Royal Wedding (14 page)

“I don't know,” he said. “It never came up. We were sort of busy doing . . . other things.”

I blushed, even though Michael was speaking to me from another state and no one in the car could hear his end of the conversation. “Er, yes,” I said. “I guess we were.”

“Anyway, sorry about that. I guess I'll see you in a little bit.”

“In a little bit? What happened to your medical conference in New Jersey?”

His tone was light. “Oh, it's still happening, but the press found out about my speech and swamped the hotel, and they don't have enough security to handle the situation, so they've politely asked me to reschedule.”

“Oh, Michael,” I cried. “I'm so sorry!”

“It's all right,” he said. “There's no way those doctors were going to listen to a talk about the new strides Pavlov Surgical is making in neural prostheses research when they find out the guy who's giving it just got engaged to the Princess of Genovia anyway.”

He said it lightly, trying to make a joke of the whole thing, but there's nothing amusing about this to me. It actually made me angrier than ever at Grandmère. She isn't only selfishly Game of Throning our wedding: she's hurting Michael's business, and causing vital medical research information to fail to be disseminated.

“Michael, I'm so sorry. I'm going to get to the bottom of this if it's the last thing I do.”

“Mia, it's fine. None of this is your fault. I guess it's all part of being a—”

But I didn't get to find out what it is he thought it was all part of being because his phone died.

Or the Russians had gotten to him, but when I mentioned this out loud, Lars said I've been watching too much
NCIS
and from now on I need to stick to the Lifetime Movie Channel for women.

I've just told him to stop being so sexist since men watch that channel, too, and also, tons of people get kidnapped on Lifetime, particularly pregnant women whose babies are later sold on the baby black market, which is a completely real thing. I once attended a charity event to raise money to help fight it. Mariska Hargitay was there, and we both complimented each other's outfit in the ladies' room.

CHAPTER 23

3:40 p.m., Monday, May 4

Still in the HELV

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Managed to reach Mom to tell her about the wedding before she heard it on the news (she only listens to National Public Radio while she paints, so there wasn't much of a chance of that, as NPR is not known for keeping its listeners aware of all the latest royal gossip).

Mom asked for the details about Michael's proposal, which I gave her, but briefly. There are some things I've found it better not to share with my mom. When discussing my life with her, I try to keep it to the highlights, like the sports reel in a half hour news cycle.

Unfortunately, Mom has never felt the same about me. I was forced to listen as she told me
every single facet
of Michael's visit to the loft last week to ask her if our union was something she felt she could support.

“He was very gentlemanly about it,” she said. “He was even wearing a tie. I appreciated that he was respecting my role as your primary caregiver. So of course I told him that I supported your union wholly—”

“Aw.” This warmed my heart. “Thanks, Mom.”

She wasn't finished.

“—but that to be honest, I didn't think you'd had enough dating experience, so I thought you two should wait.”

“Mom!” I yelled. “You
said
that to him?”

“Well, of course I did. You're twenty-six and you've only ever slept with one person. Don't you think you ought to broaden your horizons?”

“No, Mom, I do not. And I don't really want to discuss this with you right now.” I eyed Lars and François, who were having an animated discussion in the front seat about how to avoid chafing while wearing a shoulder holster on a hot day. Dropping my voice, I added, “But just to remind you, I
have
dated other people, even if I didn't actually have sex with them. So I'm a hundred percent sure I'm with the right person.”

“I thought you kids today were all about the casual hookups,” Mom said. “Friends with benefits, and all of that.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you need to stop watching rom-coms that bill themselves as edgy but still end with the guy running through an airport.” Not that there's anything wrong with that, since I still totally watch them, usually with Tina, who can't get enough of them, especially if they involve a heroine who works as a sassy surgeon, as most gorgeous size-two ladies who are unlucky in love are wont to do.

“I just don't understand it,” Mom said, with a sigh. “Kids today are so different from when I was your age.”

“Yeah,” I said. “We are. When you were my age, you already had a toddler—me—with someone you weren't even interested in being with long term. I, however, am marrying someone I want to be with forever, and I have never not used birth control in my life.”

“Yes, Mia, I know,” my mother said, in a soothing voice. “You've always been my little worrywart. That's why I love you. But I loved your father, too, you know. I still do. I wouldn't want you to think that I didn't.”

“Well, that's just great, Mom,” I said. “So then why don't you let me do the worrying about my own wedding? God knows it's getting off to a rocky enough start. Wait . . .
what did you say?
”

“Oh, I think your wedding's off to a fine start,” my mother said. “Michael asked you anyway, didn't he? I didn't manage to scare him off.”

“Not that part,” I said. “The part about you loving Dad.”

“Well, of course I love your father. I always have, and I always will. I just could never live with him. Could you imagine
me,
living in a palace?” She laughed, but there wasn't much humor in the sound. “I'd make a terrible royal.”

