His Majesty's Measure

by Pamela DuMond

  Perhaps there a plan I wasn’t aware of. A second part of the Crown Affair playing out. Did he want me to roll with the punches again? I loved this man. I’d go through one hundred shitty weddings to end up with the right guy, my Prince Maximillian Cristoph Rochartè of Bellèno. I would say ‘yes’ to fitting into another wedding dress, pop five more blisters on each foot, attend more boring bridal showers, and spend brain-killing hours trying on gowns if it meant I could marry the guy I was supposed to be with. The guy who I knew in my heart of hearts was the right man for me.

  That is, of course, unless Max really had dumped me.

  Because if the spare to the throne of Bellèno had left me high and dry on our wedding day in front of hundreds of guests, commoners, royalty, snobs, and paparazzi right before we were supposed to say, ‘I do’—yes—I’d have a problem with that.

  Oh sure, Max might have been witty, intelligent, kind to people as well as animals. Yes, he was stunningly gorgeous with thick ginger hair, high cheekbones, crazy hazel eyes that could bore a hole in you, and six pack abs so ripped that they needed to be gently mended by my tongue every night.

  I might have been crazy about the man but I wasn’t that whipped.

  If Max really had dumped me at the altar, I’d have to track him down and kill him. Yes, I’d probably be inclined to mercy fuck him ten times before I finally shot him, pushed him off a high balcony, or slipped poison into his favorite ale. But in fair retribution for today’s nightmare I would make sure that the last words that slipped from his lips before I performed the dastardly, but understandable deed, would be my name.

  I don’t care if you’re royalty—God save your sorry soul if you messed with a DeRose woman from Chicago, Illinois. We were—after all—part Italian.

  But according to my Ladies, Max had not been seen, let alone heard from. No one had spotted him at the private jet wing of the airport with a ball cap pulled low over his head trying to escape camera coverage. No paparazzi had captured images of him in Aruba partying with busty blondes. He wasn’t seen jet-skiing off Capri with a female pop star wearing nothing but a smile, waving his royal Bellèno flag in the wind for the entire world to see, photograph, and plaster on Internet tabloid pages.

  So where in the hell was he?

  It was nighttime, only a few hours after my second royal ‘almost’ wedding. My head was killing me, my heart ached something fierce, and the only thing I knew was that I wanted this day to end. I glanced around at the shiny, sterile medical equipment, my ladies still dressed in their pretty bridesmaids’ dresses, while I was clothed in a two-ply hospital gown, hooked up to a drip bag of saline solution with monitors taped to my limbs. “Get me the hell out of here,” I pleaded.

  “Not yet,” Joan said and checked her phone.

  “Oh, crap this thing hit the Internet didn’t it?” I said. “Obviously well behind the news of Gabecca’s divorce.”

  “It’s—” Joan said.

  “—not accessible in this area of the hospital,” Esmeralda said.

  “Let’s go through your hospital To Do list.” Bea clapped her hands. “Won’t that be fun?”

  “Won’t I have to put a hot poker in your eye?” Esmeralda asked. “Jesus Christ when can I get out of this uncomfortable as fuck bridesmaid’s dress?”

  “I thought you liked the dress,” I said.

  “I tolerated the dress.”

  “I love the dress,” Bea said. “I will totally wear this dress again.”

  The Friedricksburgh Memorial hospital was not as large and fancy as the one I’d ‘visited’ in St. Luce, Bellèno’s capitol over a year earlier when I’d passed out from hypoglycemia on the airport tarmac. The staff was friendlier, and quieter, and the clinic had a therapy cat named Frankie. A nurse told us that he wandered from room to room, unless there was an “Allergic to Cats” sign on a door, which somehow, he seemed to know. Now, I cradled the fat, long-haired kitty in my arms and stepped out of the hospital bed to stretch my cramping legs.

  “Be careful,” Joan said.

  “I need to move.” I made my way to the window, clutching the large cat that felt soothing, like a living teddy bear. I peeked out the window from behind the blinds at the paparazzi below. “The reporters are still here.”

