Royal Wedding (17 page)

Everyone is in too good a mood to notice, though, even Grandmère. Even Michael. He came in and kissed me.

Michael has not had as much to drink as Dad, though he did say that when he tried to broach the subject of toning down the wedding, Dad slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Now, why would we do that? Got to keep up with those Brits!” then cracked open a thousand-dollar bottle of 2000 Domaines Barons de Rothschild Chateau Lafite.

Even the new dog seems happy: she's currently curled into a little white ball on my lap.

Everyone seems to be bubbling over with joy.

Everyone but me.

What am I going to do?

CHAPTER 25

8:27 p.m., Monday, May 4

In the HELV on the way to the consulate

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Ignored Grandmère's advice about not sharing personal baggage with anyone but family and told Michael everything in the car just now on the way home—which means Lars heard it, too, but whatever. The fact that I have a secret sister is possibly one of the shortest-kept secrets of all time.

But I'm
not
not going to tell Michael something like this. We're engaged.

Michael was surprised, but not as surprised as I would be if he'd told me
his
dad had a secret love child he'd been hiding in New Jersey for the past twelve years.

I suppose it's easier to believe this of the Prince of Genovia than it would be of Dr. Moscovitz, a married psychoanalyst who lives on the Upper West Side and likes to read nonfiction about the fall of the Third Reich in his spare time.

“Well,” Michael said, after he'd gotten over his initial shock. “What are you going to do about it?”

I did not try to hide my bitterness. “Grandmère says I'm not supposed to do anything about it, for the good of the country. Not until after the election.”

“Right.” Michael rolled his eyes. “Again, what are you going to do about it?”

“That's the thing. I don't know.” This is very distressing. I usually always know what to do . . . or at least I'm leaning in one direction or another. But in this case, I have no idea. “What would
you
do?”

“If I found out I had a little sister some ginger bohunk was threatening to take overseas, I'd go find her,” Lars volunteered from the front seat. “Then I'd put a bullet through the bohunk's head. Probably a nine-millimeter. But possibly a forty-five, depending on how much I disliked him.”

Thanks for the input, Lars.

“I'm not sure that's the most diplomatic way to handle it,” I said. “Nor would it be the best thing for a twelve-year-old to see.”

“I wouldn't do it in front of her.” Now Lars is disgusted with me. “And I know enough to make it look like a suicide.”

•   
Note to self:
Do not get on the bad side of the RGG.

Grandmère was right. I should have kept my personal baggage to myself.

CHAPTER 26

9:05 p.m., Monday, May 4

Still in the HELV

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Really must say “crap” even though princesses aren't supposed to swear.

Pulled up in front of the consulate just now, and half the block has been taken over by blue wooden barricades which the NYPD (working in tandem with the Royal Genovian Guard) has erected to keep back all news vans and photojournalists crowded outside the consulate doors.

I don't want to be the kind of girlfriend/fiancée/wife who says “I told you so,” but I did tell Michael this was going to happen. It's official:

Our engagement made the national news.

And I'm no longer
Why Won't He Marry Mia
.

I'm the
Princess Bride.

(So unoriginal. You can do better, Brian Fitzpatrick.)

CHAPTER 27

9:21 p.m., Monday, May 4

Still in the HELV

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Double crap. Just pulled up in front of Michael's building, and
it's
surrounded by press, too, waiting for us.

Lars is calling José to ask him what the hell we're supposed to do. NYPD flagged us over, and when the nice officer looked inside and saw who we were, she said, “Do us a favor, would you?”

I said, “Of course, Officer.”

She said, “Don't get out of the car.”

“But I live here!” Michael cried.

“I would seriously consider moving.”

So tired. All I want to do is crawl into bed and cry myself to sleep. But right now it appears I have no bed to crawl into.

I never thought having a happily-ever-after was going to be so complicated.

I miss Fat Louie.

See, this is what is making me think I
shouldn't
go rushing to New Jersey to yank Olivia Grace away from her bohunk uncle. When something is keeping you away from home—even if it's only a temporary home, like the third-floor apartment of the Genovian consulate—home is the only place you want to be.

CHAPTER 28

12:22 a.m., Tuesday, May 5

Regalton Hotel Central Park Suite

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This is
not
how I expected to be spending my first night back in Manhattan as an engaged woman.

Not that I'm complaining, because I know there are many, many people who would trade places with me in an instant. And I am very, very content seeing as how I, along with my fiancé, am currently checked into a premier “tower suite” at the Regalton (one of Manhattan's finest luxury hotels) courtesy of the Genovian consulate under the name “Mr. and Mrs. James T. Kirk.” I am not exactly homeless or sleeping in my car under a bridge. I am very much enjoying my diamond shoes.

Still, it's a bit disturbing not to be able sleep in my own bed (or see my own cat) because of the hordes of press staking out our individual domiciles.

“If it's like this now,” Michael asked earlier in the evening while we were enjoying our steak au poivre (room service), “what's it going to be like closer to the actual wedding?”

“Don't worry,” Dominique assured us cheerfully over the phone (I'd put her on speaker). “I'm sure there will be a weather disaster or celebrity scandal soon.”

But what if the celebrity scandal is my newly discovered little sister?
I thought (but didn't ask aloud since Dominique has not yet been let in on the secret).

