Rachel Riddle’s Exclusive Celebrity Interview with Princess Buttercup
The hype was not wrong. I can confidently tell you that I spent an entire day with the Most Beautiful Woman in the World. Sure, I scoffed like everyone, but when I was introduced to Her Grace, the Princess of Hammersmith, former fiancée of Crown Prince Humperdinck of Florin, I found myself gaping like a shopaholic at a shoe sale in Manhattan. Hair the color of Autumn, and skin like wintry cream… wrote William Goldman, her biographer, and that’s only the beginning.
For the record: I spent several hours trying to somehow describe the rest, but it read like some strange shopping list compiled from scouring magazines in search of perfect physical traits. Fortunately there are a few pictures. Her (Former) Royal Highness kindly agreed to be photographed, although refusing to do a full-fledged photo shoot. Our photographer, JJ, took said pictures, and even though we both agreed they were lovely, you could see he was not happy with the results. There was nothing wrong with them, but he seemed to feel as if he had failed to capture the autumn and cream qualities.
Her famous skin, by the way, is actually a gorgeous bronze at the moment, and her hair is a lot closer to summer, the consequence of vacationing in the Caribbean with her husband Westley, once known as the Dread Pirate Roberts. Buttercup’s hubby was nowhere in sight all during our interview. The princess said he was out fishing, but later she admitted he was keeping away from the interview on purpose. “My sweet Westley,” she sighs happily, “he hates being interviewed.”
Before we met – before I was even allowed in the room – I was practically strip-searched by the Princess’s personal bodyguards, Inigo Montoya, a dashing Spaniard, and Fezzik, an intimidating but endearing giant. “We are taking no chances.” Montoya tells me. “You journalistas are an unpredictable lot.”
“The last one got himself… in a tight spot.” Fezzik chimes in.
“Almost harmed… the Princess.”
“So we left him… quite a mess.”
The two slap each other on the back affectionately. Neither speaks much, but when they do, they usually end up in this sort of rhyming dialogue, like two Shakespearean fools, who could kill you in about three seconds flat. So much for the comic relief.
Determined harmless, I am ushered into a kind of makeshift drawing room where I try to wait patiently to see this glorious beauty. Her fame is not solely based on her beauty or former fiancé; Buttercup is also a world-class philanthropist, active on behalf of many causes, from the environment to the homeless. But you won’t catch her at charity galas – notoriously shy, she has few acquaintances and even fewer friends. Not that she needs them. Her name is enough to get anything, there is so much mystique. So many questions, so little likelihood I’ll get any answers. But she agreed to do the interview and agreed to let me tag along with her the entire day, so I decide to be hopeful.
“Rise please. The princesa she is coming.” Montoya tells me. I stand up, inwardly contemplating whether I am supposed to curtsey, and how offensive it will be if I don’t. I have always considered myself well-mannered, but I have my limits. At last the princesa enters and I utterly blank for a moment as a sun goddess flashes her radiant smile at me and warmly shakes my hand. Like emerging from a cave into broad daylight, my eyes gradually adjust and I manage to focus: long, loose hair – a strand of coral beads – a plain white sundress – bare feet – no make-up.
With the grace of a ballerina, she lowers herself into a chair. I thank her for agreeing to the interview. “My pleasure,” she answers calmly. Montoya casually strolls off to the window, I suppose to give a vague illusion of privacy. Fezzik stands guard outside the door. JJ is at the beach, waiting patiently for us to arrive in about an hour. With her eyes fixed on me and the room’s silence, it seems like an ocean of time.
How should I begin? Humperdinck? Too tactless. Charity? Too serious. I go for ultra-polite: I’m thrilled to finally meet you.
“You’re very kind.”
Not at all, you’re one of the most intriguing people of our time.
She shrugs a little. “I’m just like everyone else.”
Miraculously I manage to keep a straight face. After the interview, we’re supposed to meet the photographer, I say.
“Oh,” she says, suddenly very serious, “Will you need me to change clothing for that? Something formal?”
The Princess of Hammersmith asking me if she needs to look formal. This is a moment to cherish. What you’re wearing is lovely, I smile. I’m sure our readers would prefer seeing Buttercup, rather than Princess Buttercup.
She gives that little shrug again, “I suppose you mean what I’m like every day, but there’s no difference. That is, of course I dress differently, but whether I’m wearing a gown and a tiara or a plain dress like this, I’m still a simple country girl. I’m not ashamed of milking cows.”
