Page 87 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
“Any other day, you’d be right. I mean, I do like to take pictures of celebs here at Disneyland if I’m here already. The tabloids eat that shit up, and it’s worth the price of admission. But not today. Today, I’m off duty. I’m just here for my Ellie. And you want to know what the funniest thing is?” The paparazzo shakes his head and laughs. “I didn’t even know who you two were! I swear, I’m losing it. I wasn’t taking a photo of you because you’re Lorelei Dupont. I was taking a picture of you because you looked like a dead ringer for a friend of mine back up in Washington State. Girl who makes me my coffee by the name of Kenna. You should check out the Ephron Diner. I was trying to get a shot of you to show her.” He holds out his camera and toggles through dozens of photos of his granddaughter on rides, ending with two shots of me sitting on the bench.
So basically, he’s saying he was trying to get photos of me because I looked like … me.
“You were taking photos of me because I look like your barista?”
“You can check out my camera roll if you don’t believe me.”
“She must be one hell of a barista.” Rafe raises a brow, and I can see a corner of his mouth twitching.
“Oh, yeah. She makes some excellent coffee, although she’s been a little off her game for the last week or so. And she’s not a fan of my profession. Sent me on a wild goose chase to Vancouver looking for you two.”
The security guard raises his eyebrows at all of us and steps away to speak into his radio. He turns back a second later and waves at the paparazzo. “You’re free to go, sir.”
“Seriously, you didn’t take any photos of Rafe?” I toggle back through his roll again, incredulous.
The paparazzo chuckles. “I gotta hand it to you, Rafe. This outfit’s pure genius. I was sure you were some kind of weird superfan. Did you get the idea from Elvis? You know, he once lost an Elvis look-alike contest?”
* * *
Disney’s most exclusive private dining experience, 21 Royal, is cloaked in secrecy. The details on the website are vague, which is probably deliberate. You need to call their concierge for more information and to make a booking. Rafe has reserved the experience that is for up to twelve people, but it looks like it will only be the two of us tonight.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us, Ima?” Rafe asks Naomi again, back at the suite. “I would think this is right up your alley.”
“I know. I’ve read all about it on the food blog. But I promised Orly I would take her to a character dinner, and to be honest, I’m a bit tired.” Naomi, who is sitting at the dining table, sifts through her bag. She locates her lipstick, then applies it. It’s a sparkling-pink color that we chose from Lorelei’s stash. It really complements the fairy godmother vibe that she is still rocking. She has changed into a pale-blue dress that is shot through with silver threads, and she is still wearing the shocking-pink scarf. Orly has dressed for dinner in the brand-new Cinderella costume that we picked up at the shops. She models it for us, and we all clap as she does a little twirl and runs to sit in her grandmother’s lap.
“I’ve got such a hot date tonight,” Naomi declares as she squeezes Orly, who has two hands on her grandmother’s face. They are staring into each other’s eyes, smiling. “You two can keep your fancy dinner. Bring us back a slice of cake, if you remember.”
“Do you want to get going?” Rainey has unfolded the stroller, and she tosses Orly’s favorite blankie in the bottom, along with an iPad and a coloring book.
“Oh, yes.” Naomi stands to go, carrying Orly over to the stroller. “We better get a move on if Orly and I are going to stay awake for this!” She pauses by the door. “We might watch the fireworks afterward, but don’t wait on us for anything. Go—enjoy!”
There’s a moment of charged awkwardness after Naomi, Rainey, and Orly leave. We’re both standing there, achingly aware that, for the first time since we got here, we’re alone in the suite. Totally alone.
“Well, we should get ready,” Rafe says, unfastening the necklace and removing the gaudy belt buckle and dropping them on the dining room table. He rubs his chin. “I’m going to have to shave again if you don’t want to go to the ball with the beast.”
I wouldn’t mind that one bit.
He leaves me alone in the master suite to get ready while he showers, shaves, and changes in Naomi’s room. I’m happy that I packed the pale-gray, satin-and-tulle dress that I found in the back of Lorelei’s closet. It’s a proper ball gown, like something you would wear to an awards ceremony or a red-carpet event. Tiny, pink, embroidered ribbon roses twine their way across the bodice edging. As I slide the dress over my head, I almost feel like I’m stepping into a costume. I am a princess. The fabric skims over my hips and flows as I shift them side to side.
I clip two rhinestone barrettes in my hair, finger-combing the curls into glamorous, 1940s-style waves. Finally, I apply some mascara and a sheer lipstick. I blot my lips and survey the effect. I hardly recognize myself with makeup.
“I’m ready,” Rafe calls out from the living room. “But take your time. We don’t have to be there for another forty-five minutes.”
“That’s okay, I’m ready, too. Be right out!” I call back. Tucking the lipstick and my phone into a tiny, rhinestone bag, I take one last look at myself in the mirror before I go to meet Rafe. I may be impersonating royalty, but in my opinion, he’s the real deal.
Rafe is sitting on a leather chair in the living room, scrolling through his phone, when I step out of the master suite. I stand there for a moment, waiting for him to notice me. Finally, he looks up and does a double take. He stands up and slides his phone into his pocket.
“Look at you …” He stands there staring, marveling at me.
“I clean up okay, I guess,” I say, smiling wryly and curtsying.
Rafe is wearing a tuxedo, with a fresh-cut rose in the pocket. Where did that even come from? My eyes drink him in. The black, satin trim on his jacket matches the subtle glow from his hair, which is curling thick and shiny against the collar of his shirt. I catch a whiff of his spicy aftershave and feel like swooning.
“Let me see you. Turn around,” he says.
I’m tempted to twirl like Orly, picturing the skirt of my dress flaring and fanning out, but I’m not a little girl anymore, so I spin around more slowly.
“You are a princess,” Rafe says. “Truly magnificent.” He takes a step closer and holds out a hand. “I almost wish …” and he lets his voice trail off.
