The Royal Delivery

by Melanie Summers

  “Oh God, Arthur, I don’t think I can face all those people tonight. I'm a total disaster.” She slaps her hand over her face. “I just thought that those women...were my people, you know? The people I'm surrounded with all day long, every day are your people. I thought for once I was somewhere I fit in. But I guess those people aren't my people either."

  "My people, as you call them, will never be your people if you can't stop insulting them." Oh, careful now, Arthur, that’s not the tone to use with your very sensitive wife right now.

  "You don’t understand. They’ll never accept me anyway, because I'm not one of them and I never will be."

  I do my best to keep my voice gentle. "Did you ever consider that perhaps you're the one who doesn't give them a chance?"

  A knock at the door interrupts us. I call for whoever it is to ‘come in’ at the same time Tessa calls to them to ‘wait a minute please’.

  The door opens, and Xavier fills the entrance, an awkward look on his face. "My apologies, Your Highness, but I'm supposed to tell you that the Princess Dowager and Princess Arabella are already in the car. Would you like them to go ahead without you?"

  "No," I say firmly, striding toward the door. "We’re ready now."

  I stop in front of Xavier, waiting for Tessa to join me. Glaring at him for a moment, my anger grows. "Really stellar job today. The fact that you allowed Princess Tessa to be secretly videoed speaks volumes of the quality of the work you're providing this family."

  "I'm truly very sorry, Your Highness. It won't happen again."

  "See that it doesn't, or we’ll have to make some changes around here." I straighten the cuffs of my tuxedo as I brush past him.

  The car ride to the hotel is less-than-festive. Instead of sipping some Champagne (everyone except Tessa, of course) and having a few laughs, it’s a silent, simmering pot of hurt feelings, disappointment, judgment, and anger. Neither my sister nor Gran says anything. I spend most of the ride staring out the window, and when I glance back at Tessa, I see she's blinking, trying to fight back the tears.

  Just as we pull up in front of the hotel, she whispers, "I'm so sorry, Gran, Arabella. I didn't mean to insult any of you. It just felt so good to feel liked.”

  Gran gives her a small smile. "So you told those women what you thought they wanted to hear?"

  "Exactly," Tessa says with a nod.

  "Oh, my dear girl, you have such a long way to go before you grow up. For your baby’s sake, I hope it happens fast."

  "Me, too." Tessa turns to Arabella. "I'm so sorry, Arabella. I wasn’t talking about you.”

  “It's fine," Arabella says as she slides toward the door and starts to get out. "Let's just forget the whole thing. But for your sake, I’d suggest you say very little this evening."

  FIFTEEN

  The Importance of Knowing Your Audience

  Tessa

  I’m surrounded by no less than four hundred people, but I’m utterly alone. I wish I were at home with a jumbo bag of crisps and the covers pulled up over my head. Arthur can barely bring himself to look at me, even though he insists he’s not upset. My hope of Arabella and I sticking together, giggling and secretly making fun of all the snooty people, died when we walked in the ballroom and she disappeared to mingle with anyone but me. Gran, who seems to have abandoned her ‘no drinking on days that end with ‘y’’ policy, made a beeline for the bar, leaving me standing next to Arthur as he’s greeted by other very important people, each one giving me polite (if not cool) smiles, then turning their attention back to Arthur. I've never felt so stupid in my entire life, which for me is really saying something. I really am the dullest Sharpe in the family.

  A server walks by with a tray of Champagne, and Arthur takes two.

  I hold up one hand, palm out. “Oh no, I can’t, Arthur, remember?”

  “Yes, I know. I thought I’d have your share. Get a bit of our ten-grand back on the tickets,” he says, taking a long swig. When he lowers the flute, he says, “Besides, this whole evening is going to be awkward as fuck, so I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  A chime rings out, signaling the guests to find their seats for dinner. Somehow, even though my gut is churning with dread, I still find myself quite famished, and the thought of what I’m sure will be a delicious meal is somewhat of a comfort. Another bonus of sitting down is I’ll be able to slide off my Louboutin heels. I don’t know how, but these horrible shoes have shrunk and are now pinching not only my toes (which they always did, but I was willing to put up with because they’re that fabulous), but the sides, tops, and bottoms of each foot as well.

