I look up at Arthur. He’s so handsome in his black tie and crown. How is this man my husband? I’m a failed reporter-turned-blogger, and yet here I am, in the bed of the heir apparent.
“I guess the cat will be out of the bag now that I’ve done it in public.”
We’ve been trying to keep the pregnancy a secret until I hit the second trimester, but it seems as though that ship has now sailed. In true Tessa fashion, I’ve gone and humiliated myself publicly, yet again.
“I can just imagine what your father will have to say, not to mention that awful Dylan.”
Dylan Sinclair is a media consultant the King hired shortly after Arthur and I had a little mishap on the beach in Maui on our honeymoon when we traveled to what we thought was the most secluded beach on the island so I could sunbathe topless. It was a ‘we’re wild, young, free, and on our honeymoon’ thing. But apparently, that type of freedom is not for members of the royal family because it turns out we weren’t as alone as we thought, so now the entire world has seen my tatas. Not exactly kosher for the consort to the future king.
Anyway, Dylan has quickly become the bane of my existence. She likes to hold weekly meetings with me to discuss my popularity—or lack thereof, more accurately—using her talents as a Google analytics wizard combined with her knowledge of marketing to basically destroy my ego on every Monday afternoon. So, that's a lovely way to start my week, don't you think?
The senior advisers all seem to think she’s a PR genius, which quite honestly is irritating beyond belief, since all she does is boost the king’s already sizable ego and find new ways to make sure I know I’m a total failure. Dylan keeps a “Days Without Incident” counter on the whiteboard in her office, which is utterly humiliating. Arthur’s questioned her about it, and she insists it’s to measure the movements of all palace staff and the entire royal family, but we both know it’s really about me.
I sigh and stare up at him. “I made it to sixty-eight days today. My longest stretch yet.”
“By my account, it’s really ninety-four days. It’s completely unfair to count tripping over a dog.”
Ah, yes, on a trip to London this past winter, I tripped on one of the Queen of England’s beloved corgis and broke his short little leg, which made me ever so popular with dog lovers everywhere. And British people, for that matter.
My gut tenses at the memory. “He honestly came out of nowhere.”
“Could’ve happened to anyone, really,” Arthur says.
“But it didn’t. It happened to me,” I say, slapping my hand over my eyes. “Just like I’m the one who ruined the celebration tonight.”
“You haven’t ruined anything. By now, everyone will have forgotten about it.”
I raise one eyebrow at him.
“Well, by next week, then.” He nods confidently, even though we both know the only thing to make people forget will be my next embarrassing incident.
“In the meantime, come Monday, I’m going to be subjected to another meeting with Dylan about how I can ‘improve my image.’”
“I’ll cancel it.” Arthur gives me a kiss on the forehead, then smiles at me. “You shouldn’t be subjected to such nonsense, especially not when you’re so ill.”
“No, don’t cancel it. If I’m going to earn the respect of the staff, I can’t be hiding behind you while you fight my battles for me.”
“But I enjoy fighting your battles for you. It makes me feel very manly, like I’ve just come back into the cave with a sabre-toothed cat over my shoulder for dinner,” he says with a little grin.
“Oh my God. You’re really just a very well-dressed, well-spoken Neanderthal.”
“Admit it. You kind of love that about me.”
“I love that you want to fight my battles for me. And I love that you won’t because you realize that in the end, it would hurt me if you did.”
Arthur stares at me for a moment, then says, “That was some Jedi mind trick shit, just now. Giving me credit for something I don’t want to do but now will because it will both please you and make me seem smart.”
“I’ll have to use my Jedi mind trickery to fool the people of the kingdom into liking me. Then maybe we can fire Dylan.”
“You won’t have to trick them. When the people finally figure out who you are, they’re going to love you.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you won me over, and I don’t like anyone.”
I smile, my agitation giving way to a cozy, sleepy feeling. “You should go. Some of the world’s most important people are waiting for you so they can move on to the entrée.”