“Uh,” I said. “I don't know about that, Mom. I don't think anyone could be worse than me.” I couldn't help thinking about Paolo and his diamond shoe analogy. Would mine ever stop chafing?

“Don't be silly, Mia. You've done an amazing job, what with bringing democracy to Genovia and building that community center for the kids and now choosing Michael as your prince consort. You're the best thing that ever happened to that place, and I'm not just saying that because I'm your mother.”

“Aw.” It was silly, but this caused tears to well up in my eyes. “Thanks, Mom. You have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that. But seriously, if
I
can adjust to being a royal, don't you think you could? If you really love Dad that much—and I
know
he adores you—don't you think—?”

“Oh, Mia,” she interrupted, in the old exasperated tone she used to use when she'd walk into my room to find me taking my temperature before school because I had a test that day and I was hoping I'd spontaneously developed malaria in the night. “Love is wonderful but it can't solve every problem, you know. It certainly isn't compensation enough for the fact that your father is a grown man who still lives with his mother.”

I winced. Mom had a point. “No,” I said. “I guess not.”

“I suppose I'm going to have to buy one of those awful mother-of-the-bride dresses for the ceremony,” she went on with a sigh. “Nothing kicky from my own wardrobe is going to work.”

“Um,” I said, remembering the last time Mom wore something “kicky” to a public function. She'd shown up at the opening of Mr. Gianini's community center in a blue dress with a red petticoat, covered in purple roses. It had been Mr. G.'s favorite. “Absolutely. You can wear whatever you want, Mom.”

“Mia,” she said, laughing. “Of course I can't. Your wedding is going to be broadcast all over the world. I may be a crazy painter, but I don't want to
look
like one on your special day. I think I can stand wearing one of those stuffy mother-of-the-bride dresses for an afternoon,” she added, bravely. “It was the idea of wearing one of them—with
panty hose
—every day for the rest of my life that I was never able to stand.”

Which pretty much confirms both Tina's and the Drs. Moscovitz's theory.

“That's very sweet of you, Mom,” I said. “But the whole idea was that Michael and I didn't
want
you to have to wear one of those dresses, with or without panty hose. We wanted to have a small, informal wedding, no more than fifty people, no commemorative stamps of Michael—”

My mom laughed some more.

“Oh, okay,” she said. “Well, best of luck with that. Actually, I quite like the idea of a stamp of Michael.”

“I know, right? That's what
I
said!”

I love Mom, but I worry about her. One of the things my stalker likes to harp on in his anonymous letters and e-mails to me (and rants on Rate the Royals message boards) is how women like my mom, who raise children on their own, are evil. His posts go on and on about how women like her (and me) are destroying the fabric of society by being too independent (because we have our own bank accounts, jobs, etc.), and how I should try to make Genovia more like the despotic nation of Qalif, instead of advocating for equal social, political, and economic rights for women.

If only I could find out who he is so I could have him imprisoned and/or publically humiliated, or at least tell his own mother on him.

•   
Note to self:
Remind press office to stop letting me read those letters. I would prefer only to read the nice letters I get from little girls who draw me pictures of themselves with their cats.

It's too bad that Mom and Dad were never able to work things out.

But Mom really isn't the panty-hose-wearing type, and unfortunately those are required for most official royal duties, especially when descending private-plane staircases in high winds while wearing dresses. Trust me, I've had this happen enough times in front of photographers to know.

UGH.

Of course neither my grandmother nor my father is answering their phones.

So now I am resorting to texting, which is bad because, considering all the messages I'm getting, my battery is completely dying.

HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”>

Sometimes I think Rommel may not be the only one in the family with dementia.

CHAPTER 24

5:20
p
.
m
., Monday, May 4

Grandmère's Condo, The Plaza Hotel

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Well, that was . . . I don't even have words to describe what that was.

But I have to write it all down because it's the only way I'm ever going to make sense of it, let alone figure out what I'm going to
do
about it.

It started normally enough—normally enough for my family, anyway—when I walked in and Grandmère didn't want to talk about it (of course).

All she wanted to do was order us “tea” from room service. She said she couldn't bear the thought of telling me the “heinous news” on an empty stomach, and of course she'd sent away her assistant, Rolanda, because what we needed to discuss was “so private.”

Except not so private that certain other people don't know all about it. Only of course I didn't find that
out
until later.

“So let's be honest, Grandmère,” I said, sitting down on one of her overstuffed pink satin-covered Louis Quatorze armchairs (her new decorator has told her that “everything old is new again,” which is another way of saying, “I need a hundred-thousand-dollar commission, so let's redecorate”).

“There is no heinous news, am I right? You're simply upset that I caught you using my marriage proposal as a propaganda tool to boost Dad's image since he got arrested. Or is it that I'm marrying Michael, and not the heir to some wealthy European family? Well, I'm sorry, but you're just going to have to get used to the idea of the next prince consort of Genovia being a Jewish computer genius who looks incredibly good in board shorts.”