Her Royal Highness (opening: revised)

Her Royal Highness (working title)

The stage appears as a hotel room. It is well-decorated but messy. The duvet has been thrown off the double bed. A woman sits at a large and glamorous vanity, looking in the mirror. The vanity is littered with make-up, tissues, magazines and empty glasses. The woman is elegant and middle-aged, with black hair, red lipstick and wearing a satin dressing gown.

HENRIETTA     Gin is magnificent, isn’t it? Timeless, you may say. From Hogarth to Gordon’s; crisp, fresh, never dull. (She chuckles.) And wine. Oh, wine! Full and dark and deep. When has anyone ever questioned wine, I mean, truly? It is staple ... iconic. It is fruit made poison, and yet how we love it.

It gets better with age, you know, wine. That’s what’s so magical. The longer it lives, the more we crave it. Wine does not fade away, it grows stronger.

 She finishes what is left of her current drink.

It was the greatest time of my life. I was snatched by a man with an eye for beauty. It’s always a man. He told me I was beautiful, and rightly so. I was the most beautiful woman in the world.

As she speaks she plays with her face in the mirror: pushing up her skin, nipping it, pulling her eyebrows and sucking in her cheeks.

I was known as The Queen, you know. Henrietta Regina Hawthorne. They got the nickname from my initials. See, people were clever back then. Not like now, chasing the skirt of any half-brained smile that takes their fancy. No, you see, I – I was something special. It’s so tough to make it in New York, not everyone can do it. You need that special something and by God I had it. I broke all the records: fastest selling cover, most internet searches, Sexiest Woman, Most Beautiful Woman, Most Powerful Woman. I was everywhere, and I mean everywhere. It takes a lot, you know. Yes, people hop on for their fifteen minutes but it takes real skill to form a career - a lifestyle – out of it. Oh, and I did just that, believe you me. A million dollars for one shoot. Four photographs. Four. That’s how many were published. Each one worth two-hundred-and-fifty grand.

She walks across the room and picks up a half empty bottle of gin. She walks back to the vanity where she sits and pours herself a generous glass.

They loved me, the public. They couldn’t get enough. I couldn’t leave my house without getting a hundred photographs taken, each one ending up on the front of a magazine which would then sell thousands of copies. I was a drug. An industry. Without me the business was nothing.

She picks up a magazine.

It’s a daring colour to choose, white. It could have been dull and drab. But no, there she is. Sparkling in the snow. And of course, of course she’s nude. Nude yet distant. Undressed and yet completely naive.

She takes a large sip from her drink.

Everybody’s favourite. Young. Fresh. Perfection. Pure as the driven snow. That’s what they all say, even here.

She points to the magazine cover.

Snow White Girl.

She laughs.

Well, not nearly as good as The Queen.