“Oh, right, them,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I wish I didn’t have to. I’d like nothing more than to just lay around in bed with you all evening.”
“I won’t be fun anyway,” I say, yawning. “I’m just going to fall asleep.”
“Do you want me to have someone come sit with you in case you...”
I shake my head and lower my heavy eyelids. “No. Now that there are no food smells anywhere near me, I’ll be fine.”
“Are you certain? I’m happy—”
“Thank you, but I’m fine now. I promise.” I rub the back of his hand. “You really are turning out to be a slightly above average husband.”
“Then I should dial it back a bit, or you’re going to expect this type of care all the time,” he says with a grin. “Now get some sleep, Sponge Tessa.”
“Life’s better in Bikini Bottom,” I murmur as I drift off to sleep.
“THIS IS VERONICA PLATT, from the ABNC desk. At the top of the hour, scandal at Valcourt Palace last night as the Duchess of Wellingbourne vomits on the reigning monarch of Avonia’s biggest trade partner during the Four Hundred Years of Peace State Dinner. Has Princess Tessa developed a troubling drinking habit in her short tenure as princess? And what will be the impact on trade with Belgium? We’ll answer these questions and give you a preview of this summer’s hottest swim wear after this commercial break.”
TEXT FROM BRAM: Tessa, did you really get hammered at the dinner last night and yak all over the King of Belgium? Please tell me you did. That would be the most epic thing you’ve ever done. Also, what are you getting Mum for her sixty-fifth? Lars has been all over me to pitch in on a new refrigerator for her. Are you in on that?
Text from Mum: Tessa, it’s your mum. Call me IMMEDIATELY. The phone’s been ringing off the hook about you having a drinking problem. I’m not answering anyone until you’ve called me back but I’m pretty sure Grace next door is going to come knocking any minute and I can’t hide in my room because I’ve got a batch of lemon tarts in the oven.
Text from Nikki: Don’t worry about what happened last night. Once you make the official announcement, everyone will forget about Vomitgate (yeah, they named it already). I’m just glad it wasn’t me who accidentally spilled the beans. Call me as soon as you can.
Voice Message from Mum (who is speaking in hurried, hushed tone): Tessa, it’s Mum. How can you be ignoring your texts at a time like this? I’m hiding in the main floor bathroom but I can hear Grace next door tapping on the kitchen window and my lemon tarts are going to be ready any minute. She won’t go away either. She knows I’m here because the car’s in the drive. For God’s sake, just text one word to me, yes, or no.
Text from Me to Mum: No. I am obviously not an alcoholic. Just not feeling well.
Mum: Thanks, Twinkle. I’ll tell Grace. Feel better soon! Have someone make you some ginger tea.
TWO
50 Ways to Hide a Rehab Stint
Arthur - 6 Weeks 1 Day
It’s not even eight in the morning, yet I’m already dressed in a suit, sipping coffee and trying to stay awake whilst our media consultant, Dylan, leads us through a “Vomitgate Brainstorming Session.” Tessa has agreed to skip the meeting, but only because as soon as she got up and tried to dress this morning, she ended up talking into the big white telephone.
So far, Tessa hasn’t missed anything I’d want her
to hear. Dylan’s spent the last ten minutes reading out a thread of #vomitgate tweets, as well as giving a brief overview of what the newspapers had to say about last night (and let’s just say, none of it is particularly flattering to my wife). For a woman in her early forties, Dylan is a ball of energy who simply won’t stop talking. Ever. I’m pretty sure if we required a urine test, we’d find her so full of coke that her piss would come out as a white paste. It’s either that or she mainlines Red Bull before coming to work every day.
I wish I were still snuggled into bed with my nauseous wife (well, sort of; to be honest, it’s a little bit frightening to sleep with a woman who vomits repeatedly, uncontrollably, and without warning). I’ve taken to sleeping on the edge of our king-sized bed, on my side, just in case I need to make a run for it. It’s actually really uncomfortable, and my right shoulder aches by the time I get up in the morning for my daily workout (which I had to skip so I could be here). So, maybe it’s more accurate to say that I wish I were asleep on a bed in the same room as my wife, rather than in the same bed. I wonder if she’d go for that? Hmm...