I don't want Olivia having a bunch of reporters pointing telephoto lenses at her every door and window, wondering when she's coming home so they can snap a photo of her, whether she's ready for it or not. (There's nothing worse than getting your photo taken when you're not expecting it. I know because I've had countless photos taken of
me
when I was chewing or sneezing or in my bathing suit, then posted online and in magazines, accompanied by unflattering and unfair captions like
Royal Rebel: drunk again!
or
Pity Pity Princess
or
Cellulite Surprise!
).

What saddens me is when I ask young girls (and boys) at the center what they hope to be when they grow up (so lame, I know, and a sign that I'm getting old, because only adults ask young people this question. Why do we do it? Because we're looking for ideas! I'm twenty-six and I
still
don't know what I want to be when I grow up, except of course that I want to help people and be brilliantly happy and with Michael Moscovitz, of course), all too often they answer, “When I grow up, I want to be famous, like you, Princess Mia!”

At first this made me very depressed. Famous? Being famous isn't a job!

Then I realized that it is. Being famous is very hard work, but it's also empowering, because you have influence over a large number of people and can do amazing things with that power.

And it doesn't even matter anymore how you happen to come by that fame, singing or dancing or posting a sex tape on the Internet or finding out that you're a princess. It's what you
do
with your fame that matters.

So I began explaining to the children that they could become famous by doing something helpful in their community, such as being a doctor, teacher, police officer, engineer, or architect. That can be totally empowering, even if it doesn't make them “famous” internationally.

Of course none of them has fallen for it . . .
yet.
I think I have to work on my delivery. It definitely isn't going to help if my eyelid is twitching as I say it.

And I must say I appreciate the complimentary bottle of champagne and box of chocolate-covered strawberries that the concierge has just sent up, along with her congratulations and a note saying that if we like our room, we should be sure to post about it on our Instagram accounts.

“Well,” Michael just said as he came out of the shower in his fluffy white Regalton bathrobe, smelling of Kiehl's beauty products, his dark hair sticking damply to the back of his neck (how I love when this happens). “I could get used to this. Did you see that there's a television in the mirror in there?
Inside
the mirror. According to
Inside Edition,
the reason we're getting married in such a rush is because you're carrying my unborn twins. Congratulations. At least they're not Prince Harry's this time.”

“I liked Sleepy Palm Cay better, where there were no TVs,” I said, “especially not in the bathroom mirrors.”

“I never in a million years thought I'd hear you say such a thing.” Michael lay down on the bed beside me and lifted one of the chocolate-covered strawberries and dangled it over my mouth. “Open. We must keep you well nourished as you're now eating for three.”

I thought about refusing, but who can refuse a delicious chocolate-covered strawberry? Besides, I hadn't yet brushed my teeth. I'd been busy reading José's dossier on Olivia (the news isn't as bad as I thought. But it isn't great either. Olivia doesn't appear to be happy in her school, though she does make very good grades).

“Don't eat any more of those,” I warned Michael, after I'd swallowed. “They're blackmail berries. They only gave them to us in exchange for us posting photos of ourselves eating them on our social media network, with a hashtag mentioning the Regalton. But if we do that, it will look like I'm promoting a for-profit business, and you know it's Renaldo royal family policy never to do that. We only promote nonprofits.”

“So?” Michael lifted another strawberry. “You know in the old days people simply used to accept gifts and enjoy them and not feel guilty about failing to photograph themselves doing it.”

Then he opened his robe to reveal that beneath it, he was wearing absolutely nothing. Then he put the chocolate-covered strawberry on a place I'm not going to write here, but it was quite naughty, even for a visitor to this planet from another galaxy, unaccustomed to our ways and his humanoid body.

All I have to say is, this princess bride thing definitely has its upside.

CHAPTER 29

10:02 a.m., Tuesday, May 5

In HELV on way to the Community Center

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Michael let me sleep in and was up and gone before I ever even opened my eyes. He left me a text (whatever happened to romantic, handwritten notes left on pillows, along with a chocolate-covered strawberry? Oh, well, we ate them all, and texting is more expedient).

He included an emoji of a cartoon alien being blasted through its heart by a laser gun.

I really do need to talk to him about his emojis; he doesn't seem to understand the purpose of them at all.

Anyway, I know exactly what it is I have to do.

I read in a magazine once that sleep helps reset the brain, so if you have an important decision to make you should put off making it until morning. As human beings, we make so many important decisions throughout the day (such as what to eat for lunch, whether or not to cross against the light, or whether to friend this person or that person) that by evening our decision-making brain cells are literally depleted.

But by morning they're recharged and ready to go.

This must be why everything seems so clear to me this morning (well, except for the headache).

Obviously, I can't allow myself to be pushed around like this. I plan to go to New Jersey to meet my sister.

I know this goes explicitly against her own mother's (and grandmother's) wishes, but like Lars said, no one is going to keep me from meeting my own sister—especially now that I know we have the same middle name (Mignonette—clearly Elizabeth Harrison did that on purpose. She must have meant us to meet one day).

Of course, Mignonette is also my grandmother's middle name (and a sauce with which raw oysters are served). But this means nothing.

Olivia loves animals (like me) and also drawing and math (okay . . . unlike me. But everyone has their individual talents and we are all unique. Not like snowflakes, though, because they've actually discovered that there ARE snowflakes that are alike. So we all need to stop saying that thing about snowflakes being unique).