  “Not all,” Esmeralda said. “The A-list entertainment journalists already buzzed over the Alps to Monte Carlo to cover Gabecca’s breaking divorce announcement.”

  “Then who are these unfortunate people?” The night skies were filled with gray clouds, and rain drizzled, which meant snow wasn’t far behind.

  “The B string reporters,” Joan said.

  “They look cold. Hungry. It’s way past dinnertime. Should we order them pizza? I think there’s a coupon in my purse. Oh wait, I didn’t bring my day purse.”

  “Get back in bed,” Joan said.

  “You’re not supposed to walk around until after your MRI,” Lola said. She patted Mateo’s hair as he lay collapsed on her lap, his thumb suspiciously close to his mouth.

  “I feel fine,” I lied, I shivered. “But I worry about those people. It’s starting to rain. Look. There’s Candy Ass reporter. Her hair’s going to melt.”

  “You mean Cotton Candy Hair reporter,” Bea said. “You’re confused. You need to lie down until after your MRI.”

  “I already handled the food delivery,” Esmeralda said. “I ordered two dozen Pepe’s double meaty pies with extra sauce. The guy from Bellèno Free Press said he would not be bought off and refused to eat it.”

  “I’ll have his share.” I pressed my nose against the window and looked up. “Is that a photographer climbing up the drainpipe?”

  “Crap!” Bea slammed the mini-blinds shut with a quick flick of her wrist. “We need to get rid of these people. And we need to get rid of them now.”

  Chapter 9

  LEOPOLD

  Cartwright and I sat in a small, private room in the hospital’s basement and watched royal handlers do hair and makeup on a young man and woman.

  The Crown hired two down-on-their-luck actors who bore a remarkable resemblance to Max and Vivian. They signed confidentiality agreements and were paid a pretty pence, double their going rate for a quick, one time only, piece of ‘performance art.’ The thespians were slipped into the hospital in the back of a toxic waste medical disposal van. Due to his prior experience with clandestine transformative operations, Mr. Cartwright was put in charge of their quick makeover and I offered to join him.

  The actress looked remarkably like Vi and yet nothing like her. “Vivian’s cheeks have more of a glow,” I said.

  “Got it,” the dresser said and applied more blush to the young lady’s cheeks.

  “Vivian’s eyes sparkle.”

  “Right.” She dotted glistening creme around the impersonator’s eyes.

  “No, her actual eyes sparkle.”

  “It’s nighttime,” Cartwright said. “No one will notice.”

  “So sorry, Your Highness,” the makeup girl said. “I can create the illusion of sparkly eyes. Not sparkles in the actual eyes.”

  “I can use lubricating drops,” the actress said.

  “You’re a trooper,” Mr. Cartwright said. “I’ll keep your info on file.

  “That would be super!”

  The dresser slid the actress into Vivian’s wedding gown, nipped in a few seams, and slapped cheap rhinestone jewelry on her. She adjusted fake medals on the actor’s uniformed lapel and smiled at him. “You’re handsome, soldier.”

  “Thanks.” He winked at her.

  Now Cartwright and I stood out of sight in a vestibule next to the lobby and peered out a window as a House of Bellèno spokesperson accompanied by a hospital administrator held a mini-press conference.

  The paparazzi demanded information as to the state of Vivian’s wellbeing. Questions were asked about Max’s sudden disappearance. The House of Bellèno’s press secretary spread disinformation that he was entering the cathedral when Vivian collapsed. He was hustled away by s
ecurity in case it had been an attempt on both of their lives.

  A second deception played out. The fake Prince Maximillian wearing a coat and a hat low over his head, accompanied orderlies who wheeled the Vivian impersonator out of the facility. Beefy bodyguards surrounded them as she was transferred into a medevac helicopter waiting in a far parking lot, its blades slowly slicing the crisp, wintery air.

  The hospital’s chief medical liaison informed the reporters that doctors had decide to err on the side of caution and transfer Vivian to the bigger, more state of the art hospital in St. Luce for “additional testing and treatment.” The conference ended.

  “Looks like they bought it,” I said.