  Oh, fine. It’s not really a mystery. I know it’s me swelling up, and not my beautiful Louboutins’ fault. I’m like one of Cinderella’s step-sisters in them—trying to force dainty slippers onto my huge Hobbit feet.

  Ah! That’s better. Now that my designer torture devices are off, I don’t think I’ll ever want to put them back on. My feet are actually pulsing. If I could see them, I bet the throbbing would be visible.

  “Oh, Christ,” Arthur mutters. “Not tonight.”

  When I follow his gaze, I see Brooke and her famous hubby, Blake, are just walking in. It’s blatantly clear that they’ve come in late to make a grand entrance. That is so Brooke, isn’t it?

  She looks stunning and thin, of course. How the hell is she seven months pregnant? I mean, honestly, her midsection is basically flat. Talk about irritating.

  Oh great, they must be at the table near ours because they’re heading straight for us. Of course.

  And now Arthur and I have to stand to let them pass through the narrow space. And I don’t have my fecking heels on. Son of a...

  Standing up, I hope no one will notice I’m now four inches shorter than I was when I sat down, which makes me almost a foot shorter than Awful Brooke. I glance down to see if she’s wearing heels, only to discover she is indeed—and not just any heels—Stuart Weitzman diamond-encrusted stilettos that must have set her back almost half a million. God, those are beautiful shoes for such a witch to be wearing. Those are ‘get your toes trimmed by a surgeon so you can fit them’ gorgeous.

  “Tessa,” she says, purposefully forgetting to call me by my title. "How are you feeling? You look positively radiant."

  Deciding I’ve caused enough trouble today, I say, "Terrific, thanks. You're looking well, Brooke." Ha! Two people can play the ‘I forgot your title’ game. "Married life must be agreeing with you." And by that, I obviously mean ‘not being married to Arthur, that is.’

  “Oh, it is. I feel absolutely alive with energy. My only problem is that I’m not showing at all, so I’m afraid people don’t believe I’m actually pregnant.” Brooke laughs heartily at the poor luck of her situation.

  How awful. To be so thin whilst pregnant that no one will know it's over until you're holding the baby. Exactly what every woman dreads.

  She stares down at my midsection and then tilts her head, looking confused. “Math isn't exactly my strong suit—not like medicine, of course—but I thought your baby was due in January, and to look at you, I’d guess you're almost due now. You don't have gestational diabetes, do you? I hope not because it's a lot more serious than most people think."

  “I’m fine, really,” I say, hardening my gaze. “Totally healthy, really.”

  “Glad to hear it,” she says with a forced smile. “You’re so brave to come tonight, Tessa, after stirring the pot today with that video.”

  Fuckity fuck. Of course she’s seen it already. “Yes, well some bits of that were...taken out of context.”

  “Which bits, exactly? The part where you implied that anyone who hired a nanny is a terrible mum? Or the bit where you suggested your own husband and his family are basically useless because they can’t do menial tasks?”

  "Uh oh, I hope we’re not about to see a pregnant cat fight," Blake says, laughing obnoxiously and elbowing Arthur in the ribs. "Wouldn't want to see that, would we?" Brooke levels him with an icy glare that freezes the smirk
right off his face. “Just joking, love. I’d love to see you fight.”

  Oh my God, he’s an idiot. Brooke has agreed to spend the rest of her life with a total moron. One with less class than my brothers. A genuine smile plants itself on my face for the first time this evening.

  Blake slips his arm around her tiny waist and gives me a Hollywood grin. “Don’t mind my little princess here. She’s been a bit grumpy lately. I’ve been trying to convince her to eat more, but she won’t hear of it.”

  Brooke bats her eyelashes up at Blake. “Now, darling, you know I eat exactly the number of highly-nutritious calories required for the baby’s optimal growth and my own needs.”

  “But not enough to get her sense of humour back,” he says with a laugh. “Arthur, how’s your wife’s sense of humor these days?”

