Royal Wedding (40 page)

I assumed she meant a natural-born leader, like Aragorn, and not an anxious troll-creature, like Gollum, who is always going around speaking in a lisp about his “precious.”

I didn't ask, because frankly, I don't want to know. Too many people from my past have told me too many things I do
not
want to know lately. This is probably only to be expected when you get a large group of people from your past together all at the same time, but it's still a little disheartening. The bachelorette party was bad enough—though it turned out exactly the way I wanted, just us girls at the pool here at the palace. No trips to Crazy Ivan's!

Except, of course, Lana had to show us Baby Iris's beauty-pageant portfolio (literally. Lana engaged a professional photographer and had head shots taken of her baby).

Then Lilly had to cause a scandal in the RGG by being seen on security cameras emerging from their barracks at 0600 (that is six o'clock in the morning) wearing only a secret smile and beach cover-up (and obviously nothing underneath it).

She's dying to tell us what (and who) she was doing in there, but every time she starts to, I put my fingers in my ears and go, “La, la, la, la, la.”

I do not
want
to know (though of course I already do).

My goal was to have as drama-free a wedding as I could.

But this, I've discovered, is nearly impossible if you're trying to put one together in a little over a month (Grandmère insisted we move up the date, just as I suspected she would, so I wouldn't be “showing in front of the entire world”), especially one to which two thousand guests are invited, and that the entire world will be watching.

This is partly why I haven't had time to update this journal in so long: it's no joke moving yourself—and your boyfriend—to a foreign country, planning a royal wedding, getting your little sister settled into her new school, and having morning sickness all at the same time.

•   
Note to self:
Remember to check if motion-sickness medication is safe for pregnant women. The doctor (and Tina) said it was, but double-check with iTriage. Now that I've finally stopped vomiting, I don't want to start again on my honeymoon, just because we're spending it on a yacht.

Then of course there was “the incident.”

I'm not sure I want to bring it up on such a joyous day, especially since it was really just a blip on my happiness radar. I wouldn't even know anything about it myself if Michael hadn't canceled his bachelor-party trip to Buenos Aires.

“I don't want to leave you alone,” he said when I asked him why, as casually as if he were saying,
I'm going to go take a swim in the royal pool,
which he does quite frequently. I often watch him from the balcony off our bedroom. It's an amazing sight.

“Michael, that makes no sense. I'm never alone. I live in a palace with my grandmother, a hundred employees—many of whom are trained in Krav Maga, the art of Israeli contact combat—and my mother, father, half brother, and half sister, who are staying here until their own palace is finished being renovated. I never get a
minute
to myself. Go and have fun eating dead animals with Boris and your little online friends.”

So then he tried to say he didn't “want a bachelor party,” and didn't “feel like” going to Buenos Aires anyway, which I
knew
was a lie, because I often caught him looking up “Best Steak Restaurants in Argentina” online (the way other people catch their significant others looking at porn).

So really I had no choice but to sic his sister on him. I had to know what was really going on. Truthfully, I asked Lilly to look into it more for Tina than for me, because I was beginning to suspect there was something even creepier going on with Boris than that he'd cheated on her with that single blogger. Maybe Michael had found out Boris was running an underage teen prostitute ring, or something, with the Borettes, and he wanted to steer as far away from him as possible (understandable).

But Lilly soon had the real story, and this was far from it. It had nothing at all to do with Boris:

Michael had discovered the true identity of RoyalRabbleRouser . . . and it was someone we knew! Someone from my past.

Someone so unlikely, I'd never even considered him as a suspect.

Lilly was still in New York, and I was here, in Genovia, so she had to call me. She didn't even text. Or look at the time difference before dialing.

“It's J.P.,” she said, before even saying hello.

“What? Who's J.P.? What are you talking about? Did you know it's one in the morning here? I was asleep.”

“Sorry. But RoyalRabbleRouser is J.P. I just got off the phone with Michael, who confirmed it.”

