§ § § -- August 25, 1996
"I'm not going, Father," Leslie said stubbornly, for at least the fiftieth time since he had first broken the news to her.
Roarke's patience with her was at such a low ebb by now that it was all he could do to keep his voice even and his tone reasonable. "Leslie, I've listened to your refusals for the past three weeks, and I have reached my limit. Let me assure you that you are indeed going to the reception. Prince Christian specifically requested that it be held here on Fantasy Island; you and I are the hosts, and as such, we are required to make an appearance. No matter how you may feel about it, you must and will be there." She opened her mouth to protest, and he lifted a hand, his expression one of stern warning. "Enough, Leslie Susan, do you understand me? This discussion is over."
She stared at him, astounded; he could tell by the look in her eyes that she thought of him as something of a traitor. He sighed gently and softened his stance slightly. "I realize that it will be painful for you, but some things just cannot be avoided. You will simply have to assume your best poker face and endure it. You have the afternoon off so that you may choose suitable evening wear, and a hairstylist and makeup artist will be at your disposal as well. Give in gracefully, Leslie, as a mature adult would do."
Leslie made a face. "If you're telling me to grow up, Father, then believe me…I get the message, loud and clear." She blew out her breath and arose from the lunch table, pushing her chair back in and moving a few steps down the veranda before tossing her parting shot over her shoulder at him. "But I don't have to like it." So saying, she strode away.
Roarke sat back, chuckling in resignation and shaking his head. Stubborn to the very end: that was his daughter all right. He checked his gold watch and got up himself to attend to one of the fantasies.
Leslie, grappling with the inevitability of the coming ordeal, drove to Amberville and its tiny avenue of more exclusive shops; in addition to the formalwear shop, there was an upscale beauty salon whose employees specialized in hairstyles appropriate for formal parties. By the time she pulled into a space and killed the jeep's engine, her expression was so thunderous that passersby gave her a wide berth. Unheeding, she headed for the formalwear shop first, wanting nothing more than to get the whole thing over and done with.
The staff fell all over themselves trying to assist her; clearly, they saw her black mood, correctly deduced the reason for it, and tried their misguided best to let her know they were on her side. By the time Leslie had finally chosen a gown, she had heard all she could stand, and only barely refrained from ordering them to shut up. "Just please hold that dress for me," she requested curtly. "I have to get my hair done and my face made up, so it'll be about two hours."
"You'll outshine his wife by a mile," someone predicted gleefully. "The belle of the ball for sure, Miss Leslie."
She responded with a tiny, strained smile and made her escape, stalking to the hair salon with angry steps that clacked loudly on the wooden walkway fronting the row of shops. She gave the hair-salon door a shove that set the bell on it in a frenzy of jangling and made everyone inside stop to look up. The next second, all five stylists in the building descended on her, fussing and offering to do the most spectacular job possible on her hair. Leslie, feeling as though she might detonate any moment, picked one stylist at random, followed the woman across the room and had her hair washed. With a towel around her neck, she thumped into a chair and glared menacingly at her own reflection in the mirror.
"Wow, Leslie, who stole your wallet?" asked a familiar voice at her right, and her head snapped around so hard and fast that her neck ached in protest. Sitting in the next chair was Myeko Sensei, having her jet-black wedge cut curled into ringlets so tiny Leslie thought they had to hurt. "Hi…I sure hope I'm not the one you're mad at."
"No," Leslie muttered grudgingly. Not yet, anyway, came the uncharitable thought, which she promptly squashed by staring at Myeko's hairstyle-in-progress. "Why on earth are you torturing your hair like that?"
Myeko grinned. "My own idea. I got fed up with the same old hairstyle, but it's too short to really change. So I figured I'd curl the living daylights out of it. Did you reserve your gown yet? Mine's going to be pale lemon-yellow…someone said it would look great with my dark coloring."
"Hold it," Leslie said, staring at her. "Gown? You mean you're going to the wedding reception?"
"Yep," said Myeko. "Not because I was invited, exactly. Since I'm the entertainment-slash-gossip reporter for the Chronicle, I was told I needed to get some interviews. I can't complain, really. They're footing the bill for gown rental, this hairstyle, and a makeup session, and I even get to bring a date. So Clark's taking the evening off and getting all gussied up too. Sayuri's babysitting the kids." Myeko's hairdresser, who had been off somewhere getting some more styling paraphernalia, returned and picked up a curling iron. "Hey Janice, if it was you, what would you do? Me, I'd be dying to get a piece of that two-timer. Heck, who knows, maybe I will anyway." She and the stylist both laughed.
Audrey, the woman combing Leslie's hair, joined in the conversation, which seemed to be meant for Leslie to hear but not participate in. It was clear that it had already been in progress when Leslie arrived, and her presence was obviously not enough to stop it. Leslie gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut while Audrey spritzed her hair with a styling lotion of some sort. The banter carried on for awhile, so that it was a great relief when Audrey turned on a hair dryer and pointed it at Leslie's head. Unfortunately, ten minutes later when she shut it off, the topic was still going strong and showed no signs of abating. Finally Leslie was driven to implore, "Please, can't you think of something else to talk about?" In the mirror she saw Myeko and the two stylists exchange surprised glances.
"But you've been stewing about it for weeks, Leslie," Myeko said. "Come on, don't you want some kind of revenge on him for what he did?"
