“Exactly.”
A broad smile spread across my face as I crawled over the bed and planted a kiss on his forehead. “I bloody love you, Teddy Walsh! Sanders will have no excuse to fire me now.”
“Don’t muck this up, Jim. It’s a bit obscure but you know how popular Kelly is right now. This could turn into big news.”
I promised I wouldn’t muck it up. “Scout’s honor. I’ll get the shot.”
He rolled his eyes and waved me away with a weary hand as another coughing fit left him gasping for breath.
“You sure you’ll be all right?” I asked. I wasn’t used to seeing him so listless. “You’re not going to die or anything? I should probably warn the chambermaids if you are.”
He attempted a smile. “Not planning to. I’d say I’ll last the night anyway. Now get lost, will you? You’re making me feel worse.”
* * *
The following morning, I got a lift to the palace with Walsh’s contact from Paris Match, a diminutive fellow with fat fingers and limited English. We traveled in silence as his little Peugeot 203 struggled up the steep winding roads, gears crunching as he did his best to keep up with the American sedan MGM had provided to drive Miss Kelly to the palace. Pierre Galante was accompanying her, along with Olivia de Havilland.
“Hollywood stars pop up as often as champagne corks in this part of the country,” I said, as much to myself as to my companion. He didn’t reply. I was glad to see he kept his eyes firmly on the road. I rolled down the window and pulled back the seat, stretching out my legs as much as the cramped space would allow. I settled my gaze on the passing scenery and tried not to think about the sheer drop-off to our right. The sea was vivid blue far below the steep mountainsides. The scent of salt and orange blossom mingled with the tobacco from my cigarette; the relaxed holiday feel of it all made me smile. Perhaps everything was going to be okay after all, thanks to Walsh and a dozen dodgy oysters, and Grace Kelly and a prince.
* * *
At the palace, an aide explained, rather awkwardly, that His Serene Highness was a little delayed. He offered to escort our party on a tour of the palace while we waited.
Miss Kelly didn’t seem too impressed and kept glancing at her wristwatch, but she managed a polite smile as she was introduced to the group of photographers and reporters. She shook all our hands, one after the other.
“James Henderson, British press,” I said when she reached me. “Jim, to my friends.”
She smiled warmly, said, “Hello, James,” and moved quickly on to the chap beside me who was sweating profusely. He wiped his hand on his lapel before offering it to her. I was glad, on her behalf, that she wore wrist-length white gloves.
“I’m told the prince won’t be long, gentlemen,” she said brightly, when she’d been introduced to us all. “And I suppose a prince is entitled to make an entrance! Perhaps we could use the time to take some photographs inside?”
The consummate professional, she took control with ease and charm. I’d expected her to be more aloof, hardened by the Hollywood machine. But there was nothing aloof about Miss Kelly. She was absolutely charming. Playful almost, as bemused to find herself at a royal palace in Monaco as the rest of us. Her soft American accent and girl-next-door look were a far cry from the dazzling star we usually saw turned out in furs and diamonds. Her garish floral dress reminded me of the wallpaper in my mother’s living room but it was no doubt the height of Paris fashion.
I followed the other reporters and photographers into the grand palatial rooms. Walsh had urged me not to draw attention to myself. “Look a little bored, if anything,” he’d suggested. “You’re good at that.” I did my best, but it really wasn’t easy in such ostentatious rooms and in the presence of such a striking woman.
If she was reluctant to be there, Miss Kelly didn’t let it show for a minute. She posed when and where asked, her trademark smile illuminating every room we visited, making our job easy. We photographed her looking at marble busts and armory and portraits of the Grimaldi family. In each setting, she turned on the charm for the cameras. I was impressed, and more than a little amused, with her ability to look absolutely fascinated by so many inanimate objects. Maybe she was the perfect woman to stroke the prince’s ego after all. I’d heard he could be difficult to engage in conversation at best, and about as interesting as a marble statue at worst.
After several posed photos in the library, I took a lovely shot of Miss Kelly walking along a long balcony, shafts of sunlight bursting between the ornate colonnades. She stopped for a moment, placing her hands on the stone balustrade as she gazed out over the courtyard below. She looked extraordinarily at home, as if she visited palaces all the time. I had to hand it to her. She was a fine actress indeed.
Eventually, it was announced that the prince had arrived and we were all escorted to a grand sort of parlor, where he stood awkwardly beside a fireplace. He didn’t strike me as being especially princely, or handsome even. He looked pretty ordinary in his dark suit. I wondered if Miss Kelly was thinking the same thing.
Our cameras clicked and whirred somewhat intrusively as the two were formally introduced. Miss Kelly removed the glove from her right hand and bobbed a little curtsey. The prince was horribly stiff, bending at the waist as he leaned forward to shake her hand. The poor man looked terrified, afraid to take another step toward her. He didn’t even remove his dark sunglasses, which I thought was odd for a photo op and really rather rude to Miss Kelly, but she didn’t bat an eyelid and looked for all the world as if she met princes in palaces every day.
“I’d get much closer to her if I were him,” someone muttered behind me, which made me laugh and then cough. I apologized as everyone stared at me for interrupting the moment. I kept my head down after that, suddenly very intent on adjusting the levers and settings on my camera.
When one of the photographers suggested the light may be better outside, Pierre Galante—who appeared to have appointed himself in charge of proceedings—asked us all to step out into the gardens, where the two, again, posed stiffly beside a large formal hedge. Miss Kelly made polite conversation with the prince, putting him at ease. She was far more relaxed in front of the cameras, politely suggesting where they should stand to find the best light and angles. We followed a little way behind as Rainier gave Miss Kelly a tedious tour of the palace zoo.
“Poor girl. She looks bored stiff,” I remarked.
“She didn’t even want to be here,” the chap beside me whispered as we followed behind at a discreet distance. “She tried to cancel several times. I think she’d rather be somewhere else with someone else.” He winked.
I couldn’t help feeling the same way as my thoughts turned back to Emily. I imagined her tugging on my sleeve, determined to ask her question. “Is he really a prince, Daddy? Shouldn’t he be wearing a crown?”
Finally, we assembled at the foot of a sweeping marble staircase, preparing for the final shot before Miss Kelly and the prince descended the steps together, now chatting happily and looking far more relaxed.
As Miss Kelly prepared to leave and we packed up our equipment, a reporter asked if she’d enjoyed the meeting.
She hesitated for a moment before replying with a luminous smile. “He is a very charming man.”