Inconceivable! (28 page)

“I get it. But isn’t this like throwing a match into a barrel of gasoline? The paparazzi will spiral into a tizzy speculating about the reason for the short engagement. God knows what they’ll say.”

“They’ll suggest you’re pregnant. Or that Granny’s on her death bed. Or my father is forcing me to marry you against my will.”

The list of possible headlines made me sick; my heart pumped too hard and my stomach bucked. I rubbed my forehead and looked down at my lap. What was I getting into here? I felt utterly unprepared.

“Look at me.” John raised my chin and our eyes met. “Regardless of when we get married, the press is going to have mean-spirited things to say. We ignore them, and the rumors die. At least this way, coverage of our actual wedding next weekend will drown out the speculation about our brief engagement.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m going to miss you this week.”

“Yes, but the next time we see each other will be at the altar. I can’t wait.” He leaned in and kissed my neck before migrating to my lips. I loved the way our mouths moved together, adjusting, exploring, expressing a longing that words alone failed to convey.

“I wish we could freeze this moment and bottle it up,” I said, pulling back from his lips.

“Instead of hanging on to it, let’s promise to spend our lives creating more moments like this one.”

“I love you, John.”

“I love you, too, Hatty.”

More kisses and then he left.

Sitting in bed alone, I pulled up the
Xpress
website. News of our wedding was the top story.

T-Minus One Week to Royal Wedding: Queen Shocks Prince John and Duchess Hatty With Wedding Date

by Clarence Watson

December 29, 2013

Just hours after announcing their engagement, Prince John and his American bride-to-be received word from Her Majesty that their wedding date is Sunday, a source close to the royal couple tells Xpress Euro exclusively.

“Hatty is trying to cram months of planning into just a few days. She’s a little nervous!” said the insider.

Speculation abounds about why the queen wants a short engagement. Royal observer Nic Capucine says the wedding may be a precursor to even bigger news. “It’s time to go on bump watch!”

Could the newly-minted duchess be pregnant? So far, there’s no word either way from Belvoir Palace.

Meanwhile, the duchess reportedly had a wild night Saturday at the Winter’s Feast after-party. She took the karaoke stage with her American friend Plato Jones to sing a couple of raunchy songs.

“I’m guessing she’ll get etiquette lessons from the palace staff after that!” the insider said of the duchess.

Hatty Brunelle has spent the night at the palace on multiple occasions. The former journalism student only met the prince for the first time in October, and they reportedly began dating shortly after that initial meeting.

still can’t believe they think I’m pregnant. Do I
look
like I’m pregnant?”

“Of course not!”

Tilda pulled another airy bite from the baguette and I sipped my wine. It always tasted better in Paris. Even though I didn’t want anyone to recognize us, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for a photo of me with booze to go viral. It might help refute the pregnancy rumor… or make it worse.

“At least there aren’t pregnancy memes swimming around the Internet,” Tilda offered.

“But have you seen the ones about my hair?”

“No.”

I swiped and tapped my phone’s screen. Shortly after news of our engagement went public, pranksters unearthed one of the photos of me exiting my apartment building the morning after John let me ride with him from the preschool. In the snapshot, I looked flustered, and worst of all, a gust of wind had blown my hair into a hot mess partially covering my face. It was the paparazzi photo I hated the most. Handing my phone to Tilda, I exhaled loudly.

She scrolled through the images. “Mane squeeze? Brush with destiny? Hair’s looking at you?” Tilda snorted.

“And don’t forget my personal favorites: The Prince is wild about Hairy and Hair today, queen tomorrow.”

“Did you see this one?” Tilda turned the phone to reveal a new-to-me caption: Wedding Invitation: Comb one, comb all.

I rolled my eyes. “I give most of them three out of five stars. If you want props for your meme, you’ve got to animate that shit.”

We laughed at my assessment and clinked our glasses before we each took a gulp.

Despite the wild rumors and snark, Tilda and I enjoyed the sites and tastes of Paris for a couple of days without anyone recognizing us. Even on New Year’s Eve, no one noticed as we joined the countdown at Restaurant Ciel in the 9
^th
arrondissement. We ate crêpes and toasted the New Year in the lounge surrounded by revelers, twenty-somethings too drunk to recognize me. Also, I wore a beret to ensure I screamed
tourist!

A handful of photographers knew we were in the city for my wedding dress fitting, and evading them proved tricky. Monsieur Bonhomme fielded questions from one reporter, but he convinced the guy we weren’t staying anywhere near his design studio. We also had Astrid in our back pocket; she advised us on how to keep a low profile with hats, cash, and taxis (no black car service this trip).