  “I think we covered our bases. At least for tonight, Your Majesty,” he said. He sat down and put his feet up on another chair.

  “Any word from Max?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you think he got cold feet? Sometimes I think you know him better than I do.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t put anything past anyone these days. But I doubt it.” He stretched, stood up, and looked out the window. “It’s late. The reporters are disbanding. Let’s get the hell out of here and grab a bite and a drink. I think we’re both overdue.”

  “But what about Vivian?”

  “She’s under the Ladies’ watch tonight. I suspect that if your brother doesn’t show up soon with his head low and an excellent excuse, there will be a lot more to accomplish tomorrow.”

  Chapter 10

  VIVIAN

  Leo phoned Esmeralda and told her about the actors that were hired. The irony was not lost on me.

  The Ladies and I watched the helicopter take off with the fake Prince Max and my imposter. I peeked through the blinds and watched the reporters disband.

  Lola stood up, pulling a sleepy young boy with her, and passed him to Bea. “Vivian, I’m taking Mateo back to the hotel.” She walked over to my hospital bed and squeezed my arm. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “I think so.”

  “I know so. This isn’t the first time you have endured sadness, or tough times. You’re a strong, girl, mi mejor amiga. What Maximillian did was wrong. You cannot forgive him easily. If ever.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek.

  “Thanks for traveling all this way and being here for me.” I hugged her. “You are my sister from another mister.”

  “Love you,” she said, and left the room.

  “I hope my impersonator enjoys her ride over the Alps,” I said. “I’m ready to call it a day. Any word from Max? Do you think he’s okay?”

  “Get some rest, Vivian,” Joan said. “The hospital wants to run a few more tests on you.”

  “Take a nap,” Bea said. “You’re overdue.”

  “But I’m worried—”

  “Sleep,” Esmeralda said. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

  I woke up on the cathedral’s stone floor and glanced around, as wedding guests applauded from their seats in the wooden pews. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you very much,” and stood up. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve all this wonderful affirmation. I’m thrilled that you all are being so kind to me. I’m an American commoner. A simple girl who was a cocktail waitress at a biker bar in Chicago. I love the White Sox, appreciate the Cubs, dig Chicago dogs—plain, please, hold the condiments. And it still surprises me that I’m here. In this situation. This very royal situation. I sincerely appreciate your kindness. Thank you.”

  Maximillian stood at front of the church and smiled and waved at me. “Vivian!”

  “Max! You’re here. Thank God. Does this mean the whole nightmare about you standing me up at the altar was simply a horrible dream? Yes. I bet it does. I should have known better. What’s all the kerfuffle? Why are all these people applauding?”

  “They’re celebrating our wedding, my love.” He held out his hand to me. “The Crown Affair is over. It’s finally time to get married. But first you have to walk down the aisle. Come to me, my darling.”

  “Oh my God, Max. That is the most romantic thing I think you’ve ever said to me, especially in front of all these people. Hang on. I must take a moment and warm up.” I shook my hands, cracked my neck, and started my crazy, great dance moves down the aisle as “Cake by the Ocean” by DNCE played in the background.

  “Vivian, my darling, I’ve wanted to slip a ring on that important finger since the first time I met you. I imagined what it would be like to be your husband. We’d have sex every morning, twice at night, and a few times during the middle of the day on national holidays. You’ll never have to count calories ever again. You’ll burn them all off with me, my love.”

  “The dream of wedded bliss keeps getting better and better, Maximillian!” I busted a few more moves and waved back at all the folks who were waving to me. Everyone was so friendly at my wedding. Why was I worried about them being judgmental?

  An old duke peppered with liver spots eyed me and snapped his fingers in time with the music. A few teenagers hopped up on the church pews and danced. Their arms undulated in the air, hips twisted, feet clacked on a hard beat on the wooden benches. By the time I glanced back at the altar, Max was eating from a three-tiered wedding cake with his hands, frosting dripping from his fingers. “It’s delicious, Vivian. Hurry, my love. Pick up the pace. We must marry now.”

  Magically, his shirt disappeared and all I could see was his muscle bound chest, and groomed ginger chest hair beckoning me.

