Royal Wedding (12 page)

But early into Queen Victoria's marriage to Albert, while they were both riding in an open carriage, the prince consort saw a would-be assassin draw a gun. Instead of freaking out, Albert did the most practical thing on the planet: he pulled Queen Victoria down against the carriage seat (and himself) so the bullet brushed him and not her (at least according to what I remember of the biopic. Obviously I can't fact-check it right now, as I have no Internet access, and also I'm in the bathroom).

How completely sensible—yet utterly romantic—is that?

And how like something Michael would do, if ever given the opportunity . . . which I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure he will never have to. Because protecting your subjects, which includes your loved ones, is what being a royal is all about.

Of course, if they make a third movie of my life, it would be lovely if they show Michael taking a bullet for me, just to liven things up a bit. But only a small one that does minor damage, and not to his face (or anything downstairs).

It wasn't until I saw Michael eating his own crab cakes (with surprising savagery) that I realized
that's
what's been going on in his eyes lately: Mr. Gianini's dying, a possible madman wanting to kill me, and protesters throwing genetically modified oranges at my bodyguard have brought home to him how fleeting life is, and how, when you really love someone, all you want to do is spend all the time you can with that person.

Why delay happiness—even for a matter of principle—if you can have it right away? Of course, we're going to have a talk eventually about all those things that were mentioned in the
Post
article—like that when we get married, he's going to have to give up his name (and U.S. citizenship, etc.). Women give up those things when they marry as a matter of course—well, not their citizenship, generally—so it shouldn't be such a big deal (plus, I think he already knows), but we live in a society where, for most men, I'm afraid this would be nonnegotiable.

But Michael's not like most men.

I did tell him that we are absolutely one hundred percent going to have to elope because there is
no way
I'm going through what William and Kate did on their wedding day.
That
was completely ludicrous. Sweet to watch on television if you weren't there yourself, but the behind-the-scenes drama was insane.

He agreed.

Except a little while later, after we'd finished dinner—I have to admit, I was so excited and happy I could barely finish my shrimp pasta, though I did manage to polish off all my crab cakes and lemon sorbet in limoncello—and we were both in the hammock, looking for shooting stars (I do not think that last one was a satellite no matter what he says), he said, “My parents are going to be really disappointed if we don't have a wedding.”

“But, Michael, your parents are so progressive! They subscribe to
Mother Jones
.”

“Yes, but they're getting older, and lately they've been dropping hints that there are only two occasions during which families get together anymore, and only one of them is happy.”

It took me a little while to figure out what Michael meant. I lifted my head with a jerk from his chest. “Yikes!”

“Yes,” he said grimly. “Think about the number of funerals there've been in our families lately.”

“Of course,” I murmured, lowering my head again. “Mr. Gianini.”

“My great-aunt Rose.”

“Pavlov . . .”

He laughed and kissed me. We didn't actually have a funeral for his dog. He now lives as tiny cremated ashes in an elegant tin shaped like Rosie the Robot from
The Jetsons
on Michael's bedroom shelf.

“What if we have a very small wedding?” I asked. “Just family and friends.”

“Do you really think you could get away with that?”

“Why not? Brad and Angelina did.”

He looked skeptical. “They're movie stars. You're going to rule a country.”

“That makes it even easier, in a way,” I said. “I have national security to help me keep it a secret.”

“True, but how would we keep the press from finding out?”

“The way Brad and Angelina did. They didn't invite their most talkative family members . . .”

He raised his delectably dark, thick eyebrows. “Are you saying you wouldn't invite your grandmother to your own wedding?”

“Or we could invite her and not tell her what it actually is until the last minute,” I said with a shrug. “Think about what will happen if we don't. At her own wedding to my grandfather, I heard there was a two-day public holiday, a military parade, a gown that today would be worth over a couple hundred thousand dollars, it was dripping with so many diamonds and pearls, a religious
and
civil ceremony, television cameras, enough cake to feed the entire populace, twenty thousand bottles of champagne, fireworks and carriage rides through the town square, a commemorative postage stamp with her head on it—”

“Wait a minute,” Michael said, tensing up. “Is that something they're going to do to me? Make a stamp of my head?”

“Oh,” I said soothingly. “No, of course not.”

It was totally something they were going to do to him. There's only one commemorative stamp of me, but there are three of my dad, and
sixteen
of Grandmère (they reissue them every time the postage rate changes, and she's been around for a while).