“Let’s go. I need to finish packing. And that bartender’s making me nervous,” I said, draining the last drop of merlot from my glass.

I left a wad of bills on the table, suppressing my urge to look at the clean cut man in his neat white shirt polishing glasses methodically. I didn’t want to arouse his suspicions.

We headed back to the little apartment in Monsieur Bonhomme’s building where we were staying one more night before heading back to Roeselare.

A massive bouquet of red roses greeted me Thursday morning when I arrived at my Belvoir bedroom. There was also a note from John resting on top of a pink, leather-bound book.

You once said getting your spouse a book was romantic. So, I took your suggestion and had one commissioned for you. Phillipa of Hainault gave her husband a book of laws, but I’m giving you the opposite.

I opened the cover, and there was the title,
A Book of Grace: Beloved Prayers and Poems of Toulene
. The table of contents revealed a collection focused on love and marriage. I pressed the book against my chest. John loved me and wanted to make me happy. I knew these things, but the book provided tangible proof.
Be. Still. My. Heart.

Thursday brought more wedding-related festivities. First up: lying on a table and spreading my legs.

Egads!
A white pain shot up from my crotch.

“Damnation, that hurts!” I raised my head, glaring at the woman inflicting trauma as she removed my pubes with gobs of hot wax. No bride-to-be should have to endure this agony mere days before her wedding.

Sara cackled. “Get used to it. I’m guessing John likes all of his play things to be immaculate.”

“I’m not one of his possessions!” Indignation flamed through my body, tensing my muscles.

“Relax, miss.” The woman gently patted my leg with her gloved hand.

Sara and Tilda lay on their own tables, also getting Brazilians in a show of sisterly solidarity. Tilda and I were newbies. Sara, however, had a standing appointment to keep herself hairless.

“Hatty’s right, Sara. This is killer. I’m going on the record right now and saying I’m not marrying anyone who wants me to look this way. This is bullshit.”

We hee-hawed at Tilda because she almost never swore. I owed her―not only for enduring this painful process with me but for booking our appointment at a salon-slash-plastic-surgery center in Roeselare known for its discretion. It was where assembly members, staffers, and mistresses of assemblymen came for various treatments and procedures.

I filled my lungs with air as amber threads of hot wax dripped from the wooden stick onto my flesh. It hurt, but it also gave me little twinges of pleasure―the heat, open legs, and a pair of eyes intent on that part of me. It was weird and kind of wonderful.

“Maintenance tip, ladies,” Sara said, raising up on her elbows and looking over at us. “If you’re going to keep up a Brazilian, don’t shave between salon visits. It’s better if it grows out just a little. But Hatty, since you’re going to be gone a whole bloody month for your honeymoon, take a razor so you can get rid of any hairs that start to grow back during the trip. No man wants to see a five o’clock shadow on his wife’s lady parts.”

Her choice of words sent us into hysterics, prompting dirty looks from the women trying to finish the tedious work on our nether regions.

After a few more moments, the woman hovering over me stopped. She asked if I wanted her to wax all the way to the back.

“Say yes!” Sara yelled, pumping her fists in the air. “I call it a rear cheer! You don’t want to be smooth everywhere except around your back door.”

“Sara! Okay, fine. Go ahead.”

I flipped onto my stomach as the gloved woman instructed me to do. I braced for what was sure to be a painful experience. As she dripped and ripped, it wasn’t that bad, especially compared to the earlier torture.

“See? That’s actually the easy part. But no one wants to tell you that.” Sara was already on her stomach, too, getting her rear cheered.

After our waxing session, it was time for my bachelorette party. Pru met up with Tilda, Sara, and me for drinks in the back room at Finn’s. We sat at a round table, throwing back drinks and talking. This was as wild as it was going to get―there were no strippers on the agenda. Across from me, there was an entrance to the kitchen, and behind me, a door leading into the main pub. The owner promised us the door to the pub was locked. Still, Bernard the Guard stayed in the room with us as we talked and let the liquor flow.

“Are you nervous?” Sara asked me between sips of her cosmo. She didn’t look up from her near-constant texting.

“Nah, I’m not nervous. I was kind of mad about the queen springing this on us so quickly, but I’ve decided it’s fine. The wedding is just the opening line for the story of our lives together. So, it should be memorable, but what counts most are the words that fill all the pages that follow.”