"I just want everyone to drop it!" Leslie bit out, driven past her limit at long last. "It's the oldest news on the island, and I've had all I can handle and then some. So stop talking about it and give me some peace!" Her voice broke on the last word and she turned away.
A stunned silence fell in the room; then Audrey said tentatively, "Did you hear that Fantasy Island High's finally going to be competing with Hawaiian high schools in track meets?" This inquiry met with enthusiastic responses, and Leslie was able for the first time to tune out the chatter and turn inward, trying to decide how she was going to handle the anticipated shock of seeing Christian with his wife in person. An hour later—after Audrey had twined her hair into an elaborate chignon secured by strands of miniature pearls, and a girl named Starla had applied a flawless makeup job without saying one single word the entire time—Leslie paid and got out, picking up her dress and heading directly home. It was a singular relief to get back to the main house and retreat upstairs, which was all the easier to do since Roarke happened to be out at the moment.
"Definitely the day from hell," Leslie told herself sourly, staring at her glamorous hair and face in the bathroom mirror, "preceding the night from hell. But at least I'm not going to look like hell." She smiled grimly before going back to her bedroom, noting the time and changing her clothing.
‡ ‡ ‡
Leslie maintained a frosty silence as she entered the old opera house on Roarke's arm; she had explained to him on their way over here that this was the only way she felt she could cope with the situation, and asked him not to take offense. Roarke had mulled this over for a moment, looking dubious. "Are you sure that's the best way you can handle it?"
She had sighed. "Well, I'm going to start out that way anyway. I do know one thing. If there's any way I can possibly help it, I'm not going to give Christian the satisfaction of seeing just how badly he hurt me."
Roarke's gaze grew enigmatic, tinged with just a hint of wry amusement. "I strongly suspect he will derive anything but satisfaction from that knowledge," he remarked.
She was still turning this comment over in her mind when they came inside and found themselves set upon by lofty dignitaries from too many countries to name. Among them, as it turned out, were Prince Errico and Princess Michiko, the latter of whom Leslie was profoundly glad to see. "I had no idea you'd be here," she exclaimed as she and Michiko unabashedly hugged each other, fussy attire and formal atmosphere notwithstanding.
"It's just another one of those official duties we have to carry out as royalty," said Michiko cheerfully. "We'll have a chance to catch up with each other and the other girls, since Errico and I decided to use this as an excuse to take a vacation and we're going to be here for a full month with the children." She drew back and regarded Leslie worriedly. "Are you okay? I mean…no sooner had we stepped foot on the island than we discovered that Prince Christian was supposed to have married you, not the Italian count's daughter."
Leslie shrugged. "I told Father I'm just going to be cold and silent. This is nothing more than an endurance test for me, Michiko."
Michiko nodded and suddenly grinned impishly. "To tell the truth, Leslie, maybe that's the best way to go. That frozen silence makes you look unapproachably regal." Both girls laughed and hugged each other again. "Maybe Errico and I can be a buffer for you."
"I'd appreciate that," Leslie said gratefully. "So where are we supposed to sit?"
The dinner was delicious, although even with Michiko's presence to smooth things out, Leslie found she couldn't choke down more than a dozen or so bites. It was a relief when the place settings were cleared away after the final course, although she wasn't really looking forward to the dancing either. The dinner had at least kept people from mingling, even though she, Roarke, Michiko and Errico were seated at a table within easy sight of the one where the Lilla Jordsö contingent sat. Leslie had confined her attention to conversing with the others at their own table and managed not to look around—but Roarke had seen Christian staring in her direction more than once throughout the meal. The last time, Christian had finally become aware that Roarke was onto him, and had turned quickly away, leaving Roarke to wonder with mild concern where things would go from here.
"Dancing?" Leslie asked now, as if caught by surprise. "Oh dear, I'd forgotten."
"Have no fear," Prince Errico spoke up earnestly, smiling warmly at her. "I have many friends who are in attendance here tonight, and I myself shall personally see to it that your dance card is as full as can be. You need not ever face the man."
"Errico," Michiko scolded affectionately.
But Leslie grinned. "If they don't mind having their toes tromped on, then by all means, bring them on. That way Father won't be stuck dancing with me all night." They all laughed as the first classical passage got under way and the dance floor filled up.
Errico was true to his word and Leslie had quite a few different dance partners for the first hour or so. By the time she finally had her first dance with Roarke, she was breathless with astonishment. "You wouldn't believe it, Father. So far I've danced with an ambassador, his son, four princes of all ages, two prime ministers and three presidents. And I think I've heard more accents than I ever knew existed."
Roarke laughed. "It sounds as if you're enjoying yourself after all."
"I guess so," Leslie mused with surprise. "It must be Michiko's and Errico's presence here. Whoever was responsible for that, I'm eternally grateful to them."
The orchestra took a short break during which Myeko swooped down on Leslie and Michiko, and the three friends chatted excitedly, oblivious to their surroundings. Roarke watched from a few feet away, having stepped aside long enough to indulge himself in a glass of champagne. He was in a position to see Christian, trapped in a one-way conversation with an ostentatiously garbed official, paying only half the attention to the encounter that he should have been because he was so busy watching Leslie with her friends. The pained look on Christian's features spoke volumes to Roarke's knowing eye.
The orchestra soon started up again and Leslie went through three more dances before winding up as her father's partner once more. She had just described a joke told to her by Errico, who had danced with her immediately prior to this, and she and Roarke were both laughing softly when something touched Leslie's shoulder and a male voice requested with rigid formality, "May I have this dance, if you please?"