“Prince Arthur? Your turn...” Dylan gives me an expectant smile.
“What’s that?”
“It’s mind-map time! Your turn.” She holds a bright green marker out to me and gestures with her head for me to stand up. I look at the whiteboard behind her and see phrases like ‘stomach bug,’ ‘food poisoning,’ and ‘possible overseas vacation to hide stint in rehab’ sprawled randomly around at various angles.
I stand and take the marker from her, then I pick up the eraser and start to work.
“Oh no, Your Highness, you can’t erase!” Dylan chirps. “We’re in the creativity phase. The evaluating phase comes later!”
I continue erasing, in spite of her chipper protests and explanations about how the process works. When the board is clean, I take the lid off the green marker and write two words, “Morning Sickness,” then hand the pen back to her with a little nod.
Dylan’s mouth hangs open. “She’s...she’s...”
“Yes, if all goes well, we’ll have a baby very early in the new year.” I look over at my father, who gets up and – what is he...? Huh, he’s hugging me.
Well, I wasn’t expecting this. I think the last time he initiated a show of affection was...well...maybe when I was a small child? I’d have to ask Gran if she can remember. I pat him on the back stiffly, feeling rather awkward, yet strangely close to him at the same time. When he pulls back, he gives me a hearty handshake.
“Well done, Arthur.”
“Thank you.”
It seems wildly inappropriate to be praised for ejaculating in the proper orifice, doesn’t it? And yet, I’m now being surrounded by the rest of our team, who are lining up to shake my hand. My senior assistant, Vincent, who saves my arse on a regular basis but also brings with him the pungent aroma of blue cheese everywhere he goes, is first in line.
“Congratulations, Prince Arthur. I’ll be at the ready for whatever you and Princess Tessa should require during this delicate time.”
“Thank you, Vincent. I know I can count on you.”
Next is my father’s new senior adviser, Phillip Crawford, the one who replaced Damien, A.K.A. Twitter.com/WeHateTessa. Phillip’s a surly sort, all business and formalities, but the news of a possible heir causes his lips to curve just a hint. The various other assistants to the assistants are next, smiling and expressing their excitement. Yes, yes, everyone, I had unprotected sex. By all means, pat me on the back.
Dylan slaps the table with one hand, causing everyone in the room to jump. “Love it. LOVE the baby angle. That plays incredibly well internationally. This baby is exactly what we needed to put Avonia on the map!”
“Avonia already is on the map, exactly where it’s been for over eight hundred years, in fact.” I take my seat again, and the others follow suit. “We’d like to keep things quiet for now. So, until further notice, this happy news stays within these walls. We can just issue a statement that the princess had some bad seafood at lunch yesterday but that she’s almost fully recovered from her sudden bout of nausea and will resume her regular activities shortly.”
Dylan shakes her head. “With all due respect, Your Highness, the people will be very upset if they find out we lied.”
“Which they won’t unless someone in this room tells them.” There’s an edge to my voice that I fully intend.
“They’ll do the math,” Dylan counters with a tight smile.
One of the assistants to Phillip pipes up. “Isn’t it possible that she could have been pregnant and had food poisoning at the same time?”
“Yes, thank you, er...”
“Randall.”
“Thank you, Randall. That’s our angle. So, if someone can draft up a quick statement, I’d like to go check on my wife.” And by check on my wife, I mean pass out for an hour because I am exhausted from being up in the night with her. I stand and nod to my father before turning to leave.
“Oh, hang on, Prince Arthur,” Dylan says. “I really should get started on preparations for the official announcement.”
“Yes, that’s fine. Go ahead, as long as no one finds out before I give the okay.”
“I’ll need the due date.”
