The Royal Delivery

by Melanie Summers

  “Shall I postpone your meeting with the ambassador?”

  I shake my head. “I’ll be back in time. If I’m not, just give him some of that tea he loves and ask him about his son—the one finishing med school, not the one in rehab. He won’t even notice I’m not there.”

  “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Tessa asks for about the fifth time.

  “I wish I were,” I say, pulling her in a for a long hug. “I’m so sorry about your childhood home.”

  She shakes her head. “It’s okay. I’m fine, really. I feel bad for my parents, of course, but it’s just stuff. It can be replaced, right?”

  “Excellent way to look at it. I thought you’d be more upset.”

  She pulls back a bit and gives me a small smile. “I’m all right. Really. It’s just a bit of a shock. I should call them to see if they need anything.”

  “Actually,” I say, holding one finger in the air, “no need to call them because they’ll be here in a couple of hours.”

  Her eyes narrow in confusion. “Why would they come here? I’d think they’d be needing to—oh, shit. They’re moving in here, aren’t they?”

  Giving her a game show host smile, I nod and say, “But only for about eight months, give or take.”

  Tessa smacks her forehead with one palm. “Did they invite themselves here?”

  “More like a strong hint that I could hardly refuse. But it’s not a big deal, really. I mean, we’ve literally got hundreds of bedrooms.”

  “No, no, no, no, no, no.” The word spills from her mouth at record speed. “They can’t...what about Lars? Or Finn? Or...Noah? He’s got plenty of room.”

  “Not as much as us, I’m afraid.”

  “But they’ll be just awful, Arthur. You have no idea. My mum is already driving me nuts from across town, with all the baby update texts and the ‘I never had morning sickness, I felt amazing during all of my pregnancies,’ not to mention the ‘who decides on the royal commemorative dishes’ and ‘can I help choose the cups that will have my grandchild on them?’” she says, pacing the room. “Once they’re here under the same roof, it’s going to be...intolerable.”

  “We’ll make it work. And if they’re driving you crazy, I’ll...find a way to divert their attention. I could...send them on a trip for a few weeks, followed by...another trip somewhere else.”

  “They’ll never go. They hate traveling.”

  “Who hates traveling?”

  “Evi and Ruben Sharpe, that’s who.” Tessa’s shoulders slump, and she gives me a pouty look (but not a sexy pout, more like a whiny child who has just been denied a toy at the store). “I don’t want them to live here. It’s going to be unbelievably embarrassing.”

  “I know, but at least you and I will be in it together, right? What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and all that?”

  “I suppose.”

  “I promise it’ll be all right, Tess. It’s just temporary, and who knows? It may just be so wonderful, you’ll never want them to leave.”

  THIRTEEN

  I’m Just Tessa From the Block

  Tessa - 16 Weeks

  It’s been a week since my parents moved in, and I have to say, it’s been anything but ‘wonderful.’ The phrase ‘cringe-worthy’ would be more accurate. Irritating. That’s another word I could use. God awful. That fits, too. Yesterday, my mum burst into my office when I was meeting with Lady Yvette Champlain, the sixty-year-old blue-blood who heads up the Avonian Literacy Foundation.

  When Mum found out what type of charity we were discussing, she told us a rather long, rambling story about her cousin Rose’s best friend who had trouble learning to read but has now gone on to be an English teacher, of all things. Or was it maths? She wasn’t sure, ‘but the point being a child can learn to read, even if they have some trouble, and my, what a lovely scarf you’re wearing. Tessa you could never get away with such a dark yellow close to your face. You’d look positively green. Speaking of green, did Tessa tell you how bad her morning sickness has been? Just terrible. I’ve never seen someone puke as much as her...’

  By the time she was done talking, I was running late for my next meeting and we had to reschedule for another date because we hadn’t gotten past item one on the agenda, so that was terrific.