  “She’s a laugh a minute,” Arthur says, tipping back another glass of Champagne.

  The doors to the ballroom open, and an army of servers bearing trays of dinner plates files in, saving us from the rest of this conversation.

  “Time to eat,” Brooke says. “I’m sure you’ll be glad, Tessa.”

  “You and me both,” Blake says, winking at me. “It’ll be nice to get a real meal in for once. We’ve only got food fit for a rabbit in our cupboards.”

  “Better than having food fit for a pig,” Brooke says, glancing at my tummy again.

  I open my mouth to say something, but before I can spit out whatever insult my brain was working on, Arthur puts his hand on my arm and wishes them an enjoyable meal. I clam up and sit down, thoroughly pissed to let Brooke the Bitch have the last word—and such an insulting one at that. I turn to Arthur, intending to tell him as much, but then realize I’ve caused enough drama today, so I’d do well to let him win this one.

  IT’S WELL AFTER MIDNIGHT, and I’m currently standing in the bathroom, having had a long, hot shower and a huge cry. My up-do is now a dripping wet mess, and my carefully applied makeup has been wiped away, leaving me to face the real me in the mirror. I don't like what I see. I see an idiot who hasn’t learned to keep her stupid mouth shut when she’s in public. Well, that’s not entirely true. I did stop myself from calling Brooke an obnoxious, horrible bitch-face, so I guess that’s something.

  I sigh, staring at my reflection, suddenly realizing I hardly recognize the woman staring back at me. She’s in a plush white bathrobe liberated from one of the guest suites several months ago when her old ratty pink robe finally fell apart after a decade of cozy service.

  Oh, that was a touch dramatic, Tessa. Referring to yourself in third person, now? Yeesh.

  I’m still me. I mean, those are definitely my ancient nude-colour cotton knickers.

  Huh. Somehow, my knickers aren’t covering up as much of the front as they used to. How it is possible that the front bit, where my underwear goes, has gotten so much bigger? I didn’t even know that was possible, but it very clearly is because my old faithful, just-the-right-amount-of-stretch-but-still-stays-up knickers look like I’m wearing a thong backwards.

  But it’s not a thong at all, and never has been. I try pulling them down in the front and up in the back, but that only results in a tuft of hair poking out the top and the fabric riding halfway up my back without providing any coverage of my enormous butt cheeks.

  When I adjust them back where they belong, I have hair escaping both sides, which is almost worse than having it poke out the top because it’s like I’ve shaved a reverse mohawk in front of my lady bits.

  That settles it. I’m officially going to have to shop for maternity clothing, starting with knickers. Not that it really matters what my knickers look like. It’s not like I’ve exactly been in the mood to let Arthur see me in them. Or that he’d want to right now anyway. Not after today. The back of my throat burns with guilt and my chest feels tight when I think about the hole I dug myself.

  It’s not all the posh people I’ve insulted that matter to me; it’s the hurt in Arthur and Arabella’s eyes I wish I could wipe away. I have absolutely no idea how to make this up to them.

  I look down at my tummy and sigh. My eyes well up with tears. "I'm sorry, little baby. I'm not going to make you scrub the toilets. Well, I might, but not until you're much older. And I'm sorry I've made such a mess of everything with your father and all your father's relatives and friends. I'm going to try to figure out a way to fix this before you get here, but if I don't, promise me you love me anyway."

  SIXTEEN

  Blaming the Bodyguard

  Arthur

  I wake to the sound of sniffling and light streaming in through the window. It hurts my eyes even before I open them. I should not have drank that much, no matter how badly my wife insulted everyone I know. The sniffling forces me to open my eyes in spite of the fact that my brain is screaming at me to keep my lids down. Rubbing my face with one hand, I look around until I spot the source of the noise—Tessa, who’s sitting on the armchair by the window with her phone in hand. Shit, is she crying?

  "What's wrong, Tess?"

  "I knew you were upset, but I didn't realize it was this bad."

  "What do you mean? I'm not upset. Hungover, maybe..."

