Royal Wedding (7 page)

(It's a common misconception that consulates and embassies sit upon “the soil” of the country they represent. So in all those episodes of
Law & Order
where Detectives Briscoe et al arrest foreign diplomats who then claim immunity because they're on “Flockistan soil”? They can't.)

So then Grandmère dragged me into the drawing room—she has a pretty strong grip for such an old lady, although of course no one knows how old she is since she won't tell anyone and she had all copies of her birth certificate destroyed, which you can do if you're the dowager princess—and said, “You
will
be civil when speaking about your cousin Ivan and his businesses.”

I said, “I don't see why, all the plans he has for Genovia are only going to ruin the place if he wins. Why are we even having these people to dinner? They're obviously his friends. Or, I should say,
spies
.”

Then Grandmère leaned in and hissed, “They're Genovian citizens, and this is the Genovian consulate, and it will always be open to them. Besides, keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”

I was appalled. “Are you actually quoting from
The Godfather
?”

“What if I am?” She exhaled a plume of vapor from her e-cigarette—which, thank God, she's switched to, none of us could take the Gitanes anymore. “Really, Amelia, you're slipping. And after everything I taught you, too. I suppose you're letting this nonsense about your father's arrest get to you. What is wrong with your eye?”

I flung a hand over it. “Nothing.”

“Straighten up. You look like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame. And there was no happy ending for him, you know, like there was in the insipid Disney version, which I suppose you adore. Quasimodo lies down in the tomb with Esmeralda—who also dies—and perishes of a broken heart. That's
real
literature, none of this maudlin pap you love so much. That's the problem with your generation, Amelia. You all want happy endings.”

I was so stunned I think my eye stopped twitching momentarily.

“We don't, actually,” I said. “We want endings that leave us with a sense of hope, possibly because the world we're living in seems to be falling apart right now. People can't find work to support their families in their own countries, but then when they try to immigrate to countries where they can, they're either enslaved—like in Qalif—or stopped at the border and told they aren't welcome, like in Genovia. And you're inviting the people who are telling them that to dinner! What kind of message is that sending to the populace?”

Her drawn-on eyebrows shot up so high I thought they might cause her tiara to go flying off. Grandmère is old school and still believes in dressing in her evening best for dinner. It's probably what makes her so popular (with the yacht-club and racehorse set).

“It's not the message I care about,” she said dramatically, “it's the populace itself. Ivan Renaldo is very likely going to be this country's new prime minister, Amelia, thanks to your father's most recent exploits, so we'd do well to position ourselves as his allies now. Although I do blame myself for all this . . . do you have any idea why he dislikes us—especially your poor father—so?”

“No, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me.”

“His grandfather—Count Igor—was very much in love with me, and took it very hard indeed when I chose to marry your grandfather instead.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course. Why didn't I figure it out sooner?”

According to Grandmère, there are approximately three thousand men who were once very much in love with her, and took it very hard indeed when she chose to marry the Prince of Genovia, instead. They've all taken their revenge against her in various ways, including but not limited to:

1. Writing books about her.

You might be surprised to know that most major works in modern literature are thinly disguised tributes to my grandmother, including everything written by Mailer, Vidal, and of course J. D. Salinger, even works written before she was old enough to have possibly known the authors. Of course Fitzgerald modeled Daisy in
The Great Gatsby
after Clarisse Renaldo.

2. Competing against Genovia in every sport in every Olympics ever.

You probably haven't heard this, but every single athlete who has ever beat Genovia in any Olympic category (especially sailing and dressage, pretty much the only sports in which any Genovian athletes ever qualify) did so out of romantic spite against my grandmother.

3. Sculpting or painting works of art featuring women.

According to Grandmère, she inspired Picasso's Cubist period by saying to him, “Darling, I think you're quite talented, but you really ought to develop your own style,” which actually isn't possible because it would mean she is over 127 years old. But when I informed her of this, she told me “not to be so obtuse.”

“Really, Grandmère?” I said. “You think the reason Ivan Renaldo is campaigning against Dad is because he's upset that you didn't marry his grandfather?”

“I
know
so,” Grandmère said. “Though of course you must never mention this to your father.”

“Don't worry, I won't.”

“Poor Igor spent night after night at Maxim's, drinking Chambord out of one of my dancing slippers.”

