Her Royal Highness

The stage opens to show a hotel room. It is well-decorated but messy. The duvet has been thrown off the double bed. Snow falls at the window. A woman sits in the corner 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 and wearing red lipstick and a satin dressing gown. She finishes what is left of her current drink.

HENRIETTA

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.

She picks up a magazine from the table and stares at the cover before throwing it to the floor. 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 over to the mini bar across the room, opens it and takes out 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 bends down and picks up the crumpled magazine cover.

It’s a daring colour to choose, white. It could have been dull and drab. But no, there she is. Sparkling in the snow. Lying on a polar bear, of all things! And of course, she’s nude. Of course. That’s why she’s interesting. Nude yet distant. Undressed and yet completely naive.

She takes a large sip from her drink.

And now she’s the one that’s everywhere. 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 harshly.

Snow White. Well, it’s almost as good as The Queen.