  I sit up, finding I need a moment for my pounding head to adjust to an upright position, only I don’t have a moment because I have to go from passed out to on top of my game in under two seconds.

  "How can you say you're not upset with me? You've canceled all but one of our prenatal appointments,” she says, holding out her phone so I can see her calendar.

  Oh fuck. I've completely forgotten about the whole ‘break it to her gently’ thing.

  "I haven’t canceled them. I just won't be able to be there, but I promise it’s got nothing to do with you."

  “It seems like an awfully big coincidence.”

  I massage my temples and close my eyes for a moment. “Do you really think I’d do something like that out of spite?”

  “Well, no. I suppose not. It’s just...I don’t know what to think. I know I’ve screwed up very badly, and...well...how could you not be insulted and angry?”

  “Do I love that you said any of that in a public setting? Not really. But I’m not angry. Not at you, anyway. My father, yes. But you, I have nothing but sympathy for.”

  “What’s your father got to do with it?”

  “Yesterday—late in the afternoon—I found out he’s decided to extend his gallivanting for another few months, which means all of his responsibilities have fallen onto my lap again. So, yet another link in the chain of paternal disappointments for me, which now means I’m unable to be there for you and the baby.” I sigh and give her a look I hope shows how badly I feel. “I asked Vincent to hold off on changing the schedule until this morning to give me time to talk to you about it."

  "But then I went and screwed everything up, and we didn't really talk at all," Tessa says, her shoulders slumping.

  "It's not your fault. If anything, it's that big muscle-head we've hired to watch you."

  "It's not Xavier's fault. I'm the one who opened my big mouth."

  "Well, it’s his job to make sure no one is violating your privacy, and yesterday, he failed miserably in that regard."

  "I really wish you wouldn't take it out on him. He honestly does go above and beyond to take care of me."

  I get up and start for the washroom, mumbling, "He most certainly does."

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I just need some Advil.”

  “You’re not actually feeling threatened by Xavier.”

  “Obviously not,” I say, turning back to her. “But you have to admit, he doesn’t know where the line is. His job is to protect you, not nag you about your health and buy you maternity magazines and...and...play with your nieces and nephews and talk gardening with your parents. He’s even got himself an invite to the table for Sunday suppers, for God’s sake.”

  Tessa’s eyebrows lower in confusion. “My mum’s the one who insisted on that, and as you know fro
m personal experience, my parents are awfully hard to say no to. And if you’ll recall, you and I have been more than willing to let him help babysit the kids so we can duck out and fool around from time to time.”

  An image of us fooling around distracts me from my irritation for a brief second. Oh dear, I am sex-starved, aren’t I? I shake my head a little, trying to focus on the matter at hand.

  “Yes, I’ll agree he’s very helpful, but he’s not being paid to be helpful. He’s paid—and very well at that—to know his place.”

  “To know his place?” she says in a snooty tone.

  “Yes, actually. As much as you make fun of the need for any type of hierarchy, it’s there for a reason. If the security team starts getting too attached, they compromise their ability to be effective in a crisis. Haven’t you seen The Bodyguard, with Whitney Houston and what’s-his-name?”

  “Kevin Costner,” she says, standing and pulling on her robe. “Did you see it? Because in the end he saves her life from the hit man her awful sister hired. And in that movie, he was in love with her. Xavier’s not in love with me. He’s like a really naggy older sister, if anything.”

  “You’re making my point for me. He’s completely unaware of his job.”

  Tessa rolls her eyes and crosses her hands over her belly. “I’ve never doubted my safety with him, and I don’t think you should either. So, he didn’t notice that one of those women was recording the conversation yesterday? It’s an honest mistake. It probably looked like she was reading on her phone or looking at her Instagram feed from his angle. So if you’re going to lay blame, lay it where it belongs, at my feet!”

  Looking down at her swollen feet, I realize there is absolutely no way I’m laying anything at them, let alone blame. “No need because I’m not angry.”

  “You most certainly are. You’re angry at your father. You’re angry at Xavier.”

  “Yes, but they both deserve it.”

  “Then so do I.” She walks out of the room, presumably to get some breakfast, leaving me to dress.