“Eww.” I made a face, not just because the guy was drinking out of one of my grandmother's shoes, but because Chambord is a raspberry liqueur, and only tastes good when poured over vanilla ice cream. “Was he before or after the married Texas oil baron?”

She ignored me. “Finally his parents had to come take him away. They tried to sober him up in time for his own wedding, but it was too late. Delirium tremens nearly took the poor boy off. But I'm sorry to be burdening you with all this, Amelia. This should be a very special time for you, so close to your birthday. You should be flitting from social engagement to social engagement and shopping for folderols, enjoying the companionship of your friends while you still can, before you have to settle down to the very hard work of providing the country with an heir. Let
me
worry about the governance of the monarchy. You worry about being young and having fun.”

It was amazing how she was able to say all this, considering how much
she'd
had to drink—really, it's a miracle of science she's lived this long. Every other week, it seems, they announce the results of some new study warning that women who consume more than one alcoholic beverage a day increase their risk of cancer by quite a few percentage points.

But Grandmère, who has at least six to eight drinks a day, plus smokes the equivalent of multiple packs of cigarettes (though it's hard to tell with these new vapor ones), keeps going strong.

My mother says it's because she's pickled.

Still, Grandmère had a point about trying to get along with Cousin Ivan's supporters instead of antagonizing them. It's annoying how often my grandmother is right.

“Okay, Grandmère,” I said. “I'll play along with your little game. But Cousin Ivan isn't going to win. We can still beat him. I
know
we can.”

“I'd be quite interested to hear your strategy,” Grandmère said, blowing a long stream of orange-scented smoke (despite the claims of the vapor companies, I'm quite sure there is still nicotine in the “juice” Grandmère smokes). “Unless of course you're planning to get yourself photographed with him in a compromising position. But I'm afraid that will only make him more popular, and forever cement your reputation as the Princess of Gen-HO-via.”

This was a low blow, and disheartening to think that even my own grandmother thinks that the only way women can get ahead in this day and age is with their sexuality.

I was so disgusted that I had no choice but to leave the dining room and go back to my own apartment and lie down with a cool cloth on my forehead and watch television (which is quite hard to do when your eye is twitching nonstop).

CHAPTER 9

12:01 a.m., Friday, May 1

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

New York City

Michael just texted.

*Future Prince Consort

He added an emoji he'd made himself of a gorilla with hearts for eyes. Yes, in his spare time from work, my boyfriend designs emojis.

I think I'm going to have to watch about three more episodes of
NCIS
before I'll be able to calm down.

I wish I were a special agent for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service Major Case Response Team and not the princess of a tiny principality on the Mediterranean. Then I could just save the country from terrorist threats over and over, and never have to hear about oranges (or Reiki, or meditation retreats) again.

Three things for which I am grateful:

•  That I've got a TV with streaming Netflix.

•  Michael.

•  Tylenol PM. Seriously, I'm so sleepy right now, I think I'm . . .

CHAPTER 10

8:37 a.m., Friday, May 1

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

New York City

Woke up to 1,479 happy birthday posts, texts, e-mails, and voice mails, several of which are from people I actually know.

This is what happens when you become a public figure. Total strangers wish you happiness on your birthday, which is very, very nice.

But birthday wishes from people who know you (and still care about you, despite being aware of your character flaws) are even nicer.

No sign yet of Michael's “birthday surprise.”

I'm going to try to be a less suspicious and cynical person now that I'm a year older and wiser, but I can't say I'm a fan of surprises. “Guess what, Mia? You're the Princess of Genovia.” That's just one example of a surprise I've received that turned out not to be so great.

Michael's a pretty good present giver, though, so I trust his is going to be better.

And it's a new year, so I'm going to spend it taking Paolo's advice: figuring out how to make these diamond shoes work for me.

The people I've heard from so far (that I actually know, though not necessarily intimately) include:

1.   My mom and half brother, Rocky (singing “Happy Birthday” together).

This is the first year I've heard them without Mr. Gianini accompanying on his drum set. That made me a little sad. But when I called them back (I only spoke to Mom, because she'd already dropped Rocky off at school), she sounded upbeat. It's good that she's doing so well, because I sometimes wonder if she's just masking her grief by throwing herself into her work like the bereaved single moms I always see on made-for-TV movies, where the ghost of the deceased husband is watching over her and the kids until they cute-meet a new guy.