Love is in the heir

Boy-watching never appealed to me until I saw the first handsome creature that crossed my path at the age of 14. He came to life for me, straight out of the pages of my subscribed magazine; when I turned a page, his winsome smile was there aiming straight at my heart.

"Can this be love?" I sighed. When I pulled up the covers in my bed, I saw him dancing over my head with the light from the moon illuminating his every dreamy step. Ah, I was dancing with him.

By daybreak, I was done with him and I scurried to school mindful of more Adonis-looking boys walking the face of my heart. Movie actors, matinee idols, singing heartthrobs – I loved them all.

And then, I discovered royalty: princes out of storybook tales and in the gossip columns or out of medieval castles and boarding schools stepping into chauffeur-driven limousines. Hordes of women followed them as they watched at close range their pursed lips and those big and blue twinkling eyes. Every pout, every awkward mannerism, like brushing off imaginary specks of dust on the tip of the nose or drawing back a loose strand of curly hair, made me want to ask, "Did you just come down from heaven?" Faultlessly dressed and neat as a nun’s starched habit, they never frowned and (I imagined) always had the right thing to say; were forever gracious with drop-dead looks that were eternally preserved.

A few more inches up my growth chart, my penchant for prince charming(s) did not diminish. I would create this scenario where the handsome prince would be traveling incognito, and we’d be in a library or an art gallery and he’d turn to see me scrutinizing the same canvas or leafing through the same novel. He’d have plenty of one-liners or pickup phrases to choose from and my response would be brief: "All of the above."

One scenario was so clear that the knighted and talented stage actress, Lady Helen Hayes, would have cringed in embarrassment. I’ll tell you why.

I would be invited to an embassy reception honoring the presence of the crown prince. He’d be eating peanuts with his grand crux wine. I’d approach him and ask, "Can I have some?" Blinded by my (er, uh, ahem) beauty, the prince would hand me the whole plate and say, "I wish they were pearls."

In reality that’s how Lady Helen Hayes met her husband. All right, so I’m not original.

Where can you find true, blue-blooded princes? In Brunei, Belgium, Greece, Japan, Malaysia, Spain, Thailand, and some other obscure monarchies in Europe and elsewhere including those in exile.

United Kingdom had a bonanza in having three princes – Charles, Andrew and Edward – from the House of Windsor; their "mom" was, of course, her royal highness, Queen Elizabeth II, the reigning monarch. Since Prince Andrew and Prince Edward were much too young for me, the choice was narrowed down to Prince Charles.

Prince Charles was not too bad looking. I liked his height, his full crop of hair, his smile, his princely stature and, of course, I went dreamy-eyed over the fact that he did what every teenager thought a royal prince should do: he played polo, went to Eaton, served in the Royal Navy and – did he fly a plane? Or was that Andrew?

Anyway, he was the perfect catch. And to catch him, I tried. I put my "How to Catch a Prince" strategy in full throttle.

Whenever the family traveled to Europe, Buckingham Palace was always on our must-see list because I never wanted to pass up the chance that maybe, serendipitously, I’d bump into Charles and I would sweep him off his feet in eight seconds flat. Huh?

Reason: I needed to move fast. What if he was standing by the balcony watching the royal guards change guard and then, wham! He’d single me out in a crowd of tourists standing by the Buckingham Gate? Picture Charles panning his gaze across the enthusiastic crowd and then zooming in on little miniscule me holding on to two iron bars of the stately gate.

Charles would turn to his butler or protocol officer and whisper something and immediately, a commotion would ensue as the royal guards would escort me into the palace and sit me in the parlor and then Charles would walk in, extend his hands to greet me, and we’d sip Earl Grey tea – maybe I’d ask for "green tea"? – take a few bites from the Royal Bakery’s shortbread concoction and then… and then, he’d pop the question: "Will you marry me?"

It wasn’t that simple. I had rivals. There were three of my friends who dreamed of exactly the same thing, although one had a more serious love affair with the crown jewels. She had this mania about wearing tiaras from the House of Windsor and fancied wearing them to all occasions including the May festivals of Santacruzan and Flores de Mayo.

The competition grew hot.

Every time Charles would be invited to grace an occasion, we would huddle close to watch him on the TV monitor. "Hmmm… Is he balding or was that the flash from the TV cameras?" I’d ask. The four of us were in denial.

Happy and content and still nourishing grandiose thoughts of someday walking down the aisle with England’s heir apparent, I was caught off guard when news of his engagement flashed across the headlines of leading dailies. To an ingénue? A grade school teacher? How could he?

It was a fairytale wedding all right, but since I was still nursing a wounded heart (and pride), I watched the wife closely. "Gosh, did you see that dress she wore to a polo match? The bib was bigger than her face."

Diana was a late bloomer, but it wasn’t long until Diana emerged from this cocoon and blossomed into a lady with an impeccable flair for fashion and a compassionate heart to boot. I liked her. She was a worthy opponent and I was happy to concede the battle to her.

In the meantime, Charles turned into a "meanie." He became a "sex, lies and videotapes" advocate. Scandalous liaisons, clandestine meetings, coded phone calls to Camilla? Worse, that gross, yucky, infamous declaration of devotion to Camilla broke the camel’s back. It’s rated XXX, so I can’t quote it here.

I declared war on Charles. The bigger enemy, however, was marriage-buster Camilla while Diana became the pitiful (but – wow! – still gorgeously dressed) suffering wife.

Then tragedy struck and Charles was honestly and truly free and ready to marry Camilla. Whatever. I still cannot imagine Charles choosing Camilla out of all the girls he’d loved before (picture Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson singing in the background).

Lo and behold, Camilla was a stunning bride. Aside from walking like a regal queen on a well-chosen grown matched by a smart, tastefully plumed headdress, Charles looked at her lovingly and there was no way you could deny that these two loved each other. He had eyes only for her and she was so nervous that she held on to his arm for reassurance.

Awwww. Isn’t that sweet?

One day, when Charles and Camilla have grown feeble and gray and Charles will have lost all his remaining hair and is, maybe, still waiting in the wings to ascend the throne, he’ll look to Camilla and declare, "Dearie, all this is nothing compared to you."

And you know why? Their marriage was an expression of, not romance, but what real love demands: sacrifice, devotion and endurance. (And sad to say, like in any great love story, the third party – in this case the late Princess Diana – would have been relegated to a bit role, a supporting cast member.)

And what about me?

I’ve forgiven Charles and Camilla.

After all, I wasn’t exactly faithful myself. While I was actively pursuing Prince Charles, my eyes were also set on Boyet de Leon.