, so early on in the game, how important it is that one’s individual needs always play second fiddle to the institution. Still and all… Prague, dear? One is not quite sure what you mean by that. Perhaps you might elucidate…”
As talk of Eastern Europe and of Daisy’s impending nuptials flowed on, Daisy found her mind irresistibly drawn to the Glass Coach, which she had seen once upon a time while strolling through the Royal Mews.
Would she get to ride to her wedding in Prague in it? She wondered. Or was that to be one other thing that Charles had already ‘been’ and ‘done’?
Only time would tell.
• • •
Thus, extraordinarily, Daisy began to learn that, not only was her life not in the state of ruins that she would have imagined based on the runaway behavior of her mouth at the State Banquet the evening before, but that the Queen Mother was—as always—right in her assessment of the situation: Daisy Sills was a hit.
21
Princess Anne was once again speaking to the voice through the closed bathroom door. “Yes, it went a lot better last night than I had thought it would, actually.”
She smiled. She was thinking of how much she had indeed enjoyed her brief, yet energetic, dance with Daisy on the evening before. She did so hope that, one day, the younger woman might fulfill her heartfelt promise, accompanying the Princess on a Save the Children mission to Africa. She smiled at the prospect.
“Stomach still wonky, is it?” she shouted through the door now.
“Well, you know,” cried the voice, pitifully, “I did eat that herring…”
“Yes, but that was yesterday.” She paused, remembering something before speaking. “Haven’t you heard of a thing called ‘antacids’? I suggest that you take some and then just get over it.”
And, with that, she grabbed her bag and trounced out, slamming the door behind her, more china crashing to the floor in her wake. She carried on, however, not having heard a thing.
She had places to go and good deeds to perform.
She would not wear pink anymore, but she would go to Africa.
• • •
In the early hours of the dawn, Pacqui had promised Packey that he would not make a fuss about any future escorting of horse women in the future, and that, if any name-changing ever needed to be done—for clarity’s sake—he would gladly bite the bullet, thus becoming Rudolpho.
• • •
Mrs. B.P.M., over her morning tea, had resolved that, in future, she would find something interesting to say to someone at all of these dreary functions that her husband’s career demanded that she attend. Either that, or she would just get over it.
• • •
Edward and Andrew decided that it was quite all right that neither of them would ever be King of England.
• • •
Hillary Clinton swore that she wasn’t going to let a little thing like a few extra pounds trouble her anymore, as she boarded Air Force One, also in the wee hours of that morning. Daisy was right: women could rule the world, if they were only brave enough to throw out their bathroom scales and just get over it. There was certainly no law, Hillary thought, stating that she couldn’t run next time.
Her husband, striding confidently and unsuspectingly at her side, didn’t really have very much to get over himself, having already gotten over so much. But, perhaps, when he got back to the States, he might tell a few other people—Paula, all of the Republicans, Al, Buddy the Dog—to just get over it, and just see what they had to say about that!
• • •
Princess Margaret would have gotten over quite a lot of things, if she could only figure out where to start.
• • •
As for the Duke, Daisy’s words had become a mantra for him, a rallying cry around which his future life was to be formed. As he repeated the words over and over to himself, while standing in front of his bathroom mirror, he resolved to throw out the new batch of poison that he had recently concocted for the dogs and the bagpiper, and to stay out of his wife’s closet as best he could.
He couldn’t wait to see Daisy again at dinner, he decided, grinning widely at his own image. Perhaps she had some more sage advice on how he could improve his personality.
• • •
In fact, the only people who weren’t singing Daisy’s praises were the Archbishop of Canterbury and the British Prime Minister, both of whom could smell an ill wind, boding nothing but disaster for the nation’s future, and the Queen Mother and Jodie Foster, neither of whom had ever had anything at all to get over in the first place.
• • •
Daisy was finding that her adopted life had taken on a decidedly surreal quality and that, all of a sudden, she was doing the talking and everyone else was listening. The world was following her advice, the universe was singing the Daisy song, the British Empire was doing the Daisy shuffle. Although the image of La Belle Monde, all marching to Daisy’s own personal drummer—for the very first time in her life—does kinda make ya think, huh?
Or, as the French Ambassador might have put it—or, perhaps, maybe it was Pepe Le Pew— “Quelle idee horrible, non?” (English translation: “There really is no accounting for people’s tastes, is there?”)
And, finally, the Yiddish: “So, nu? How long could such a crazy circus go on?”
