A little preface for you (especially for you newcomers).... our dear Melanie has hopped a plane across the pond to attend her kind sorta boyfriend's cousin's Coming Out Ball. Melanie has, up until she hopped the plane, been stuck in court dealing with a wrongful death suit. Days off were given for the holidays, and when the invitation came to go to Sweden, she took it. Even if that meant maxing out her Visa on airfare, hotels and clothing.
Clearly, nothing I've posted on the book is in order, but, I don't write in order, and I try to give you enough background so that it makes sense.
Enjoy!
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OK. Under normal circumstances I would totally be sporting Spanx (they are God’s gift to all women), but, we (Lauren and I) decided that might not be my best idea. Either way, sometimes a girl has just got to suck it all in. This, Isabella’s ball, is one of those times. I found this fabulous bustier that is rather gorgeous, and sucks it all in. It’s from Saks Fifth Avenue, so, I’m wearing that. Plus, you know, it makes me feel sexy. Isn’t it great how a fabulous pair of undies or a bra can just change your whole outlook? Yes, thank the good Lord for fancy undies.
The tricky thing is, I will have to get dressed at my hotel. It took me a while to figure out this whole bustier, criss cross back thing on my own, but, we’ll just ignore that I’m a total moron when it comes to dressing myself. Evalina had a hairstylist sent over to do my hair—which, OK, yes, I probably could have had her help me into the dress, but, you know, too late now. I must say, I look pretty good. I’m damn surprised that I still fit into this dress and don’t look like a sausage—although, I do feel like one. It must be the bustier. I slip into my ridiculously high heels and pull on my white opera length gloves. I’ve always wanted to wear opera length gloves. They are just amazing.
Anyway. Here’s the deal. The tricky thing is, I have to make an entrance. Which, I have never done. Which I think is a little bit ridiculous. I mean, so, I have to walk into the palace, where I will be escorted upstairs to mingle with the family before making the grand entrance down the stairs to the actual event. Yikes!
I’m completely nervous beyond belief as I’m dropped off at the front entrance—where there’s like an actual red carpet. Oh my god. Really. This isn’t happening. I am going to fall and make a total ass of myself. I just know it. I mean, hell, this is what I do. OK. I can do this. I’m walking up the stairs where I see Sonja’s assistant waiting for me. The camera lenses are a little blinding, I’m not going to lie. But, what’s a little blindness to appear in the tabloids? Yes, it’s nothing really.
Tonight is very important. There will be dancing! I mean, real dancing. None of that “I’m-at-a-club” type crap. I mean, real dancing. The kind that your parents learned when they were younger. I mean, people will waltz and Fox Trot and it’s all so glamorous. I can’t wait! I took a few classes in Nashville to brush up before I left. You know, in the two weeks I had to get ready (and Lauren wonders why I didn’t have a totally fantastic dress—I had two weeks). I’m picturing an evening full of Fred and Ginger. So excited! If I can just manage to not spill wine on anyone, I think we’ll be OK.
At least I managed to get myself into the front entrance in one piece. Which is saying a lot.
So here I am, at Crown Princess Isabella’s coming out ball. Her fabulously decadent and important 18th birthday. I remember mine—Dick got drunk, my friends got drunk and I sat around eating Ritz crackers with my dog. It was a very high class event; after all, we served crackers. I shudder to think what would happen if these people found out about my 18th birthday party. They’d be horrified. Henrik did not come to my birthday party. He was too busy—well, he was being, well, classic Henrik to tell you the truth. I’m glad he didn’t come. It wasn’t exactly anyone’s finest moments. Truthfully, it was rather awful. This definitely makes up for it.
So, it’s the finally here. I’m here. As I stand at the top of the stairs, waiting behind Evalina to make my grand entrance with Henrik (!) I look around and try my very best to take in this impressive moment. Here I am, in Sweden, at a ball for the Crown Princess wearing the same dress my mother had made for me all those years ago—albeit, there have been some alterations to it. Nevertheless, I am wearing it, I’m in Sweden, I’m just ah!—all sorts of happy.