  Breathe, Tessa, breathe. Try to remember all the things for which to feel grateful...such as the fact that I’m no longer a human barf generator. I honestly am really frigging happy to be able to smell and/or eat again. (Oh, and I just used the word ‘frigging’, so things are really looking up in the ‘be the best princess you can be/preparing to be a mum who doesn’t swear like a trucker’ thing. Hmm, do truckers swear all that much? I don’t know any personally, but it seems like they get a bad rap about the whole potty mouth thing. There must be some really religious truck drivers out there who are hurt by the assumption, no?).

  Anyway, I’ve been ‘stress’ eating like crazy, but this morning I decided it has to stop. I’m not even five months along, but at my last appointment with Dr. Dropp, she said I’m measuring more like I’m at thirty-two weeks. That’s, like, a lot of weeks ahead of schedule. She said at this rate, I’ll gain close to one hundred pounds, which will take over a year to take off. So, that terrified me enough to give up the sweets. Maybe even permanently. I don’t want to jinx it by saying anything out loud, but I think this could be a total lifestyle change for me. Xavier’s going to be so proud.

  Oooh, are those scones I smell? My new secretary, Gillian—who is a real gem by the way–must have ordered some for me. I hear a knock at the door, and in she walks with a tray of my favourite morning treat. Along with my growing appetite, I’ve developed an incredibly keen sense of smell—almost like a superpower, really. If this keeps up, I could become ‘Amazing Olfactory Savant Girl!’, flying over neighbourhoods sniffing out gas leaks and calling out things like, “That chicken is done. Take it off the barbecue!”

  Of course, with any superpower comes a downside, which I discovered yesterday en route to Arthur’s office. I could smell Vincent before I rounded the corner and walked into the outer office, where his desk is. It was kind of awful, actually. I had to stop myself from gagging when he came over to greet me.

  But seriously, why does he smell of blue cheese? I Googled it, hoping to find some medical explanation, but there was nothing to find. I did discover, however, that people who have typhoid smell of baked bread. How lovely would that be? Not having typhoid, obviously, that doesn’t sound very nice, but walking around smelling that delicious all the time. You’d be like Snow White to forest animals, except it would be every person everywhere you go, rushing to sit near you.

  “Hello, Your Highness. Brought you a snack to get you through until lunch.” Gillian is like the mother I never had—a supportive one who believes in me. She has short, strawberry blonde hair and wears very sophisticated, if not slightly matronly, suits (turns out she has the same pair of kitten heels I do). She also has a warm voice with an Irish lilt I find very pleasing. Sometimes I’m tempted to ask her to sing Whiskey in the Jar to me, but I have a feeling that might be beyond her job description.

  “Now eat up. You need to make up for lost time. For the baby’s sake.”

  “You don’t think I’m getting a little...big? I was just thinking that maybe I should slow down on the scones.”

  Gillian laughs like that’s the most absurd thing she’s ever heard. “Oh now, don’t be fussing about your weight. You need to eat and rest. That’s how you grow a proper healthy baby.”

  When she puts it that way...

  She sets the tray down, and I see not one, but three scones, still steaming, and a stack of butter in a tiny cup next to the plate. “You’re a real life saver, Gillian. Thank you.”

  “I’ll hold your calls so you can rest a bit and eat. You’ll need to leave at one-thirty for your hair appointment, but first you’ve got a conference call with the people from the Society for the Ethical Treatment of Lawyers.”

  “Yuck. Is that today?”r />
  “Afraid so.”

  “I mean, honestly, do they really need a charity? If they wanted to be treated better, maybe they shouldn’t go around suing everyone all the time.” I take a deep breath, inhaling the heavenly scent of cinnamon and apples.

  “Ridiculous, really,” she says, shaking her head. “But at least you and Prince Arthur will have a lovely evening out as a reward.”

  “That’s true. Oh, was the seamstress able to take out the dress?”

  “Not enough, I’m afraid, but she’s whipped up another one to suit you better. Same lovely design, just new proportions to fit the baby.”

  “Isn’t that nice of her?” I definitely should not eat these scones.

  Gillian waves a hand at my plate. “Go on, then. You’ll need a lot of energy to get you through the day.”

  “I never thought of that. It will be a long evening,” I say, tearing a piece of the scone, then swiping some butter across it with a knife.

