Royal Wedding Page 4

  No. They think RoyalRabbleRouser must use a VPN (Virtual Private Network software) to hide his IP address since they haven’t been able to track his location.

  Wow, that is not scary at all. But anyway, that crowd doesn’t look too violent.

  Don’t underestimate them, one of them already threw a Genovian orange at Lars.

  Why a Genovian orange?

  In addition to their many other complaints, the protesters are anti-GMO and don’t think Genovian farmers should be allowed to plant drought-resistant Genovian orange trees (even though genetically modified food could help to end world hunger and the Genovian orange yield increased by 25% last year. And that study with the tumor-ridden rats was proven to be completely faked).

  Sorry I asked. I thought Genovia was known for its olives. Or is it pears?

  It doesn’t matter. The demand for orange juice in Europe is huge, so now all we’re growing is oranges.

  Of course. What did Lars do when they threw the genetically modified orange at him? PLEASE say he shot them with tear-gas canisters, PLEASE.

  He did not. He picked the orange up off the ground and took a huge bite out of it. Including the peel.

  ♥

  Stop.

  I swear to God someday I am going to tie that Scandinavian to my bed and do unspeakable things to him.

  I know it’s been a while since you’ve had a date, but please keep in mind that Lars has been my bodyguard since I was 14 years old, so I think of him as an older brother.

  I’m pretty sure you do unspeakable things to MY older brother on a pretty regular basis.

  How many energy drinks have you had today?

  Not enough. So all this fuss is over some genetically modified oranges?

  Of course not. They also want us to allow bigger cruise ships (3,000 people a day is not enough) and immigration reform.

  What immigration? I thought no one gets citizenship in Genovia unless they’re born there (or has a parent who was born there, like you) or marries a Genovian.

  Yes, and that’s the way they want to keep it. But we’re offering emergency humanitarian visas to all the Qalifi refugees who’ve been showing up by the boatload since my op-ed piece.

  Is that what those signs they’re carrying mean, “Let Them Live with Mia”?

  Yes.

  Make your own sign and hang it in the window telling them to suck your [REDACTED].

  Thank you so kindly for that piece of advice. However, that is neither princessy nor physically possible.

  Actually we are working on finding a more diplomatic solution that includes providing the refugees with emergency shelter in local hotels, but all the hotels are full due to the 125th Genovian Yacht Classic.

  Oh, of course. How foolish of me not to know that the 125th Genovian Yacht Classic is taking place right now. I’m sure Muffy and Carrington must be very upset about all the riff-raff dirtying up the beaches.

  It doesn’t matter since even if there were hotel rooms, no one would take the refugees in, as Cousin Ivan has spread a rumor that they all have tuberculosis and cholera, so border officials are holding them at the Port of Princess Clarisse.

  Again, sorry I asked. Can I come over with a sign telling those protesters to suck MY [REDACTED]?

  I’m so happy someone like you is pursuing a career in contract law since it’s clear you’re so calm and levelheaded.

  Speaking of calm and levelheaded (no), where’s your dad?

  Probably the Oak Bar at the Plaza Hotel, where he’s been drowning most of his sorrows while waiting to hear from the judge about when he’s going to be allowed to leave the U.S.

  Typical. What are you doing for your birthday tomorrow?

  What do you think?

  Wait, let me guess: your grandmother is taking you to Cirque du Soleil. AGAIN.

  The magic of the circus is what she lives for.

  HA HA HA! How many times is this?

  She says we have to put “a brave public face on” in light of the protesters and Dad’s arrest, and act like “everything is normal” for the good of Genovia.

  Is that why there’s now a van pulling up in front of your building that says “Parrucchiere di Paolo” on the side?

  No. Paolo is coming over to give me a blowout so I’ll look good as I bravely face the protesters while greeting our guests tonight. Grandmère’s decided to throw a dinner party here at the consulate.

  What if one sneaks in and throws an orange at you?

  That is a risk that, as a royal, I’m obligated to take.

  Aw, you’re just like that princess from the movie Brave. Only you have zero hand-eye coordination. Why is there no e-vite in my in-box?

  Because only Genovian expats who pass a background test (and haven’t thrown any Genovian oranges at Lars) are invited, so they will see how “real” and “caring” we are and hopefully post to social media about it.

  If I get invited, I will post to social media about it, and I won’t throw an orange at you OR Lars. I’ll throw myself at him but not an orange.

  Seriously, stop. I can only take so much.

  Is my brother invited?

  Do you think I’d put his beautiful head at risk over something this stupid?

  Well, if he’s your future prince consort, he’d better get used to this kind of thing, don’t you think?

  There are some things I think even a future prince consort should be spared.

  Put like a true royal.

  CHAPTER 7

  3:10 p.m., Thursday, April 30

  Third-Floor Apartment

  Consulate General of Genovia

  New York City

  Not a lot of time to write because Paolo is giving me a blow-dry and it’s rude to write in one’s journal while someone is performing personal grooming services on you (also difficult, especially when that person has applied press-on nails over your bitten-down nails, and the glue/paint on those nails is still drying).

