Well, almost.
It's as we leave the official, public areas and move into the staff corridors when something shifts in his demeanor. His features, once tight, relax, his jaw loosening, and he begins to look like the man I regularly report on. Happy, confident.
I click my camera with curiosity.
"Morning, Timmy," he says to the elderly man polishing silver.
Timmy peers over his glasses. "Your Royal Highness. Miss," he says, rising to his feet.
"I've told you before, Tim. There's no need to stand on ceremony when we're in the business end of the palace," Max says.
Timmy chuckles. "Years of training."
Max clasps his shoulder, the first genuine smile of the day on his face. "How's your grandson's summer football team doing? They had a big game at the weekend, didn't they?"
"That's right, sir. They made it to the semifinals!" He beams. "My Hamish scored the winning goal!"
"That's brilliant! Tell Hamish I said well done, won't you, Timmy?"
"I certainly will, sir. He'll be chuffed."
I watch this exchange with grudging interest, like a scientist observing an unexpected chemical reaction. Theprince is genuine, engaged, and seems to know about this elderly man's life.
"And who would this pretty lady be?" he asks, looking my way.
I open my mouth to reply when Max jumps in with, "This is Fabiana Fontaine. The journalist."
Timmy's demeanor immediately changes, his spine stiffening. "What?" he asks, aghast. "Sorry, sir. It's just she'sFabiana Fontaine."
I suppose I deserve it. I bet I'm Public Enemy #1 around here.
"I'm covering a story about the prince. Sort of an 'insider's scoop' on all things Prince Maximilien." I offer him a smile, but his face tells me he's not convinced.
“I see.” He turns his attention to Max. "I'm sure you know what you're doing, sir," he says, his tone suggesting otherwise.
Max shoots him a look I cannot read. "Tell your grandson congratulations from me. Take care, Timmy."
“Have a good day, sir. Miss.”
“Nice to meet you, Timmy,” I say as Prince Max gestures at another door.
"The kitchens are through here," he says, holding it open for me to walk into a hive of activity. Delicious aromas emanate from pots on the stove, being stirred by people in white chef coats, others buzzing around, hard at work.
A few faces look our way, and I notice more than one person smiling at us.
Well, at the prince, I suppose.
I take a few shots to use in a video.
"Chef Margot runs things with military precision around here," Max says, gesturing at a woman in her fifties in a chef’s hat with a round, pink face.
"I bet she's a marvelous cook," I say, and he startles me by leaning closer and saying in a low voice, "Be warned. She can be absolutely terrifying, but she makes the best chocolate souffle I've ever tasted."
As if summoned, Chef Margot, wielding a large metal spoon like Excalibur, approaches us. "Prince Max!" she exclaims with obvious delight, her stern expression melting into maternal fondness. "What brings you to my domain?"
"I'm showing our guest around, Margot. This is Fabiana Fontaine, the journalist I told you about."
I blink at Max. He mentioned me to the palace chef. Why? And what exactly did he say?