  Three scones and one conference call later, I hurry to the limo so I can make it to my appointment on time. As soon as I’m settled in the back, I text Nikki to tell her I’m on the way. I’m far too excited about getting my hair done, but honestly, I’m badly in need of an ego boost. On Sunday, I had breakfast, then ordered another plate of crepes an hour later, followed by a bag of crisps shortly after. Arthur made a crack about me having the same eating schedule as a Hobbit.

  I glared for a long time while he said, “You know, Hobbits? They eat breakfast, then second breakfast, then elevenses...”

  I don’t think he’ll make that comparison again.

  Anyway, on Tuesday, I ran into Lars at the university when I was there for a luncheon to support a new women’s history wing. He took one look at me and said, “How many babies have you got in there, anyway?”

  Ha. Ha. Ha.

  And yesterday, my mother stared at my belly for a long time, then shook her head and said, “I don’t remember being this big at four months. I was still in my regular jeans, even when I was pregnant with Bram.” Bram was her biggest baby (and still is, quite frankly). He weighed a whopping nine pounds, six ounces at birth, which he delights in reminding the other boys of every chance he gets.

  Oh my God! What if my baby ends up being a nine-pounder? Or worse? What if this child has an abnormally large head circumference? Dear Lord, my vajayjay will never recover. I wonder if my mother’s did? I should really ask her. Wait, no I shouldn’t. I do not want to know the answer to that one. I should Google it. Not my mother’s vagina, obviously, but the whole thing about whether the average woman’s nether regions recover after giving birth to a huge baby.

  I pull my phone out of my purse, then stop myself. Do I really want to know if my vag won’t ever be the same again? Isn’t it better to do millions of Kegels and tell myself everything will be fine?

  Yes, that’s the way to handle this—by using my strong ability to deny reality. I sit in the back seat, working on my Kegels whilst trying to keep my face relaxed. Why is that so hard? You’re trying it now, aren’t you? It’s almost impossible to hear about them without doing them, isn’t it?

  Oh! We just pulled up at the salon. Yay! Shiny, fabulous hair time! Nikki’s going to give me a lovely up-do and apply my makeup so I should be looking my best when I step out with Arthur for the Avonian Opera Society’s Annual Dinner and Silent Auction. Hello! Magazine, here I come!

  WHEN XAVIER OPENS THE door to the salon, club music spills out into the street. Kyle, the owner, uses loud rave music as a way of keeping the over-forties out, therefore ‘maintaining the relevance’ of the salon. I suppose it makes sense, but it is a bit of a sad commentary on aging. Plus, Kyle’s forty-six, and I’m pretty sure at this point he’s just pretending to like techno music, which must mean every day is a personal hell for him.

  Xavier walks in ahead of me, and all heads turn to him. The women. The men. Even Kyle’s ancient teacup poodle, Liza, lifts her head from her doggy bed by the counter and gives him a once over. Nikki glides over to us, looking like she’d like to stuff Xavier into a waffle cone and lick him. I give her the eye, and she shrugs in a ‘what? I can’t help it’ way.

  “Can I get you a drink, Xav? Some Perrier, maybe? Or a cappuccino?” she shouts in his ear.

  “No, thank you. The carbonation from Perrier leaches phosphate from your bones. And I don’t drink coffee,” he hollers back.

  Kyle walks over to us and gives me air kisses on both sides. “Prinnnnccesssss!” he shouts, managing to turn the word into four drawn-out syllables. “You’re looking draggy. We need to get you done immediately!”

  Draggy? That wasn’t very nice. “I’m pregnant,” I say.

  “Clearly. So, you’re going to need all the help you can get if you’re going to hold the attention of that man of yours until,” he waves his hand dismissively over my belly, saying, “this business is over.”

  Well, now I feel so much better than I did before I came. I’m still waiting for that pregnancy glow to kick in, but at this point my sallow skin and dark grey bags under my eyes appear to have settled in for the long haul.

  Kyle turns to Xavier and grins. “And how about this tall drink of water? How about I do you while Nikki does the princess over here?”