“Michael? Michael is downstairs in the billiard room, playing pool with Lars.”

“Yeah, he is now. Before that, he was talking to me. And he said not to tell you, but when he punched J.P. that one time in your grandma's apartment, he also stole his phone, because he wanted to see who else he'd been trying to sell tickets to your wedding to. And that's when he saw all J.P.'s posts as RoyalRabbleRouser, your stalker.”

I'd gasped. “Oh my God!”

Looking back, it makes perfect sense. I don't know why I didn't see it right away. It's just so unbelievable that someone I know would be so angry with me, and make so many hurtful remarks about me and my family.

But who else would have so much reason to? Or
perceived
reason to, anyway, since ever since I met him, J.P.'s always wanted to use me, for one reason or another, and I was never willing to go along with any of them.

Now all I can think about is how many hours he wasted sitting there in front of those various computers, logged in as someone else, spewing hatred, when he could have spent them doing something positive for himself and the world. He had the talent—his book wasn't my cup of tea, but a lot of people would have loved it. What twisted path was he following?

The wrong one, obviously.

“Why didn't Michael tell me?” I asked Lilly.

“Because the next day you found out you were pregnant with twins, dummy. He didn't want to upset you. Anyway, he says there's nothing to worry about, because it's all taken care of.”

“What does that mean, it's all taken care of?” I'd demanded. “How is it all taken care of?”

“Well, have you heard from RoyalRabbleRouser lately?”

“No.” It was true, when I thought about it. There hadn't been a single post or threat since that night I'd seen J.P. at Grandmère's. But that wasn't necessarily a good thing. “Oh my God, Lilly! What did Michael do to J.P.?”

“Michael didn't do anything to him. Don't be stupid. He turned the phone in to the RGG.”

“Oh, no,” I groaned.

“Oh, right,” Lilly scoffed. “You think J.P. is locked up in a holding cell somewhere under the palace like the president did to Olivia Pope's boyfriend on
Scandal
?”

“No,” I said. “Grandmère's new boyfriend used to work at Interpol. I bet that's where they've got J.P.”

“Well,” Lilly said, “good. Then I guess his douchey dystopian novel is never going to get published. And J.P. has learned a valuable lesson: don't mess with the Princess of Genovia.”

Obviously, none of this explained why Michael didn't want to go to Argentina, so I had to confront him about it as soon as he returned to our bedroom.

But he only expressed dismay about his sister's betraying his confidence and said not to worry: Lars had told him that J.P. had “volunteered” to go work on a Russian icebreaker in order to “clear his head,” and wouldn't be back to the United States for several months, possibly years.

“Michael,” I said skeptically. “Volunteered? That doesn't sound like J.P. at all. He hates physical labor. And none of this explains why you don't want to go to Argentina for your bachelor party.”

“I already told you,” he said, climbing into bed. “I don't
want
a bachelor party. If I go to Buenos Aires to have steak, it's only going to be with you.”

It was hard to argue with that.

Oh, speak—or write—of the devil: Michael's just come in to check on me. He looks so handsome in his morning suit! When I was coming down the aisle and saw him standing there, looking so nervous—partly because of the many camera people buzzing all around us, shining their extremely bright lights directly into our eyes—I could hardly believe my luck.

But of course luck had nothing to do with it. We both have worked very hard—and have been through a
lot
—to get to this day. We should get some sort of hazard pay just for putting up with Grandmère these past few weeks. There were several times I thought I might actually pack up and run off to Bora Bora to live under an assumed identity to escape her.

After tonight, though, it will be all over.

At least for two weeks, while we're on the yacht, and we don't have to listen to her constant yammering about how every single solitary thing we do is wrong . . .

“Why aren't you resting?” Michael wants to know.

“I
am
resting.”

“Writing in your diary is not resting.”

“Really? You're going to criticize me, too?”