  Anyway, Paolo started out the appointment upset because I wouldn’t let him cut off all my hair (quote from Paolo: “It looks better short, it shows offa your long neck”), but I know the truth:

  Paolo just wants to do something different that will get my photo onto all the fashion sites, and the best way to do that these days is with a “daring” pixie cut like so many of the twentysomething starlets are doing.

  But I’m not an actress in a movie about someone dying of cancer/tuberculosis, so:

  I said, “No, thank you, Paolo, I like my hair better long, but if your arms are tired, you can leave the blow-drying to one of your assistants.”

  This offended him very much. He sniffed, “No, Principessa! Paolo never get tired,” which is fine with me since now we don’t have to talk anymore (Paolo doesn’t like to shout over the whine of hair driers. Also a relief: that he can’t tell what I’m writing since he’s not so good at reading English. Or any other language that I can tell, except the language of beauty).

  But unfortunately he did notice my twitch earlier and said, “Principessa, you look like the pirate, only not the hot one played by Johnny Depp, what is wrong?”

  Generally I don’t believe in pouring out one’s hardships to one’s hairdresser, because, as Grandmère is always reminding me, “Your personal baggage should only be shared with family, Amelia . . . and the bellboy, of course.” This is pretty good advice, except that usually family members are the ones causing the baggage problems, so I find that therapists and good friends can be more helpful with it.

  But Paolo has been around so long, he’s like family. So before I knew it, it all came tumbling out.

  This turned out to be one of the few times I should have listened to Grandmère.

  Paolo wasn’t at all sympathetic, especially when I mentioned the fact that right after I logged off from my conversation with Lilly, I went to Google News to see what the media was saying about the protest today, and the first headline I saw was from the Post. It screamed:

  “Why Won’t He Marry Mia?”
br />   Really? That is what the editors feel is the most important news to report on today, the reasons Michael Moscovitz hasn’t proposed to me yet?

  Of course it isn’t, it’s just what they think will get the most clicks.

  And of course it worked, because even I clicked on it, knowing I shouldn’t have, because Michael and I are mature adults and of course we’ve discussed marriage at length, and the decision we’ve come to (and our reason for it) is our business and ours alone.

  (Except of course that my grandmother thinks it should be her business and so she’s always asking me with elaborate casualness, “So when do you think you and Michael will be getting married?” the way other people ask, “So when do you think you and Michael will be coming over for drinks?”)

  But apparently the Post thinks it is everyone’s business, since they’ve printed the reasons they believe Michael doesn’t want to marry me, which include (but are not limited to):

  1. The fact that after we’re married, Michael will have to give up his American citizenship and be called Prince Michael, Royal Consort. (True.)

  2. He’ll have to be escorted at all times by bodyguards. (True.)

  3. He’ll have to attend charity benefits practically every night of the week, which, while being extremely worthy and fulfilling, can also be quite exhausting. (True. I can’t tell you how much I feel like staying home some nights in my rattiest pajamas, eating pizza straight out of the box while watching Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs and his team take roguish miscreants to task on NCIS, rather than having to dress up and shake the hands of wealthy strangers who only want to talk about their last safari, then listen to a speech about Latvia’s rich cultural heritage.)

  4. Someone will always be sending their hobby drone over to spy on us, usually at the exact moment I’ve had too many daiquiris and decided it will be perfectly all right to go topless. (Which happened once, and I think it might have been the Post that bought those photos. Still, once is too many.)

  5. Someday he’ll have to move himself and his entire business to Genovia full-time. (Sadly, this is also true.)

  6. The fact that I only wear platform wedges because I still haven’t mastered the art of walking gracefully in high-heeled shoes and that sometimes when I do I’m actually as tall or taller than Michael. (True, but why would this be a reason a man wouldn’t marry a woman, unless of course he had very low self-esteem, which Michael does not?)

  7. Michael’s alleged dislike of my getting involved with the politics of constitutional monarchies. (Blatantly false.)

  8. Our having “drifted apart” in recent days due to our busy careers. (FALSE. At least I hope it’s false. It better be false. Oh, God, please let it be false!)

  9. My family. (True. So true.)

  “I don’t suppose it’s ever occurred to the editors of the Post that if Michael and I have drifted apart—which we haven’t—it’s because of them,” I complained to Paolo after having read this list aloud in a comical voice. Dr. Knutz, my unfortunately named therapist, recommends I do this whenever I see mean-spirited comments or stories about myself. Reading them aloud in a comical voice is supposed to help make them hurt less.

  But it doesn’t. Nothing does. Except refusing to look at them in the first place.

  “The press has a field day with my name every time I get caught in the morning sneaking out of Michael’s place downtown, or he gets caught sneaking out of mine. Do you know what Page Six called me the last time a photographer spied me coming out of Michael’s building?” I asked Paolo. “The Princess of Gen-HO-via!”

