Royal Wedding (2 page)

The consulate is the only building in Manhattan guarded 24/7 by military police specially trained in the protection of a royal.

And now lately on the limited occasions Michael and I
do
find time to get together, we mostly just order in, then watch
Star Trek
on Netflix, because leaving the consulate is such a pain, unless I want to hear all sorts of horrible questions hurled at me on my way to the car by the press:

“Mia, what's it like to have a felon for a father?”

“Mia, is that a baby bump or did you just have too much of that falafel we saw delivered an hour ago?”

“Mia, how does it feel to know that seventy-four percent of those surveyed think Kate Middleton wore it better?”

“Mia, why hasn't Michael put a ring on it?”

I tried to show Michael my twitch earlier on FaceTime, but he said my eye looked perfectly normal to him.

“If you're twitchy, though, Mia, it's probably in nervous anticipation at the prospect of going out with me, the world's greatest lover.”

“I thought we agreed we weren't going to read our own press,” I reminded him.

“How can I help it?” he asked. “Especially since my erotic powers seemingly extend all the way to the Upper East Side, where they've rendered you sex mad.”

“Ha ha ha. You probably planted that story yourself.”

“You've grown so jaded and cynical since I last saw you. But really, Mia,” he said, finally getting serious. “I think you're just stressing too much about all of this. I'm not saying things aren't bad—they are. But maybe all you need is to get away for a day or two.”

“Away? How am I possibly going to get away? And where am I going to go that the press can't follow me and ask about my alleged baby bump or how my dad looks in his orange jumpsuit?”

“Good question. Let me work on it.”

I know he's just trying to help, but really, how can I go away with Dad in so much trouble and the country in such an uproar and the election so close and Mom being a new widow and Grandmère as crazy as ever?

Plus my boyfriend having rendered me sex mad, of course.

No. Just no.

But of course I couldn't tell Dr. Delgado any of this. It's like my lips have been frozen into a permanent smile by all my media training (and compartmentalizing of my feelings).

“Well, that's fine, then,” the doctor said, beaming.

Fine? It's so
not
fine. Was it really so wrong of me to think that maybe, possibly, the palace physician might give me a little something to keep my eyelid from jumping around like a Chihuahua at dinnertime, or at least help me not lie awake all night?

And then when I
do
manage to fall asleep I have nightmares, like the one I had last night that I was married to Bruce Willis, and whenever Bruce got out of the shower, he would dry off his naughty parts while singing the song “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”

I can't even tell Michael this. How do you explain it to the kindly old physician they found who is still willing to do house calls?

You cannot.

“I'll make sure the lab gets the blood and urine samples you insisted I take, Your Highness,” Dr. Delgado said. “I should have the results in about a week. But I have to say that medically, I doubt they'll find anything wrong. Your pulse is strong, your skin tone looks even, your weight is within the normal range for your height. Despite this twitch you say you have—which frankly I can't see—and your fingernails, which I see that you bite, you seem to be glowing with health.”

Damn! He
would
notice my fingernails. I must be the only female left on the entire planet who doesn't get manicures because there's nothing left of my fingernails to file, let alone paint.

“Maybe,” I said, trying to keep the eagerness out of my voice so I wouldn't sound like one of those crazed Oxy-addicts on
Intervention,
“I should be written a prescription for a very mild mood stabilizer.”

“Oh, no,” Dr. Delgado said. “Nail-biting is a bad habit, but very common, and hardly worth treating psychopharmacologically. The worst that could happen from compulsive nail-biting is that you might incur an infection, or pick up a pinworm.”

Oh my God. I am never biting my nails again. At least not before thoroughly washing them in antibacterial soap.

“What I suggest you try,” he added as he packed up his bag, “is journaling.”

“Journaling?”
Was he joking?

He was not.

“Why yes, I see you've heard of it. Journaling has been shown to reduce stress and help with problem solving. My wife keeps what she calls a gratitude journal. She writes down three things every day for which she feels grateful. She keeps a dream journal as well. She says it's helped tremendously, especially with her mood swings. You should try it. Well, I'll be in touch in about a week about that blood work. Good day, Princess!”

And then he left.

Which leaves me here.
Journaling.

Why couldn't I have lied to make myself seem more pathetic so he'd have written me a prescription for an antianxiety medication, or at least a low-dose sleeping pill? Even the veterinarian does this for Fat Louie when I take him on the private jet back and forth to Genovia, and Fat Louie is a
cat
.

Granted, he's an extremely elderly cat who now needs a tiny staircase to climb up and down from my bed and tends to revenge-poop on everything when he doesn't get his own way. But still. Why does a
cat
get tranquilizers but the expensive concierge doctor we hired will not give them to
me
?

