A Night In With Grace Kelly

‘I know it sounds … well, absolutely impossible. Crazy. But it isn’t. I promise you. Well, it isn’t impossible. It is pretty crazy. But the sofa is enchanted. I got it from Pinewood film studios, and—’

‘Pinewood?’ Her gaze softens, just for a moment. ‘Is this … some joke of Hitch’s?’

‘Hitch’s?’

‘Alfred Hitchcock. Are you playing out some joke of his? It’s just like him to concoct some bizarre pre-wedding jape, now I come to think of it …’

‘No, no! Nothing of the sort.’

‘… and besides, I know he’s against this marriage in principle. Thinks I’ll never come back to work in Hollywood, now I’m a princess of the realm. Which he’s quite mistaken about,’ she folds her gloved arms across her slender body, ‘by the way. And you can tell him, the next time you see him …’

‘I won’t see him. I don’t know him. Honestly. This isn’t a joke. Everything I’m telling you is real.’

Grace Kelly frowns at me, her smooth forehead creasing. ‘You honestly expect me to believe in an enchanted sofa in the attic?’

‘Again, it isn’t an attic. I live here.’

‘You live in an attic?’ She looks rather alarmed, all of a sudden; her steely composure momentarily fractured. ‘I’m sorry to be so blunt, but … you’re not … some sort of palace lunatic, are you?’

‘No! Of course I’m not.’

‘It’s only that, well, I don’t actually know the prince all that well yet … I mean, obviously we’re very much in love – I’d hardly have agreed to marry him if we weren’t, not even to keep my parents happy …’ She clears her throat before continuing. ‘But one never knows, until one actually starts living with someone, exactly what sort of skeletons they have in their closet. Or in this case, I guess, what sort of lunatics they have in their attic.’ Something else suddenly seems to occur to her, and her bright blue eyes narrow. ‘If you’re making all this up to throw me off the scent because you’re Rainier’s mistress…’

‘Christ, no!’

‘Well, there’s no need to sound so appalled, dear.’ Grace Kelly looks, suddenly, more human than I’ve seen her look thus far. Just for a moment, her shoulders drift from ramrod-straight, and that crease in her forehead deepens. ‘He’s an extremely attractive man! And a prince, of course. I wouldn’t be marrying him otherwise …’ Then she stops. ‘Not that I mean … I’m not marrying him because he’s a prince, of course. I’m marrying him because I love him.’

‘Of course, of course …’

‘It’s just as easy to fall in love with a prince,’ she goes on, somewhat defensively, ‘as it is to love a more ordinary man. Not to mention the fact that … well, it’s all very well everyone thinking I have men falling at my feet, but what use is that when all the good ones are already married?’

‘Yes, it’s OK, you don’t have to explain anything to me. I mean, I’ve never been in love with a prince, and the guy I’m in love with is just an ordinary man … but that’s all getting off the subject.’ I take a deep breath and step closer to where she’s standing, slightly less regally than before, in her princess-perfect dress. ‘Look, I can prove it to you, OK? I can prove that what I’m saying is true. You think you’re in the palace in Monaco, right? The pink palace, up on a cliff, overlooking the sparkling waters of the Mediterranean Sea …’

‘Overlooking the marina, actually,’ she says, sharply, ‘and I don’t see what the view has to do with—’

I take one step closer to the window and pull up the blind.

‘Look out there,’ I say. ‘Look out of the window and tell me what you see.’

She opens her mouth – I can tell – to object to my instruction.

‘Just one glance,’ I plead. ‘Look out there and tell me if you can see a marina, filled with bobbing yachts, the moonlight dancing on the water. Or –’ I peek out of the window for a moment myself –‘tell me if what you can actually see is an ordinary street, a load of parked cars, the rubbish bins all put out for the bin-men tomorrow morning and … oh, I think that’s a fox rifling through one of the bins over there.’ The streetlight is bright enough for me to see the scrawny, bushy-tailed animal wrestling with what looks, at least from this distance, like a Domino’s pizza box and a Tropicana juice carton. ‘Please, Miss Kelly,’ I say. ‘Just look.’

For a moment, I think she’s not going to move.

Then, with a well-disguised air of curiosity, she takes one step closer to the window so she can peep out.

Her eyebrows shoot immediately upwards, in absolute astonishment.

‘I don’t understand!’ She glances over her shoulder to look at me. ‘Where has the marina gone?’

‘Exactly! That’s what I’m saying!’ I perch on the window-ledge and look right at her. This close up, the scent of her perfume is stronger than ever, and I can see the faintest lines around her eyes that make her – oddly enough – seem more real, somehow. Well, if not real, then more down-to-earth. More vulnerable, perhaps. ‘You’re magical!’ I continue. ‘Not just Hollywood magic, but real magic. You pop up out of the sofa and into my world and then … well, actually I have absolutely no idea where you go when you go back into the sofa.’ I think about this for a moment. ‘I mean, I have no idea whether you go back into your own world, or whether you just cease to exist for a bit … the only thing I am certain of – at least, I think I’m certain of it – is that it’s not a two-way thing. I don’t get to go into your world, as far as I know. This is more like … Alice in Wonderland, I suppose …’

‘I see. I see.’ Her voice is low, and she’s talking to herself more than to me. ‘I … I think I get it.’