  “Yum, Maximillian.” I jogged toward him. “I can’t wait to marry you. This whole thing is so exciting it makes me want to take my clothes off and run through a sprinkler with you and my dog, Roman. He’s a yellow lab and you know how those dogs love the water.”

  “We can do that after we get married, Vivian.” He licked frosting suggestively from his fingers and then started unzipping his pants. “I’m so hard, Vivian. I love you. I must take you here and now.”

  Dear God, this wedding was getting better every second.

  “I love you back,” I said, and jogged even faster toward him. “I’ll rip this gown off in seconds.”

  “You won’t have to, Vivian. You’re already breathtakingly beautiful in your naked form.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about Max.”

  “You’re deliciously naked, my love. Why do you think the crowd’s applauding so enthusiastically?”

  I tripped over a photographer, sent him flying, and peered down in horror. I no longer wore a beautiful flowing vintage silk batiste wedding gown, but a size ten suit of bare lady skin. I was jogging down the aisle of the Royal Bellèno Cathedral one hundred percent naked.

  “Ms. DeRose! Ms. DeRose!”

  I turned and stared at the photographer I’d just drop kicked down the aisle. He was hunched in a ball on the ground but still managed to hold his enormous camera and aim it straight at me. “I need to take your picture for our magazine,” he said.

  I turned and mooned him. “Then you’d better get a picture of my good side.”

  My ladies pushed me out of Friedricksburgh Memorial Hospital in a wheelchair with a blanket draped over my head. It was early morning and the parking lot was nearly empty.

  “Did you all have to wake me up so early? I was in the middle of a crazy post-traumatic stress dream. Clearly, I’m tired and needed to sleep,” I said. “I don’t think Max would stand me up at the altar. It’s mean, it’s cruel and it’s really not like him. Has he called yet? Did you check my texts, messages? Emails?”

  “We checked,” Joan said as she and Bea rolled me across the thankfully paparazzi-free parking lot.

  “No news,” Bea said.

  “His mother, father, brother, and Royal Nana said the same thing,” Esmeralda said. “They directed the Bellèno Investigative Agency to open a case.”

  “The B.I.A. was called in,” Bea said. “That’s big.”

  “Everyone’s worried about Max,” Joan said.

  I peeked out from underneath t
he blanket. The sun poked through puffy clouds over the Alps in the near distance. I had called Lola at her hotel and encouraged her to take Mateo home, back to Chicago. No sense interrupting more of their lives for whatever drama was playing out in mine.

  My remaining ladies were still dressed in their bridesmaids’ dresses, looking smudged and sleep-deprived, but considering that weddings could be brutal on everyone— apparently mine more so than others—they were none the worse for wear.

  The parking lot was nearly empty with the exception of a shiny, black Mercedes van parked in the far corner, its motor running, a thin trail of smoke emanating from the exhaust pipe.

  “I bet we’ll get terrific Internet reception out here,” I said. “Can someone check and see if we hit the newsfeed? We’re probably not even trending anymore. I bet we’re lagging far behind Gabecca. After all, there’s so many possible stories. Why did Gabecca split up? There will be multiple versions of ‘He said- She said.’ A few have to be first in gossip feeds. Someone will pen a walk down memory lane on how Gabecca first met; how the entertainment world is reacting to the loss of Gabecca. Will the Gabecca divorce get ugly? Who gets custody of Gabecca’s dogs and cats?”

  “They have a lot, you know,” Bea said.

  “And then there are other stories that will hopefully keep me out of the headlines: soccer scores, that thing about the prime minister, the newest political sex-scandal in the States—was it #Metoo, the mistress payoff, or threatening to reveal naked BDSM pictures? God, I can’t keep up. Don’t forget all those commercials for E.D. and the new TV show about the talking dog.”

  “I love that show,” Joan said.

  “Me too.”

  “We’ll check later,” Esmeralda said. “We need to leave. Our ride’s waiting.”

  “I need to go back to my place. Regroup. Think about my future.”

  “You can think about your future when we’re on the road,” Esmeralda said.