Oh, dear, I just read that over, and it sounds a bit odd. Of course I don't revenge-poop on things when I don't get my own way. I'm simply saying that it seems a bit unfair that we have the one concierge doctor in all of Manhattan who refuses to prescribe antianxiety medication. I'm sure every other celebrity (and royal) is loaded up on them.

•   
Note to self:
Check on this. This would explain a lot about their behavior, actually.

But if “gratitude” and “dream” journaling really does help with stress, I'm willing to give it a go.

At this point, I'll try
anything.

Let's see. I already wrote down what I dreamed about. Here are three things for which I feel grateful:

1.   I don't have a brain tumor.

2.   My father didn't die in that race-car incident.
Though given how reckless it was of him to have been in it in the first place, he probably deserved to.

3.   Michael, the funniest, handsomest, smartest, and most forgiving boyfriend in the entire world (even if every once in a while lately I've noticed there's something going on with
his
eyes, too. Not a twitch. More like something brewing in there. If I still wrote historical romance novels—which I had to give up, not because of RoyalRabbleRouser's threats but because I don't have time, between all my public speaking, running the Community Center, and worrying about Dad—I would describe it as a “haunted shadow.”)

I know it's selfish, but I hope if there
is
something wrong with Michael, it's that he's passing another kidney stone—even though he said the one he passed last May was the most painful experience of his life, and the nephrologist compared it to giving birth—and not that Mr. G's death has caused him to re-evaluate his life and make him realize he's with the wrong person. I'm totally aware of the fact that it would be much, much easier for him to be with a girl who could meet him for drinks after work at T.G.I. Friday's without it first having to be swept for bombs, or go to the movies with him without having a plainclothes sharpshooter sit behind us, or simply stroll around Central Park without being followed by a phalanx of photo-hungry press.

But I'm never going to be that girl.

And my worst fear is that someday he's going to realize it and dump me the way my mom dumped my dad, leaving him the brokenhearted, race-car-speeding, empty shell of a man he is today.

Honestly, what good is owning a castle if the person you love doesn't want to share it with you?

CHAPTER 2

3:32 p.m., Wednesday, April 29

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

New York City

Tried to go to work at the Community Center after my appointment, but Perin called while I was on my way and said hordes of paps had shown up there, too, and were bothering the teens (and their adult mentors) by asking how they felt about my father's brush with the law, and whether or not I was “carrying Michael's twins,” so maybe it would be better if I “worked from home.”

So sweet, right? Who else has such kind, concerned friends?

And not just the kind who've known you since high school and so have no problem telling you that your bra strap is showing and that there's salad in your teeth. The kind who are willing to run the Community Center you just founded even though they could probably be making millions running a start-up in Silicon Valley instead.

(See? I am already taking the doctor's advice and practicing more gratitude in my day-to-day life.)

I said, “Thanks, Perin, I understand.”

People everywhere pray for a job where they can “work from home,” so I guess, going with the gratitude theme, I should be grateful for this opportunity.

I wonder how, though, when people get one of these jobs, they keep themselves from spending the entire day going on YouTube and looking at videos about baby deer that have been adopted by golden retrievers. Because that's all I've accomplished today so far.

Well, aside from FaceTiming Michael and asking again if he could see my twitch. Of course he asked if I could turn the camera lower, and then lower, and then unbutton my shirt . . .

And suddenly I realize what
else
people who work from home do all day.

Except that Michael does not work at home, he works at the company he founded, Pavlov Surgical, so we couldn't have quite as much fun as we wanted since his work space has glass walls and anyone could have looked in and seen what we were up to.

He did tell me though (later) that he'd read on WebMD that eye twitches are very often caused by a magnesium deficiency and that human spermatozoa are a rich source of magnesium.

“Is that so?” I said. “I suppose you're going to volunteer to come over later to help relieve me of this severe nutritional deficiency?”

“Well, I don't want to brag, but I have been touted in the press as manly enough to render perfectly respectable princesses sex mad from several miles away.”

“Nice try, Mr. Moscovitz,” I said. “I'm reporting you to the board of health for making unsubstantiated nutritional claims. Good-bye.”

His eyes actually looked as normal as he claims mine do, so maybe he really is okay, and the whole shadow thing is a figment of my admittedly sometimes overactive imagination.

I am going to order magnesium right now from the grocery store down the street (to be delivered, although sadly I can't order it with my smartphone because the closest grocery store from which the Royal Genovian Guard will accept deliveries doesn't have an app for that. Also, I'm not allowed to have apps, except of course for iTriage, which I can't imagine doing any harm).

I'm sure the news of what I'm ordering will get out somehow and the next headline about me is going to read:

“Pill-Popping Princess!

CAN ANYONE SAVE HER?

Pope Swears He'll Try.”

CHAPTER 3

8:32 p.m., Wednesday, April 29

Benefit for the Chernobyl Shelter Fund

Waldorf Astoria Bathroom

New York City