‘Oh, thank God! OK, so as far as I can tell, from what’s happened before …’

‘It’s a dream. That explains it. It’s not a joke. It’s a dream. A very vivid dream, but only a dream.’

‘What? No, no, that’s not it at all!’

‘Don’t be absurd, dear.’ She stares down at me, with a thrilling return to her regal froideur. ‘Quite apart from the fact that what you’re saying cannot possibly be true – I mean, a magical sofa? – it simply cannot be the case that I’m the one who’s come into your real-life existence.’ She lifts her rather strong chin. ‘I’m Grace Kelly. Magic may happen around me – movie stardom, an Oscar win, marrying a prince and becoming a princess – but I am real.’

‘Yes, OK, I can see why you think that, but—’

‘I don’t think that. I know that. I am not some bit-player in your life! Some magical being in a world where you’re the real one …? No. It’s simply not possible. Things happen to me, after all. I do not happen to other people.’

I blink at her. ‘So … you’re telling me I’m the magical one?’

She lets out a rather delighted, excitable tinkle of laughter. It sounds like musical notes on a scale, and would probably be enchanting if she weren’t trying to tell me I don’t exist.

‘Oh, no, no, I’m not telling you you’re magical! Isn’t it obvious? You’re in my dream!’

‘No, I—’

‘It’s perfectly apparent to me, now.’ She paces, in a very dynamic way for someone wearing yards and yards of lace, over to the Chesterfield, and sits down. She seems to be thinking aloud. ‘I’ve been under a good deal of stress, the last few days have been frankly exhausting … I’m sleeping in a strange place, and I really shouldn’t have tried that rather pungent French cheese at supper this evening … so although I’ll admit this does all seem remarkably vivid, it’s obviously a dream. Now, if I were in psychoanalysis, the way everyone else I know is – in fact, I probably should have been in psychoanalysis, back home, but Mother and Father have always made it so clear they think it’s nothing but snake oil and codswallop – well, then I’d probably be able to glean all sorts of things from this dream that might help me in my real life.’ She looks up at me, fixing me with that penetrating, blue-eyed gaze for a moment. ‘Perhaps you’re supposed to represent some other version of me? Ooooh,’ she suddenly breathes, ‘are you my alter ego? The person I’d be if I didn’t look the way I do? If I hadn’t made it in the movies and met the prince? After all, you do look so terribly downtrodden and, well, ordinary.’

‘Hey! I’ve just had a bad night, that’s all.’ I give her a pretty penetrating gaze of my own. ‘You try looking anything other than downtrodden when the man you love doesn’t love you back.’

‘Aha!’ She seems to seize on this, actually clapping her hands together as if to capture the thought before it dares to sidle away again. ‘This is the second time you’ve mentioned this man you’re in love with! What message are you trying to convey? What inner truth are you trying to wheedle out of my subconscious?’

‘No message! No inner truth!’

‘Because obviously, I’ve had my share of love affairs …’ Quite suddenly, she lowers that cut-glass New England voice, worried that somebody in the ‘palace’ might overhear her, I suppose. ‘What I mean to say,’ she goes on, ‘is that perhaps I might, in the past, have fallen in love with a man who didn’t feel the same way as I did. And obviously, the night of one’s wedding, one’s thoughts start to turn to all that sort of thing … I won’t say I was deliberately thinking about Clark earlier today, when I was getting ready for the civil ceremony, but I certainly did find him popping into my mind—’

‘Clark Gable?’ I can’t help blurting. ‘You were in love with Clark Gable?’

Her pearlescent skin colours, ever so slightly. ‘Well! If you’re the manifestation of my subconscious, I’d think you ought to know about something like that!’

‘But I’m not the manifestation of—’

‘Anyhow, I don’t know if I was any more in love with him than I’ve ever been with a man. He was just the one that kept popping into my head earlier. And I suppose Rainier does look a little like him, with his moustache … I say: this fellow you’re talking about, the one you say you’re in love with, does he have a moustache? Because it would make a lot of sense if you said he did.’

‘No. He doesn’t have a moustache.’ I feel giddy with frustration though, to be fair, that could also be down to a combination of the lateness of the hour and the quantity of champagne I’ve drunk this evening. ‘Look,’ I try one more time, rather desperately, ‘I don’t know if you ever met Audrey Hepburn or Marilyn Monroe …’

‘Well, of course I have. They’re sweet girls … Oh!’ Grace gasps. ‘Is this another message? Because they do say that the prince was interested in meeting Marilyn Monroe, as a prospective bride, before he met me. Not that anything of that sort would have stood a chance of success, of course. Nothing against Marilyn, but I don’t think the people of Monaco would have stood for that.’

And then, quite abruptly, she stops talking.