22
“‘Deck the halls with balls of…’”
It was 10:30 on Monday morning, and the Queen had already been hard at work for a full fifteen minutes. She was in her sitting room, the one with the serenely painted blue-green walls and curtains, surrounded by photos of family and friends, as she sat in her voluminous mahogany chair, slicing open the day’s correspondence.
“‘Tis the Queen’s right to be…’” The Queen’s voice broke off, mid-song, when the interruption came. “Yes?” she enquired, still in a jolly mood.
The Master of the Household would later concur with his wife that it was a good thing that Her Majesty was in her sitting room when the news came. For this meant that, not only was she probably already sitting, but that she w
as doing so in that huge chair which was rather difficult to hoist oneself out of, and also, there was that monstrous desk separating the two of them, making it impossible for her to reach him when she attempted to swat him with the racing column for being the messenger of bad tidings.
The President of the United States had the little red button, Batman had his utility belt, and the Queen of England had her boxes. From such common items are made the trappings and responsibilities of all great power. And, had Daisy in her ignorant innocence but known it, just as a working pen was mightier than an empty page, so a box was much more to be feared than The Bag.
Warnings of impending crisis often came to the Monarch in the form of highly confidential documents, delivered by the Master of the Household in a red box, portentously covered in black Moroccan leather. Scandals, and other fun gossip from abroad, might also be reported inside one of the boxes—for there were, of course, several different boxes, the theory being that one can never be too rich or too thin or have too many designer-approved ways in which to receive bad news. These boxes followed her everywhere, apprising her of delicate “situations.”
In theory, then, the Queen might be in Borneo when a box—the ornamental equivalent of the other shoe dropping—happened to land on her desk, hunting her down with the juicy information that a distant cousin was having it off with one of the stable boys. Or, likewise, she might be seated in the relative comfort and safety of her own home, when the news finally reached her that, perhaps, her son’s future bride was not all that she was cracked up to be.
Having read the distressing contents contained therein, she had allowed her glasses to fall so that they hung, suspended, on the chain around her neck. Oh, dear. Did this mean that she would have to spend the rest of her days, doomed to a constant waking existence of nostalgia for The Other One? How dreary.
In her later years, the Queen rarely entertained herself with fantasies of beheadings, but this was proving to be one of those times. Unfortunately—or, fortunately, depending on your perspective—as she studied the quaking Master of the Household, she realized that she hadn’t a clue as to who best to start with.
Oh, double “oh dear,” she thought. If the Houses of P. ever got wind of this, next year’s Civil List would be reduced to zippo. As that now wretched American girl might say.
Deck the halls with balls of Daisy,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
She will make the Monarch crazy…
It really was enough to put One off One’s kippers.
23
It was Tuesday morning, and the Prime Minister had come to call. This, in and of itself, was in no way out of the ordinary. Traditionally, every British Prime Minister—whether liked or, in some cases (Ma-GGIE) disliked by her—had a standing Tuesday morning meeting with the Queen, whenever she was in residence and Parliament was in session.
And oh boy, was she in residence that morning.
As the P.M. cooled his heels outside of the 1844 Room, he reflected upon the fact that this was to be no ordinary weekly audience. He would neither be giving the standard report on the state of the nation, nor would he be offering up little tidbits of gossip concerning the waywardness of M.P.s. Instead, he would be addressing his attentions to a discussion of The Crisis.
Finally granted admittance, the Prime Minister entered, striding purposely across the white-and-gold room, only to be stopped dead in his tracks by the Negress head clock. A rather ornately over-the-top timepiece, it utilized one eye for counting the hours, while the other marked off the minutes. The damned frightful thing always gave him the willies, as if he might somehow be personally responsible for Kenya. Eerie witch. Be that as it may…
He shook it off.
“We cannot have this,” he pronounced magisterially, or at least as magisterially as a man with a large forelock—that no amount of hairspray could contain—could muster. Not even giving proper salutations to the Queen who had stood in half-profile waiting for him, still as a postage stamp, in the center of the room, he barreled on. “She must be stopped. The American simply must go.”
The Queen of England turned fully forward, drawing herself up to military posture, as she returned the P.M.’s steely-eyed stare.
“I shall look into it,” she said grimly.
Clearly, the shit had hit the fan.
