Page 41 of Royally Matched
“I completed a painting of our Prime Minister recently, which I am very proud of,” she replies.
“Jacinta’s work will be hung in a prominent place inthe new wing,” Mr. Beatson says. “Alongside a number of other portraits painted within the last hundred years.” He looks pointedly at Enzo. “Tell me Lord Strozzi, what do you think of Picasso?”
“Illogical,” he replies and the group murmurs.
“Dali?”
“Clearly drunk.”
A muscle in Mr. Beatson’s cheek twitches, but there’s no other outward sign that he’s offended, although it’s clear to me he is.
“I understand I’m here to open this new wing officially for you,” I say brightly, pulling focus back to me and away from Enzo the Liability. “I can’t wait to see it. Should we go there now?”
“If you could come this way.” Mr. Beatson gestures down a wide hallway. “We have select members of the press waiting as well as the members of the gallery’s board.”
I gesture for Enzo to walk beside me. I’m not sure I can trust him not to say the wrong thing if I were to let him loose on the art crowd here today.
We lead the group across the black-and-white tiled floor, through the whitewashed rooms with their high ceilings and columns, with portraits of famous Ledonians through history, including a large portrait of my family, painted when I was about eight years old. I remember posing for it. Alex was six and a total terror, always fidgeting and trying to run free. At one point he tugged on the curtain behind us and the whole thing came toppling down, making baby Max cry and Amelia laugh so uncontrollably that she wet her pants. I was the only one who behaved myself, but that’s always been the way with my siblings.
There’s a red ribbon, stretched across the entrance tothe new wing, which has been integrated seamlessly into the old building, providing a large, whitewashed, pristine space to showcase paintings to their best advantage. Unlike in the old wing, the ceiling is lined with wood with sky lights revealing snippets of the blue sky and clouds above. It’s quite breathtaking, and it takes me a moment to take it all in before I focus on the waiting crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Beatson begins after we’ve been painstakingly introduced to all the board members. “We are honored to have Her Royal Highness, Princess Sofia with us today to open the new wing we are so very proud of. Designed by a talented group of architects, Matthewson, Boris, and Giovani, this addition to our already impressive building will allow us to house many more portraits of great Ledonians, showcasing them with an abundance of natural light and a sense of serenity and space.”
Applause ripples through the group.
“And now it is my great honor to ask Her Royal Highness, Princess Sofia, to officially open the wing.” He hands me a pair of scissors, and just as I’m about to snip the ribbon, there’s a loud bang when a door hits the wall, and the sound of a distant voice.
I freeze in position, wondering what the commotion is. Has the crowd from outside somehow managed to get in to the gallery, prepared to throw more probing questions at me?
“But you can’t come in this way, sir,” a nervous voice exclaims.
“I’m late, you see. I got held up. So, I’ll just sneak in. No one will even notice me,” a deep velvety voice replies, and I know instantly who it is.
Marco.
“But sir,” the voice replies, rising in agitation. “Sir!”
And then, striding toward the group across the new wing’s pristine floor in a pair of green cargo pants, a grubby white T-shirt, his hair in a tousled mess, and a pair of muddy wellington boots, is Marco.
At the sight of him, that group of pesky hummingbirds in my belly that always seem so excited to see him, spring to life. He takes long-legged strides toward me, his T-shirt formfitting enough to show each and every rippling muscle of his torso, and I can’t stop staring at him, stunned.
His lips pull into a smile as his eyes land on mine, and those dang hummingbirds turn up the volume.
“You’re late and you came in the wrong door,” Enzo grumbles as murmurs erupt in the group, everyone’s eyes riveted on this man who looks more like he should be on the cover of a sexy gardener magazine—if such a thing exists—rather than a pristine white art gallery.
“Don’t mind me,” Marco says with his characteristic grin. “Pretend I’m not even here.” He slips between a couple of people on the outer edge of the group, trailing dirt from his boots. He turns to look at me, still smiling as though his unexpected, disheveled appearance hasn’t completely interrupted this important moment.
Noticing the dirt trailed across the floor for the first time he says, “Oops,” with a shrug, that smile still on his face, as though turning up late, coming through the wrong entrance, being chased by a security guard as he creates a trail of dirt in the new wing, all while wearing grubby clothes, isn’t something to be embarrassed about at all.
Between him and his brother’s traditionalist and uninspired opinions on art, I’m utterly mortified.
“Is she cutting the ribbon?” I hear him ask a prim looking older woman with a chic grey bobbed haircut.
“She was about to when you interrupted,” she replies with a smile.
“Is she doing it in super slow motion or something?” he asks and as the woman lets out a girlish giggle, I’m suddenly aware that I’m still holding the scissors in my hands, rooted to the spot, the ribbon still uncut.
“The ribbon. Yes. That’s what I’m doing. I’m cutting the ribbon,” I say needlessly to the group. I snap the scissors shut, the ribbon floats to the floor, and the group breaks into polite applause.