“Certainly. According to her GP, January seventh, but that could change after she’s had her first obstetrician’s exam.” I turn to leave again, then hear, “Uh oh.”
“Uh oh?” I turn back and sigh.
“That’ll never do, sir,” Phillip says.
“Any why exactly?”
“Because according to this reverse conception calculator, this means you conceived on the anniversary of your great-grandfather, King Edmund the Third’s, death.” Phillip shakes his head, looking quite scandalized.
I pause for a moment. “It certainly wasn’t that day. That’s a day of great reverence and reflection for all Langdons, Tessa included.”
What a lot of horse shit. We definitely did it that day. At least twice. And to be honest, I have no idea what day we conceived. We had a lot of sex last month. And the month before. No condom sex has a certain allure that neither of us can seem to resist. It’s so...convenient, and well, just better. I’d never tell these people, but we even did it here on the table. That could have been the time. Or that night in the shower. Or...oh, I should stop thinking about this, or Excalibur is going to wake up.
“Let’s just be vague about the due date, shall we? We could say sometime around the New Year.”
“They’ll want an official date. The media will need to have people on standby for a minimum of a month prior to and two weeks after whatever date we give them.”
“So, pick a date near there,” I say, walking toward the door. “Babies are rarely born exactly on time anyway, so it really shouldn’t matter.”
SO MUCH FOR MY NAP. As soon as I get back to our apartment, I find Tessa sitting on the couch, deep in conversation with Xavier, who has quickly become some sort of irritating pregnancy expert.
He sighs. “Should we try the ginger tea again?”
“No, I can’t bear it. Last time, I rejected it the second it hit my stomach.”
I walk over and sit down next to Tessa. “Still feeling lousy?”
“Yes,” Tessa says with a sigh.
Xavier shakes his head and makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “We’ve tried saltines, sour foods, exercise, rest, mint. Nothing is working. I’m running out of ideas.”
Which makes sense since he’s a bodyguard, and not a midwife.
“Maybe a good nap?” I suggest.
Tessa smiles and takes my hand in hers. “You’re the one who needs a nap. You look exhausted.”
“Me? Never. I’m full of energy today.”
Xavier leans in closer to look at me. “You sure, sir? Because you do look rather pale, and you’ve got dark circles under your eyes.”
“And yet, I’m fine.”
Something about my tone tells Xavier that now would be a go
od time to excuse himself. He stands and says that he’s going to run a security check on the halls surrounding our apartment. As soon as he leaves, I look around for something to do to prove how wide awake I am. Spotting Chester, our Betta fish, swimming around in his bowl, I stand and cross the room, putting a little extra spring in my step to show how ‘not tired’ I am. Plucking the bottle of Betta Than the Best fish food off the counter, I open it and drop a couple of pellets into the water.
"You're not feeding Chester again, are you?" Tessa asks.
"I can't let the poor lad swim around in circles without finding something to eat. It’s bad for his tiny self-esteem.”
“Arthur, seriously. He's going to get sick if we overfeed him. It is literally the worst thing you can do for a Betta fish.”
"Well, not literally. I’d say removing him from his water and just letting him flop around on the counter would be the worst thing."
"You know what I mean,” she says, yawning. “Besides, Xavier already fed him this morning.”
Christ, Xavier again. Why can’t he just stand still and watch for trouble, like every other bodyguard? Dropping a few more defiant pellets into the bowl, I say, “Chester’s been absolutely fine for the past two years that he's been living with me, so I really don't see how letting him have one more little meal in his day is doing any harm.”
“The guy at the store said four pellets a day, max.”
“The guy at the store doesn’t know how athletic Chester is.”
“Athletic?”
“Yes,” I nod indignantly. “He’s constantly swimming around. If there were an Iron Fish race, he’d win.”
Tessa laughs at me and shakes her head. “Oh, would he, now? And how would he ride the teeny bicycle?”
The Royal Delivery Page 2