Personally I'd love to lick a stamp of Michael's head and stick it on an envelope, but I'll wait until after we're married to break the news to him that he has to sit for a state portrait. To misquote Beyoncé, I'm not sure he's ready for this jelly.

“I don't know,” he said. “I'm beginning to think maybe we
should
risk disappointing my parents, and just elope.”

Damn! He must have detected the hint of stamp-lust in my voice.

“Michael, we can't. I don't want our future together to start off with us disappointing everyone. I'm willing to risk it with my grandmother—she's always disappointed in me anyway—but not your parents. I couldn't bear that.”

He lifted one of my hands and kissed it. “Well, when you put it like that, how can I say no?” He held my hand up so the diamond on my finger caught the moonlight. “But I don't want you getting stressed out again.”

I hugged him. “I'll never get stressed out again with you by my side. Our wedding's going to be
amazing,
just like our future together.”

I don't think I've ever been this happy in my entire life.

Three things I'm grateful for:

1.   Shooting stars.

2.   Lab-engineered diamonds.

3.   That I'm engaged to be married to Michael Moscovitz.

CHAPTER 18

3:05 p.m., Monday, May 4

HELV
^*
from Teterboro back to the consulate

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?

*Hybrid Electric Livery Vehicle

So happy. Can't even think of anything to write I'm so happy.

Except that I'm sorry to have left our little island . . . I wish we could live there, swimming and snorkeling and sleeping in the sun all day, then lying in our hammock and watching shooting stars (and satellites) at night. We even invented a new game . . . it's called Space Alien. We pretended one of the satellites we saw was actually a spaceship visiting from a distant galaxy and it happened to land on
our tiny island,
and when the door opened, out came Michael, who was an alien (with many humanoid qualities) who'd been sent to explore the far reaches of space because all the females in his sector had died out from a terrible plague, so he kidnapped me and took me back to his planet to help repopulate it (though I went willingly because he was quite handsome and more gentlemanly and intelligent than any of the men on my own planet).

Obviously, in real life it would not be fun to travel to a planet where you were the sole female and have humanoid males fight over you all day, but that's what's fun about fantasies: they're
not real
. Another fun fantasy would be for us to live in the Exumas, where Michael could fish and I could sell the fish from a little hut on the beach, and we could play Space Alien every night and forget all our other responsibilities.

But that's not real either.

Which is why I just had to switch my phone back on. I need to see how things are going at the center and with my dad and—

. . . and now it's buzzing off the hook. What is going
on
? There had better be an international incident or—

I have 1,372 new e-mails, texts, and voice mails.

I was kidding about there better having been an international incident.
Please
don't let anything bad have happened to my family or friends or kids from the center or the refugees from Qalif or the people of Genovia . . .

CHAPTER 19

3:15 p.m., Monday, May 4

Still in the HELV

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1

There hasn't been an international incident. Well, there
has
been, but it turns out to be me. Once again,
I'm
the international incident.

At Long Last:

They're Engaged!

You heard it here first!
She's officially “When Will He Marry Mia” no more!

Longtime beau—multimillionaire biotech entrepreneur Michael Moscovitz, 29—has finally popped the question to new
Number One
–ranked royal, Princess Mia Thermopolis of Genovia!

RateTheRoyals.com has all the
vital
statistics:

♥  The couple became engaged on the princess's 26th birthday this weekend during an exotic getaway in the Bahamas.

♥  Before they left, Michael asked Mia's father—Prince Phillipe Renaldo of Genovia—for her hand.

♥  The ring is a 10-carat sapphire surrounded by diamonds on a platinum band.

♥  The royal wedding will be held this summer at the Genovian Palace in a Catholic ceremony that will be telecast
live
worldwide to an approximate audience of a billion!

♥  Michael will move his billion-dollar medical business to Genovia, where he and Mia will live in the royal palace once they're married!

♥  Mia's grandma: “I've always been very fond of Michael.”

♥  Mia is “beyond thrilled,” according to a palace spokesperson.

♥  Divorce lawyers are already drafting prenups.

♥  Bookies are placing odds on July 20 as the early favorite for the wedding date.

The official statement released by the Genovian Palace reads:

The Dowager Princess Clarisse Renaldo of Genovia is delighted to announce the engagement of her granddaughter Princess Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo to Mister Michael Moscovitz, Esq., of New York City.