She has always preferred a simple life, even during her engagement to Humperdinck. “Court life bored me.” Buttercup reveals. “I hated changing my clothes ten times a day and wearing so much jewelry.” While many have applauded her decision to rebel against the decorative role that fortune bestowed upon her, others have called it shameless self-indulgence. Granted, many of these critical voices are Florinese, who relate to the Princess’s rejection of Humperdinck as a matter of national solidarity, but as a loyal supporter points out, “Buttercup herself is Florinese. She rejected the man himself, not her own country.”
People on both sides claim Humperdinck brought rejection and subsequent humiliation upon himself. Allegedly, when he courted Buttercup, she was grieving for Westley, then presumed dead. There were no declarations or illusions of love – Humperdinck’s proposal was purely political, or, as other Florinese political commentators have called it, a matter of public relations. Humperdinck himself refuses to comment on the Princess in any medium. Rumor has it she is not even mentioned behind the palace walls. The Prince is supposedly in negotiations with Guilder, Florin’s hostile neighbor, to form an alliance with Princess Noreena, sole offspring of the Guilderian royal family and famed patroness of millinery fashion.
As for Buttercup, she and Westley sail around the world on his luxury yacht Revenge. I am sure there is a story behind that name, I say to Inigo. “There is,” he smiles rakishly, “but I am not allowed to tell. You must ask the Capitan. Perhaps he will tell you.” The Capitan also owns a summer home in Florin, about a stone’s throw from the famous Florinese nature reserve, the Fire Swamp. He and Buttercup have been instrumental in its preservation, preventing poachers from harming the animals, botanical thieves from stealing its rare plant specimens, as well as occasional tourists who try to trample through on extreme camping trips.
When we arrive at the beach, JJ is all enthusiasm, happily snapping away at the Most Beautiful Woman in the World. Her smile is shy. She giggles a little, then looks away in embarrassment, as though having her picture taken is a new experience. Her naiveté, her almost totally unworldly personality, do give the impression of a simple country girl. For all her fame, wealth, and of course, her dazzling beauty – she really seems like she could have just come from milking the cows.
The hype was not wrong. I can confidently tell you that I spent an entire day with the Most Beautiful Woman in the World. Sure, I scoffed like everyone, but when I was introduced to Her Grace, the Princess of Hammersmith, former fiancée of Crown Prince Humperdinck of Florin, I found myself gaping like a shopaholic at a shoe sale in Manhattan. Hair the color of Autumn, and skin like wintry cream… wrote William Goldman, her biographer, and that’s only the beginning.
For the record: I spent several hours trying to somehow describe the rest, but it read like some strange shopping list compiled from scouring magazines in search of perfect physical traits. Fortunately there are a few pictures. Her (Former) Royal Highness kindly agreed to be photographed, although refusing to do a full-fledged photo shoot. Our photographer, JJ, took said pictures, and even though we both agreed they were lovely, you could see he was not happy with the results. There was nothing wrong with them, but he seemed to feel as if he had failed to capture the autumn and cream qualities.
Her famous skin, by the way, is actually a gorgeous bronze at the moment, and her hair is a lot closer to summer, the consequence of vacationing in the Caribbean with her husband Westley, once known as the Dread Pirate Roberts. Buttercup’s hubby was nowhere in sight all during our interview. The princess said he was out fishing, but later she admitted he was keeping away from the interview on purpose. “My sweet Westley,” she sighs happily, “he hates being interviewed.”
Before we met – before I was even allowed in the room – I was practically strip-searched by the Princess’s personal bodyguards, Inigo Montoya, a dashing Spaniard, and Fezzik, an intimidating but endearing giant. “We are taking no chances.” Montoya tells me. “You journalistas are an unpredictable lot.”
“The last one got himself… in a tight spot.” Fezzik chimes in.
“Almost harmed… the Princess.”
“So we left him… quite a mess.”
The two slap each other on the back affectionately. Neither speaks much, but when they do, they usually end up in this sort of rhyming dialogue, like two Shakespearean fools, who could kill you in about three seconds flat. So much for the comic relief.
Determined harmless, I am ushered into a kind of makeshift drawing room where I try to wait patiently to see this glorious beauty. Her fame is not solely based on her beauty or former fiancé; Buttercup is also a world-class philanthropist, active on behalf of many causes, from the environment to the homeless. But you won’t catch her at charity galas – notoriously shy, she has few acquaintances and even fewer friends. Not that she needs them. Her name is enough to get anything, there is so much mystique. So many questions, so little likelihood I’ll get any answers. But she agreed to do the interview and agreed to let me tag along with her the entire day, so I decide to be hopeful.