  Paolo put his hand over his mouth to pretend like he was horrified, but I could tell he was secretly laughing behind his fingers. Only there’s nothing funny about the other names the media has called me, including:

  • Shame of Thrones.

  • Bad Idea Mia.

  • He’ll Never Buy the Cow If He Can Get the Milk for Free-a, Mia.

  And of course now, Why Won’t He Marry Mia. (Get it? Why Won’t He Marry Me-Ah? Ha ha.)

  You would think that in the enlightened era in which we live, a single girl could have a boyfriend and a career and also a healthy sex life (and help her father to rule a country) without getting called names.

  But apparently this is too much to ask of some people.

  “You know, there are very good reasons to marry—tax advantages, and the fact that married people live longer and report a higher degree of happiness overall than single people, and things like that,” I said to Paolo. “But Michael and I have just as valid reasons for not marrying, like that marriage is an antiquated institution that ends in divorce almost half the time, and that we’re perfectly happy with our relationship status the way it is . . . except for the part where we never get to see one another, even though we live in the same city.”

  And the part where my boyfriend has started to look every once in a while as if he were harboring some dark, terrible secret. That might be a good reason not to get married, or at least have a very serious talk sometime soon, though I’m really not looking forward to it.

  “And what about how we don’t think it’s fair for us to marry when our many same-sex-oriented couple friends cannot?” I demanded, since there was no way I was going to mention that other thing out loud. “At least, not everywhere in the world.”

  Paolo brightened. “Yes, but thanks to you, Principessa, same-sex marriage has been legal in Genovia since 2013.”

  “Right,” I said. “You can marry the man you love in Genovia, but I can’t. Not without having news helicopters and quadcopter drones flying over my head, vying for as unflattering a shot of my butt as they can manage.”

  Paolo looked horrified. “Why would Paolo want to get married? Paolo has so much greatness to share with many, many men. He would not want to limit this greatness to only one man forever.”

  “Yes, I know, Paolo,” I said. “I’m just saying. Did you hear the part about the drones?”

  That is when Paolo laid down the scissors (I’d conceded to a quarter-inch trim only) and said very firmly, “Principessa, everyone must make the sacrifice for love! That’s what makes it worth it. Even the principessas. And I think this is where you have the problem, because you think, ‘No, I am a principessa, I can do whatever I want. I do not have to sacrifice anything.’ But you do.”

  “Paolo,” I said. “Have you ever even met me? I’ve sacrificed everything. I can’t even walk out my front door right now without people throwing oranges at me.”

  “I think you need right now to find the balance,” he went on, ignoring me. “For life, you never know where the road will take you. Yours took you to a place where you got the diamond shoes, but now all you can says is, ‘Ow! These diamond shoes! They fit so tight and hurt so much!’ No one wants to hear about how tight your diamond shoes fit. You got the diamond shoes! Many people, they have no shoes at all.”

  “Uh,” I interrupted. “I think you mean glass slippers. Cinderella had glass slippers—”

  “So you got to decide, Principessa, what are you going to do, put on your diamond shoes and go to the dance? Or take them off and stay home? I know what I would do if someone give me diamond shoes. I would go to the dance, and I would never stop dancing until my feet fell off.”

  It wasn’t until Paolo put it in quite that Paolo way of his that I realized he was right.

  Of course, I don’t literally own shoes made out of diamonds. (Well, I do own a pair of Jimmy Choos that have diamond toe clips.)

  But if you think about it, I have no real problems. Aside from my obviously annoying housing situation, my mentally disturbed family, and the fact that a stalker says he wants to kill me.

  I have never even really sacrificed anything for love, or had anyone I loved die, except for a beloved stepfather, and although this was extremely tragic, the doctors assured us Mr. Gianini didn’t suffer, and probably wasn’t even aware of what was happening once he initially lost consciousness (though it’s quite sad that the last thing he saw wa
s an advertisement for Dr. Zizmor, Skin Care Specialist, Don’t Accept Substitutes).

  But comparatively, I have nothing—absolutely nothing—​to complain about.

  I felt ashamed of myself, and wanted to grab my checkbook and make a large donation to a cause of Paolo’s choice right that minute (except of course I’ve already made several this year alone—not to mention having donated huge chunks of my time, including only last night when I attended that benefit for Chernobyl).

  “I’m sorry, Paolo,” I said. “You’re so right. I do need to find balance in my life. Only I don’t know how. Do you have any suggestions, other than keeping a gratitude journal, which I’m already doing?”

  “Sì! I think my new boyfriend, Stefano, can help you, Principessa.”

  “He can? That’s wonderful! How?”

  “Stefano has the healing hands!” Paolo cried proudly. “He can cure you with one touch!”

  “He’s a masseur? Oh, how—”

  “No, no, not the massage! The ancient art of Reiki, laying on of hands. Only the hands, they never touch you.”

  I was confused. “If they never touch you, then how do they heal anything?”