Royal Wedding (6 page)

(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 was 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?”

“The flow of energy from the universe! And for you, Principessa, Stefano do it for free. But of course after first half hour, it's two hundred dollars for every thirty minutes.”

“Um,” I said.

Of
course
sweet Paolo has fallen in love with some guy who's convinced he can cure people's problems by waving his hands over them and channeling the flow of energy from the universe.

But if anyone could actually do that, wouldn't all of life's ills have been solved already?

I said, plastering on my fake smile, “Thank you, Paolo, that's so kind of you, but I don't think I have time right now. Maybe another day, all right?”

Paolo looked disappointed. I know he's probably been fantasizing about having his current boyfriend magically restore balance to my universe, and then me raving about it to the press. Then the two of them could open some new spa—
Paolo and Stefano's Universal Beauty and Wellness. If we can cure royalty, we can cure you!

But I think it's going to take more than one pair of healing hands to find the balance in my universe.

CHAPTER 8

11:36 p.m., Thursday, April 30

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

New York City

Ugh. So glad that's over. At least I looked good. Paolo is a true artist of hair.

I couldn't tell Lilly the truth about why I didn't want her or Michael around tonight. It wasn't that I was afraid of them getting oranges thrown at them (no oranges were thrown; everyone behaved with perfect decorum when Grandmère and I went out to greet our guests. Except for the booing).

It isn't even that the security system is still glitchy and that I'm afraid Michael will get caught entering the building in the wee hours and we'll get more bad press.

It's that Genovians are snobs.

That's
why they don't want the Qalifi refugees to be given Genovian citizenship, even temporary Genovian citizenship. They barely think
I'm
good enough to have Genovian citizenship.

My eye was twitching like crazy the entire time (when my jaw wasn't aching from fake smiling), but I don't think anyone except Grandmère noticed.

Of course, even though I overheard half of them making catty remarks about the fact that I'm a “commoner” and, even worse, an
American
(but of course the other half of me is royal, so to them that makes up for it), they were falling over themselves in an effort to get selfies taken with me (and the portrait of my dad in the Grand Hallway, since he didn't show up—probably a good thing, given his current state of near-constant inebriation).

Now they'll be busy posting their pics to their social media accounts, saying what a fantastic time they had.

Since Michael wasn't there, several of them asked me with fake concern if “everything is all right” between the two of us. I could tell they were hoping things were
not
all right and that we'd broken up, so then I could date one of their half-wit chinless sons (who would then become prince consort and father to the future heir to the throne).

“No,” I said, with my big fake smile. “Michael's fine. Just working late tonight.”

“Oh,” they said, giving me smiles that were every bit as phony as mine. “He works? How wonderful.” (You could tell they didn't think this was wonderful.)

But has Cousin Ivan (who insists on everyone calling him Count Renaldo, even though he isn't a Renaldo and that isn't even a correct title, which I can't believe I know, but that is what over a decade of etiquette lessons from your grandmother, the dowager princess, will do to you) ever invented a robotic surgical arm that helped save the life of a suffering child?

No. No, he has not.

All Cousin Ivan does is manage the properties his father purchased ages ago, and by “manage” I mean raise the rents so ridiculously high that decent, hardworking Genovians can no longer afford them, which is why there is no longer a single bookstore in all of Genovia.

But when I pointed this out (politely) tonight to one of the count's supporters, he said, “Books? No one reads books anymore! Look at all the tourism that guy's bringing in with his T-shirt shops and bars. Have you ever been to Crazy Ivan's? That place is the bomb. It has a bar that's topless only! Everyone who comes in—male or female—has to take their top off. It's mandatory!”

I said I have never been to Crazy Ivan's, but I certainly do not want to go there now.

That's when Grandmère took me aside and told me I was being rude.

“
I'm
being rude?” I demanded. “I'm an adult, for God's sake—nearly twenty-six years old, the age at which neuroscientists have determined most people's cognitive development is fully matured. I can say I do not want to go to a bar where shirtlessness is mandatory if I don't want to, and I can especially say it while I'm standing here on American soil.”