Next time we see Frederik,it’s 8am and he’s leaving Casa Casanova. We don’t know exactly what happened but his walk of shame,if that’s what it is,is very middle-aged dad. Pushing his wheelie overnight bag,hair slightly mussed,Frederik heads off to jet back to Mary,their four kids and uproar about the state of his 19-year marriage.
Since then,the Danish royals have said nada about Fred’s friendship with Casanova. She denied a romantic tryst,said “the facts” had been misrepresented,her lawyer is on the case.
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The notion that the world’s hundred zillionth affair might have just happened interests me very little. Not my business. I haven’t even thought for more than an hour if,when Fred ducked out,Mary just thought he was in another wing of the palace or even in another palace.
What does intrigue me is what the photos and more-than-friends claims say about how bloody hard marriage is. And how invested we are in trying to hide any cracks.
Since the days when Princess Mary was a real estate agent from Tassie and Frederik was a slightly googly looking bachelor – he’s better with the beard –we’ve been sold a fairy tale awash with glossy togetherness,family values,matching ski outfits. They’ve successfully parented while elevating the Danish brand on the Euro royal circuit. She gives him glamour,he gives her position. Publicly,they’re perfect.
While now showing us their less stage-managed side must be excoriating for Mary,hopefully the upside is the brouhaha’s role as public service announcement:people,perhaps we’re all only ever one move from disaster.