This is actually happening. I’m really here! In Sweden, at a ball in a gorgeous purple dress with layers of tulle in eggplant, lavender and white, with a crystal scalloped hem on each layer and crystals adorning the bodice (it is amazing what a good friend, a few hours with a sewing machine and the fabric section of the hobby store can put together). Picture it. Are you picturing it? It's to die for. My hair is gathered into an ornate French twist with two sparkling combs inserted on either side. I even get to wear the beloved opera gloves—and fabulous heels. I feel absolutely amazing, and the prettiest I had ever felt in my entire life—including that night on the cruise ship, junior and senior prom and any of the sorority dances combined. Yes, I feel beyond amazing.
I look across the way and search for Henrik. There he is! Henrik could not look any better. The boy cleans up phenomenally. Not that he’s ever scruffy, but, when he puts on a fabulous dinner jacket and a crisp white shirt with French cuffs (I adore cufflinks)—I tell you, I melt. I literally melt. Standing up actually becomes a challenge. He’s so dapper, it’s ridiculous. The boy looks good in suits. He can actually pull off dressing up on a fairly daily basis thing and look effortless. Like he just threw something on. Sometimes, honestly, I think he could make James Bond look trashy—yes, even Daniel Craig (again, something I never thought I would say). I look across the stairway at him and grin (yes, the dopey grin)—he had a purple calla lily stuck in his lapel. How freaking adorable is that?
The music begins to play and my heart begins to beat faster as I know that our big entrance is coming up. I watch Henrik’s parents Victor and Sonja gracefully ascend the stairs and smile—they are so beautiful and refined. Isak and his date would be next, followed by Evalina and her boyfriend, then Henrik and me. I really think I might be sick and I know that Drottingham Palace does not have air sickness bags (they should really prepare for these kind of things. Royal events are very stressful!).
Evalina looks back at me and smiles “You look extraordinary Melanie, really.” she says.
I smile back “Thank you, so do you. You look just spectacular, Evalina.”. Because she does. Always.
“You know,” she says. “all you need is the tiara.” She continues, gently touching the one that was well secured within her elaborate curls.
I laugh at her and her sweet words “Thanks.”
“No, I’m serious.” she says firmly. “Don’t worry, you have the perfect face for a tiara,” she says, pausing briefly “even the really big ones.”
I smile back at her and we both laugh—we get along wonderfully. I then will just have to wait for Henrik.
Nervously.
I’m so nervous. OK. Do not panic. I take a deep breath and wait for Henrik to cross the flat and escort me down to the vultures. Help! I am literally going to die right now. My heart is just going to stop beating and I will die. Seriously, watch me. I’m dying. Really, I see the light and everything. I’m going for it; I’m really going for it.
OK. I’m dead. Gone.
“Madame,” Henrik says, taking my arm.
Damnit! Not dead!
Still alive. Still have to walk down the stairs, which includes not falling and making a grand entrance with my grand date. You know, at this point, I’m thinking it’s safe to say we’re no longer just “dating”. Were we ever dating? It is a date if we meet up at the Ritz Carlton? Or send elaborate gifts across the Atlantic? I mean, now that I think about it, I’m not so sure that is dating. Dating is like dinner and a movie, right?
“Monsieur,” I happily reply, placing my hand atop his arm.
You know that feeling when you’re at the dentist and they give you the laughing gas and you can kind of feel like an out of body experience? Like you can see yourself moving and breathing, but, you have nooooo idea how on earth you are moving or breathing? Yeah, that’s kind of how I feel. I know I’m walking. I know that Henrik is leading me down the stairs, I know there is music, I know that there is a sea of people below me, I know I’m walking into a gorgeous and decadent ballroom, I know all this. But! I have noooo idea what’s going on. I’m nauseous and tired and over stimulated all at the same time.
Before I know it, I’m sitting at a table and laughing with The Crown Princess Isabella. How I ended up sitting down and talking, will forever escape me. She’s glamorous and lovely and although I’m still feeling a little shell shocked, the whole situation is fantastic.
Midway through my third glass of water (I figure water will help the faux hangover I’ve got going on, no?), I look up to see Karl chatting and smiling. Why is it that even the assistants/best friends are just perfection?
“Is your dance card full?” he asks, placing his glass down next to mine.
“No,” I reply giggling “Why would it be? Who is going to dance with me?”
“Well, I am, of course.”