• • •
So, obviously, Parliament knew all about Daisy. And, if one cruel stepsister knew about her, it could only be because of one reason: the press, being the other cruel stepsister, had told them. The two stepsisters having reared their ugly heads simultaneously, like two sea creatures—journalism and government being the Scylla and Charybdis of the modern world—one could say that the gloves were finally about to come off.
This, of course, left one burning question still loose out there in the world: who was the cruel stepmother?
Okay, so maybe two. (And the second one kind of has two parts, but the answer is the same, so you shouldn’t quibble.)
Who had narced on Daisy? Who sent the message in A Box?
• • •
Ars longus; vita brevis.
Death even more brevis.
Get the message… Daisy?
24
Fleet Street had finally gotten ahold of Daisy.
And the resultant experience had left our girl feeling as though she had undergone an invasive procedure, quite possibly at the perfection-seeking hands of an anal-retentive proctologist.
The press was lying about Daisy on a regular basis now, the slander coming fast and furious, like spitballs when teacher’s back is turned. This made it increasingly difficult not to give way to hating, and, it certainly was a Herculean expectation, to demand that our girl no longer deal in lies of her own.
• • •
“DOES THIS WOMAN HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO TOPPLE THE MONARCHY?!” screamed the headlines on People magazine.
Beneath the banner was a photo of Daisy’s startled face. Snapped as she ran from the press—the gates of Buckingham Palace separating her from them—the black iron bars made her look as though she were in prison, the bags under her eyes giving her that distinctly raccoon-ish air.
And, in the lower right hand corner of the cover, there was a smaller shot of Bonita, looking rather like a Medici in profile. The smaller banner whisperingly screamed: “The Mysterious Miss Chance: Governess to the Tidy Bowl Cleaner… OR… Procurer of Verboten Imports for a Prince???”
News of Daisy’s exposure had obviously hit the other side of the Atlantic as well and, in a beautifully appointed and completely unused kitchen in Westport, Connecticut, a large blonde woman in a red and green holiday muumuu sat at the butcher block table—heavy elbows on table, pinky thoughtfully inserted into mouth, bulk precariously balanced on a too-narrow stool—as she pored over the contents of her favorite ’zine.
“I knew it, I knew it!” she cried, seeing the jailbird face gazing out at her from the cover.
“Knew what, dear?” came the perfunctory response from the breakfast nook, where Dr. Reichert sat, stirring his coffee as he read the newspaper. Well, he thought, you had to give her some form of encouragement. Sometimes.
“Daisy Silverman! Remember that girl that I said that I saw in Scotland? You remember the one—at the Queen’s Garden Party? And I told you how she was really our cleaning lady but that she told me this outlandish story about only being a double banger or something like that? And, anyway, that girl was with the Prince of Wales, and sure, I thought it was strange. I mean, what could little Daisy Silverman be doing with the future king? But then I remembered that she didn’t work for that cleaning company that we use—what’s their name again? Kwality Kleaning? It’ll come to me. Anyway, I remembered that she didn’t work for them anymore, and that nobody there could tell me where she’d gone when I tried to hunt her down, after that new girl that they sent over made such a mess with the toilets. Anyway, I got to thinking and, when I put two plus two together, I realized that the crazy girl that I saw
in Scotland just had to be Daisy… and here it is! Right in People magazine! You see, it’s true: I was right. Oh, I know you sometimes think I’m crazy myself, but—”
“Oh, give it a rest, dear,” came the mutter from the beleaguered Dr. Reichert. Nope, on second thought, he realized, it never did do anybody any good to give the old girl any encouragement at all. Ever since their return from that Scotland trip, his wife had been seeing phantom cleaning ladies everywhere she looked. And it was beginning to drive him crazy.
More Prozac. He’d definitely have to up that Prozac dosage.
25
At the northeastern end of Hyde Park, near the Marble Arch and on the ancient site of Tiburon gallows, exists the Speaker’s Corner. On this geographical spot, where those condemned were once allowed to freely speak their minds, grew a tradition in more modern times. On Sunday mornings, and on evenings during the summer months, basically any Tom, Dick, or Erika was allowed to mount the soapbox, so to speak, there to air their personal views on just about anything to anybody who might care to pay them heed. The events in London, of late, causing some people to feel even more opinionated than usual, this public pontificating was now taking place on a weekday, even though the city happened to be in the midst of its winter season.
Oil and water; Nancy and Raisa; monarchy and democracy. Well, if you were going to grant people the basic democratic right to free speech, then you were going to have to expect a little insurrection every now and again.
Falling for Prince Charles Page 23