“Rise please. The princesa she is coming.” Montoya tells me. I stand up, inwardly contemplating whether I am supposed to curtsey, and how offensive it will be if I don’t. I have always considered myself well-mannered, but I have my limits. At last the princesa enters and I utterly blank for a moment as a sun goddess flashes her radiant smile at me and warmly shakes my hand. Like emerging from a cave into broad daylight, my eyes gradually adjust and I manage to focus: long, loose hair – a strand of coral beads – a plain white sundress – bare feet – no make-up.
With the grace of a ballerina, she lowers herself into a chair. I thank her for agreeing to the interview. “My pleasure,” she answers calmly. Montoya casually strolls off to the window, I suppose to give a vague illusion of privacy. Fezzik stands guard outside the door. JJ is at the beach, waiting patiently for us to arrive in about an hour. With her eyes fixed on me and the room’s silence, it seems like an ocean of time.
How should I begin? Humperdinck? Too tactless. Charity? Too serious. I go for ultra-polite: I’m thrilled to finally meet you.
“You’re very kind.”
Not at all, you’re one of the most intriguing people of our time.
She shrugs a little. “I’m just like everyone else.”
Miraculously I manage to keep a straight face. After the interview, we’re supposed to meet the photographer, I say.
“Oh,” she says, suddenly very serious, “Will you need me to change clothing for that? Something formal?”
The Princess of Hammersmith asking me if she needs to look formal. This is a moment to cherish. What you’re wearing is lovely, I smile. I’m sure our readers would prefer seeing Buttercup, rather than Princess Buttercup.
She gives that little shrug again, “I suppose you mean what I’m like every day, but there’s no difference. That is, of course I dress differently, but whether I’m wearing a gown and a tiara or a plain dress like this, I’m still a simple country girl. I’m not ashamed of milking cows.”
She has always preferred a simple life, even during her engagement to Humperdinck. “Court life bored me.” Buttercup reveals. “I hated changing my clothes ten times a day and wearing so much jewelry.” While many have applauded her decision to rebel against the decorative role that fortune bestowed upon her, others have called it shameless self-indulgence. Granted, many of these critical voices are Florinese, who relate to the Princess’s rejection of Humperdinck as a matter of national solidarity, but as a loyal supporter points out, “Buttercup herself is Florinese. She rejected the man himself, not her own country.”
People on both sides claim Humperdinck brought rejection and subsequent humiliation upon himself. Allegedly, when he courted Buttercup, she was grieving for Westley, then presumed dead. There were no declarations or illusions of love – Humperdinck’s proposal was purely political, or, as other Florinese political commentators have called it, a matter of public relations. Humperdinck himself refuses to comment on the Princess in any medium. Rumor has it she is not even mentioned behind the palace walls. The Prince is supposedly in negotiations with Guilder, Florin’s hostile neighbor, to form an alliance with Princess Noreena, sole offspring of the Guilderian royal family and famed patroness of millinery fashion.
As for Buttercup, she and Westley sail around the world on his luxury yacht Revenge. I am sure there is a story behind that name, I say to Inigo. “There is,” he smiles rakishly, “but I am not allowed to tell. You must ask the Capitan. Perhaps he will tell you.” The Capitan also owns a summer home in Florin, about a stone’s throw from the famous Florinese nature reserve, the Fire Swamp. He and Buttercup have been instrumental in its preservation, preventing poachers from harming the animals, botanical thieves from stealing its rare plant specimens, as well as occasional tourists who try to trample through on extreme camping trips.
When we arrive at the beach, JJ is all enthusiasm, happily snapping away at the Most Beautiful Woman in the World. Her smile is shy. She giggles a little, then looks away in embarrassment, as though having her picture taken is a new experience. Her naiveté, her almost totally unworldly personality, do give the impression of a simple country girl. For all her fame, wealth, and of course, her dazzling beauty – she really seems like she could have just come from milking the cows.
5 comments:
Love the dialogs- adds so much to the characters and the meaning. Gold...
I love that you've turned her into a philanthropist!
BT - thanks!
Alina - Well it was that or turn her into a best-selling author or something...
You've made the right choice then.
Well thank you, darling :)
I'm off to your blog now to see Respect the Classics.
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