“Karl! Karl!” I say through spurts of laughter as he grabs my dance card, still attached to my wrist and starts writing his name multiple times. He’s silly. We get along well.
“There,” he says “now, we can dance.”
I laugh, give a knowing nod to the rest of my table (which at this point consists of the dates—myself, Evalina’s boyfriend and Isak’s date—we hang out—we’re all awkward together) and take his hands as we float out onto the dance floor to waltz the night away with the all the beautiful people assembled gracefully in the extravagant ballroom.
“You look very nice tonight,” I say giving Karl the once over. “Who's your date?”
He points tactfully to my left “That lovely lady in the pink over there.”
“Wow,” I said “she’s purty. Will she mind that you’re dancing with me?” I ask. As much as I want to be in the European tabloids, I don’t really want it to be you know, ‘American harpy steals Karl Stabe’—yeah, not so much.
“No, not at all.,” he says happily. “She knows about Lauren. And, in any case, she knows who you are.”
“She does?” I ask, a little surprised.
“Yes. Everyone does.”
I look at him, puzzled. “Why?”
“Melanie!” he exclaims “You didn’t see the paper?”
I shake my head “No…”
“Well, you will be pleased. There’s a very nice picture of you and Henrik at dinner.”
My face suddenly explodes into a huge smile and I stop dancing. This was it! I have officially made it. I was in the tabloids. With Henrik. Heaven has officially been reached.
I grab Karl and excitedly stomp my feet in little bitty jumps.“This is awesome!” I exclaim.
He laughs “I knew you’d appreciate that.”
We keep dancing for a little longer as I nervously scan the dance floor for Henrik. I know of course, that he has important matters to deal with and I am fine with that, but, I really want to dance with him. I mean, hello, dream come true thankyouverymuch. After all, the last time we danced was on a cruise ship—and I didn’t look nearly as good then! This was a look for the record books. I’m pretty sure that if there was a Swedish People magazine, I’d make the Best Dressed list. I’m not trying to brag or anything, I’m just that lucky tonight. This is a rather enchanted night and I am so grateful to Evalina for helping me through the last few days and getting me here in one piece—thank God for her hair and makeup people. Heavens, they are some gifted ladies.
I give up my search and fixate on Isabella greeting some of her guests. She is magical. Isabella looks just wonderful, her blonde hair in gorgeous curls, her tiara delicately resting atop her head, and her beautiful cream colored ball gown fit her exquisitely—she truly was a vision. She’d make an amazing queen one day, I’m sure of it. Not only is she beautiful but she is polite, honest, outgoing, genuine and educated. I mean, that’s human perfection right there (except for the fact that she’s just now 18 and a little rebellious). What more could one want in their monarch? I’ve watched her carefully, trying to learn from her every motion of what a Princess should do. She is exactly as I had imagined—perfect. In every single way. I could never live up to that. Thank God I’ll never have to be queen of anything.
“May I cut in?”
“Henrik!” Karl says—a little too excited if ya ask me. “Finally. Now I can get back to my date. Please, please, take this lady off my hands.”
Henrik smiles “With pleasure.” He delicately takes one hand in his and places the other at my back. “You look absolutely divine.”
I like the word “divine”. It’s not used enough. “Divine” and “dreamy” should be brought back into pop culture. They are such elegant words. I’m braining them back. That will be my goal for the New Year. Screw losing weight, I’m changing slang.
“You look absolutely sexy.” I whisper in his ear. Which, not gonna lie, probably not the best wording on my part, but, I mean, sorry, but—it’s like dancing with James Bond. James Bond who comes with crowns and tiaras and castles (oh my!).
He laughs and very gently and romantically kisses my cheek. I watch him as we dance. His face always alert with a slight smile. He could watch me and the entire room at the same time and yet he always gave the feeling that there was only one thing he was focused on. Henrik is the king of multi managing and is wonderful at it (it's sickening, really. I can't even watch TV and vacuum at the same time). He tenderly but passionately held his hand against my back and my hand floats effortlessly in his.
Dancing with him is absolutely divine (see, I’m bringing it back right now). I watch as his strong hand removes the calla lily from his lapel and put it gently behind my ear. Perfection!
“Ev told me you’d be wearing purple.” He whispers in my ear so that I can feel his warm breath against my skin. (Can I die right now, please? Just die.)