  Xavier doesn’t react to the obvious double entendre. “No, thanks. I have a regular barber. I’m all set.”

  Kyle looks completely offended by the very word, shaking his head as though recovering from a slap across the face.

  Xavier gives him a nod, then proceeds do a quick walk around the salon, presumably to check for suspicious-looking people. I follow Nikki to a room at the back called The Colour Bar. Here the dance music gives way to a quiet, new age playlist meant to create a Zen environment (but I secretly think it’s to give Kyle some relief from the pounding beat). An enormous slab of reclaimed wood sits on metal sawhorses in the centre of the room with chairs surrounding it. This is where the clients are seated while they’re getting their hair coloured. Kyle was aiming for a community atmosphere, but for the most part, it just means clients politely ignore each other and stare at their mobile screens while dye is applied to their hair.

  I sit at the table while Nikki mixes my colour. I haven’t actually come to the salon to get my hair done in over a year, as Nikki’s willing to come to the palace so we can hang out and watch The Gilmore Girls while my colour sets. Now that I’m here, it feels like a homecoming to be in a normal salon in a regular neighbourhood of the city. This was a terrific idea. I’m away from my parents for a few hours, and I’m back with my own kind of people—the ordinary, not uppity ones. I smile at a woman who looks to be about my age who’s sitting across from me.

  She smiles back. “You’re Princess Tessa.”

  “I am. And you are...”

  “Hannah.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too,” she says. “How are you feeling? I heard you were quite nauseous.”

  “Much better, thanks.”

  “That’s nice for you. I was sick for almost my entire nine months with my son.”

  “Oh, dear. I can’t imagine. How old is he now?”

  “Three. Such a handful. Just being able to sit here for the next hour is like going on a vacation to the tropics for me.”

  “Yikes. It’s that hard, is it?”

  She nods and then looks immediately shocked and guilty. “Not that I’d trade him for the world. I love him to bits.”

  “I’m sure.” I smile, realizing that I’ve had this exact conversation before. “I’ve noticed so many mums seem to feel bad for admitting motherhood isn’t all tea parties and roses.”

  Hannah nods enthusiastically. “It’s true. I felt horribly disloyal just now.”

  “No need. A little venting is healthy from time to time.”

  “Thanks,” she says with a shy smile. “I bet you’ll have loads of breaks from your baby, what with all the servants and whatnot.”

  “Yes, I’m very fortunate.”

&nbs
p; “I heard you were going to hire several nannies.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes, it was on the news.” She blushes. “They were speculating that you’d hire ten.”

  The way she looks at me does something to me. It’s a mix of envy and disdain, like she both wishes she could hire a bunch of nannies and is judging me for it.

  The woman to her right, who up to this point has been flipping through a magazine, sets it down on her lap and says, “Ten nannies? I can’t even imagine trusting one stranger taking care of my baby, let alone ten.”

  Who asked you, Judgey McRude? Maybe these aren’t my people after all. Shaking my head, I say, “Well, the media often gets the story wrong.”

  “So, you’re not hiring a team of nannies, then?” Judgey asks, her onyx eyebrow raised.

  “Nope,” I say with a smile. “None, actually.”

  None? That was a rather bold statement, Tessa.

  Nikki, who’s been painting my hair with the dye, stops brushing for a second and peers over my shoulder to look at me. She places the back of her hand on my forehead. “Just checking for a fever,” she says, laughing.

  I laugh along with her. “I’m fine. I just don’t want to turn the baby over to some stranger.”

  “Good for you!” Judgey woman says. “I have a lot of respect for hands-on mums. I mean, why have the child if you’re not planning to raise them yourself?”

  “Exactly,” I say. “Besides, I’m really just a regular person, so I fully intend to raise my children to be in touch with...you know, normal people, like us.” There, that ought to prove I’m one of them. I’m just Tessa from the block.

  “How refreshing!” Hannah says, nodding. “I figured you’d be trying to escape your roots, not embrace them.”

  “Oh, honey, the only roots I’m escaping are the ones right here,” I say, pointing to my head.