Once you become pregnant—especially with twins, apparently—all anyone cares about anymore (including your partner, sometimes) is what is growing inside your uterus, especially if you're a person of royal heritage. Once they realize the tabloids were right all along, and you really are carrying twins, all anyone wants to know is:

•  What sex your babies are. (Michael and I don't even know. We've requested to be surprised.)

•  What you're naming them (and they will have plenty of suggestions, even though you didn't ask. We have our own ideas for names, even better ones than Luke and Leia, such as Frank and Arthur and Helen and Elizabeth. But of course everyone will hate these, so we're keeping them secret).

•  Touching your stomach, either for luck or just because you're the new “People's Princess” . . . which I guess will make the twins the “People's Babies,” which is good. But seriously. Boundaries.
Boundaries!

•  Offering advice, from parenting tips to how much you ought to be resting, what you ought to be eating or not eating, drinking, doing, wearing, etc.

But it's good to be liked, I guess.

Michael grinned and sat down beside me on the bed, slightly jostling Fat Louie.

“I'm not criticizing,” he said. “I'm taking care of you. That's my new job, besides following two steps behind you at all times, protecting you with my life, and calling you ‘ma'am.' ”

“You don't actually have to call me ‘ma'am' until after the coronation,” I said, reaching out to give his hand a squeeze. “How are they doing down there?”

He nodded toward the open balcony doors, through which I could hear our parents and siblings, all the groomsmen, bridesmaids, visiting dignitaries, and other wedding guests—but most especially Grandmère—raucously laughing and enjoying their champagne and mini grilled cheese sandwiches (I did win on those. But there's no taco or nacho bar. We are, however, having lobster mac and cheese later this evening) in the royal gardens below.

“You can't tell by that racket?” he said. “They're having a terrible time. Just awful. The ceremony was a disaster.”

“No, it wasn't,” I said. “I've been watching it.” I held up the remote. “It's recorded. They showed it on CNN. Do you want to see?”

He groaned. “No. Why would I want to see my enormous head on CNN?”

“Your head isn't enormous. Lana's husband's head is enormous.”

Michael's eyes widened. “I know! Have you seen that guy? What's wrong with him?”

“I don't know, but if our babies have heads that big, I'm getting a C-section for sure. I totally understand now what Lana was talking about when she was telling me why she got one.”

“That is cold,” Michael said. “What else do girls talk about, besides their husbands' enormous heads? Wow, I just heard that come out of my mouth, and it sounded way dirtier than I meant it to.”

“I don't know,” I said. “But I do know I'm starting to feel infantilized. When am I going to be allowed to bust out of here and rejoin the party?”

“What did the doctor say?”

“The doctor said two hours. Tina said the doctor was being reactionary.”

“Oh, and Tina has her medical degree, so we should definitely listen to her.”

“Well, I think Tina is feeling a bit better than she has in a while.”

“Yes, I think you could say that,” Michael agreed with a grin, but he was too much of a gentleman to add,
I told you so.

Tina was not the only one who'd been surprised to discover Boris P. was the “top-notch live entertainment” Grandmère had lined up for the reception instead of the DJ Michael and I had requested.

I was a little miffed at first. Was I to get
nothing
I wanted at my wedding?

Well, except a groom who's the man of my dreams, of course. And my parents, happily together for the first time in my memory. And a new little sister, and all of my best friends showing up, as well as what's turned out to be a truly gorgeous gown, Sebastiano having de-emphasized my belly by raising the waistline a little, and adding diamond
M
s—for Michael and Mia—instead of bows as the “pickups” Lilly had suggested. They not only “pick up” the full tulle skirt, they pick up the light and glitter outrageously!

But even Boris being here has turned out all right, because he's agreed to sing every single song on Michael's playlist, and also—quite dramatically, at last night's rehearsal dinner in the grand reception hall, no less—showed Tina that the photos of him and that blogger were, indeed, Photoshopped, as he had insisted all along.