Romantic and a half. Seriously, he may cause me to have a romance overload. I’m not entirely sure that is possible, but, given Henrik’s track record on the sweet scale, he’s putting sugar to shame.
I grin that silly dopey grin that he gives me “So, whatcha doin’ later? Ya wanna get out of here?” I ask before I can register what I just said. (seriously, I am just a yapper tonight)
Henrik laughs, pulling me closer “Do I ever.”
“Wait, really?” I reply shocked. Because, well, clearly. Hello.
I watch nervously as he leans down and kisses that magical place where your jaw meets your neck “Of course I do.” He says confidently. “Shall I have Karl pack up a couple martinis?”
We both laugh “You are terrible!” I say, playfully smacking his shoulder.
“Yes,” he says. “That may be. But you, dear Melanie, are no saint.”
“Well, that’s true too!”
“And,” he says pausing slightly and lowering his voice. “I wouldn’t want you to be.”
Wow. Henrik had just turned off the sweet and turned on the sexy. In public. Oh my God. He never does this. He’s always so sweet and innocent in public and wouldn’t even dream of kissing me let alone whisper sweet nothings in my ear. Wow. I love him (what, did I not make that perfectly known to everyone else yet?).
And so we dance. And dance a little more. Being with Henrik anywhere is like a dream, being with Henrik at a royal ball was unreal. Absolutely unreal. I am however, a little distracted by the situation. Where are we going later? Are we really going somewhere? Can we just go to a hotel (that’s tacky)? Do we go back to the family compound (so is that)? Or stay at the palace (still tacky, but, I could get on board with this idea)? Was he serious? I mean, really, was he? How on earth do Kate and William do this? I mean, we all know they’re basically shacked up together, but, we don’t see that in the press. I may have to hunt her down and get tips (shopping tips too, while I’m at it). I’m honestly totally unprepared for this. Emily Post did not cover this situation in her books.
We finish our dance, I curtsey and we go our separate ways. For now.
You know that Jimmy Buffet song “Changes in Latitude Changes in Attitude” or whatever it’s called? Yeah, I know that the premise of that song is about Mexico or the Islands or whatever, but, I believe that it really applies to this situation as well. Days earlier I was in court having my mother ripped to shreds and living in the roller coaster of hell that is often my life. I was sitting across from a table of lawyers eating spaghetti, watching Dick kill two bottles of wine in a day (seriously, I hurt for his liver). I was sitting in a cold courtroom with tears running down my cheeks as my dead mother was beaten into the ground. Days ago, I was in court. In a wrongful death trial. Hideous. And today, today I’m here. In Sweden. With a much different situation. It’s amazing what going from 34 degrees L to whatever the hell Stockholm is can do for you. My attitude is much improved.
Thanks greatly in part to my fabulous dress. Designed initially by my mother—what else would I wear? Seriously, now. I splurge on shoes, not formal dresses! Know your audience. And, it was quite amazing that I still fit into the damn thing. And, I knew how happy it would make my mom. Well, actually, she might really be pissed with me for being so damn cheap and not buying something new. Whatever, I like the dress, everyone else likes the dress. And, I get gloves. End of story. Successful.
I really do feel different in Sweden, and not just because it’s cold. My attitude really is improved. I don’t have to worry about court, my dad, school, any of that. I’m free of my worldly troubles and it is bloody fantastic. I thoroughly am enjoying giving up that aspect of my life—not being such a worry wart. The thing is, in Sweden, I don’t have anything to worry about—I just bring my handy dandy international cell phone (yes, I extended the coverage indefinitely) and that’s it. Anyone who needs to talk to me has my number, and I have e-mail on my phone. I’m seriously high-tech these days. Currently, my biggest problem is what Henrik and I may be doing later. Seriously, help.
I take my seat next to Evalina and watch Isabella dance with her father, the King. It’s so lovely. She looks so happy and her father looks so proud. The whole night is magical. I turn around in my chair to fully take in the scene—the fairytale dreamland that I am in. It’s so amaz—oh my god! Oh. my. God! Are you kidding me? Did this really just happen? Help!
© 2008 (which means, steal this--or any of this, and let me tell ya, it won't be pretty)
