"The princess should really stay off her feet," he says with a smile that reduces them to a group of middle-aged, giggly teenagers.
They proceed to snap photographs of every bit of my office, including Xavier and me, much to my delight. My mum's cousin Rose is among them, and she greets me coolly, still having not forgiven me for how I treated my mother at my bridal shower over a year and a half ago.
"So, Tessa, will you be having a fancy baby shower, then?"
"No, I don’t...”
“Because if you are, you should probably be clear about the whole game situation ahead of time to avoid any embarrassing mishaps.”
“Sure, yeah. That...makes sense.” Except I was clear, and my mother ignored me completely.
My mum floats across the room to the window, calling over her shoulder, "Oh Rose, you know Tessa. She wants nothing to do with a baby shower. She's gone and chosen a charity again in lieu of gifts."
I open my mouth to justify my decision but then realize there's really no point as the amount of tsking sounds in the room will prevent anyone from hearing what I have to say anyhow. The group quickly forgets about my unreasonable stance on showering me with gifts in favour of comparing the view from my office with that of my mum and dad's living room window.
"Oh yes, Evi. You’re right. You can see the Parliament from here."
"This is much smaller than Arthur's office, though, isn't it?"
I gasp. "Mum, you didn't take the group over to Arthur's office, did you?"
"Well, of course I did. I can't have the ladies by without seeing the star of the show, now can I? But don't worry, he wasn't in with the Prime Minister of Ireland or anything like that." She laughs as though I'm positively ridiculous to be worried about such things, even though earlier this morning he was literally in a meeting with the Prime Minister of Ireland.
Vincent stands and manages to take control of the situation without seeming the slightest bit rude, a skill I don't know if you can be taught or must acquire genetically. "Ladies, have you had a chance to look at the throne room? If not, I'll have someone take you down there straightaway. This really is the most spectacular time of day to get photos of it, with the sun shining high above the glass-domed ceiling."
“Can we sit on it?” Rose asks.
“Er, no. I’m afraid not,” Vincent says.
We watch as they quickly file out of the room, wishing me farewell and good luck with the babies. Just before Vincent shuts the door behind them, my mum pokes her head back in the room. “Oh, Tessa, you haven’t seen Mr. Whiskers, have you? He seems to have gotten out, and we can’t find him anywhere.”
“No,” I say, my stomach tightening with dread. “You can’t let him out, Mum. He could cause a lot of damage.”
“Oh, relax, Tess. You’ll get wrinkles. Besides, Mr. Whiskers has really mellowed. He hasn’t ruined so much as a piece of tissue in weeks.”
I give her a pleading look. “Mum, please just keep him in your suite.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do, but I can’t seem to find him.”
With that, she disappears, leaving me with my shoulders dropped. Vincent closes the door, then gives me a reassuring look. “I’ll put the word out for the entire staff to keep an eye out for him.”
“Thank you. And thanks for...redirecting my mum’s friends.”
“Of course, Your Highness. My pleasure.” Turning to Dylan, Vincent says, “I’m afraid that’s all the time the princess has today. We’ll definitely give your Prezi some consideration and get back to you by the week’s end.”
Dylan opens her mouth to speak, but Vincent cuts her off. “Thank you, Ms. Sinclair. That will be all.”
As soon as she leaves, I say, “You’re like a magician, able to make irritating people disappear.”
“But not without a trace, unfortunately.” Vincent grins a little, then returns to his usual serious self. “No need to give this baby sweepstakes idea another thought. I’ll put a stop to it.”
“Thank you. She’s hard to say no to.”
“That’s because she never stops talking.”
TEXT FROM MUM: Tess, it’s your mum. Funny story—turns out Mr. Whiskers was in our apartment the whole time. He was just trapped in the linen closet. Poor thing had to shred up some pillow cases to use as a litterbox. Do you know where the palace buys the bedding? Or do you think we have to replace them at all? Your father is saying it can come out of all the tax money we pay, but I’m not so sure.
IT'S LATE SUNDAY MORNING, and I've been sitting on the side of the bathtub for about fifteen minutes now, post-shower. Things went off the rails this morning while Arthur and I were having a bit of a lie in after having eaten breakfast in bed (eggs Benedict with a side of fruit. Okay, he had the side of fruit, and I had a side of bacon, but I am eating for three now, so...).
Anyway, I know I'm hormonal, no need to tell me that, especially if you’re married to me. Arthur lay on top of the sheets with his very tight abs on display while he flipped channels on the telly. I have to mention, I normally find those abs quite pleasing, but since my own body is morphing at an alarming rate, I now find those well-defined muscles to be the bane of my existence.
Before you sarcastically say, “Oh, Tessa, I feel so sorry for you having such a hot husband,” please hear me out. It hardly seems fair that he should keep his perfect body, his brain isn't shrinking, and he doesn't have to face the barrage of incredibly irritating things that people say and do to you when you're pregnant, and yet we’ll both end up sharing the children when this is all said and done. So somehow, those rock-hard abs have become a sign of the great disparity between men and women, with us poor women getting the shit end of the stick.
But I digress. Back to the fight. Arthur was watching the news while I was looking online for cribs on my laptop. I found one I thought would be suitable, and by that I mean apparently doesn't give off toxic VOC emissions, is made from solid wood, has the slats appropriately close together so that the babies won’t get their little heads stuck, and is adjustable, turning into a toddler bed when the baby becomes a toddler, thus allowing us to save money. (I’m nothing if not a very practical princess).
While I was doing this, Veronica Platt and Nigel Wood (that horrid fashion critic who loves to tear me apart) were doing a segment on fitness apparel. Veronica was modeling the latest from Kate Hudson's Fabletics line.
I tried to show the crib to Arthur, but he has apparently become enthralled with ladies’ yoga pants and couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen. In fact, he held his hand up to me and said, “Hang on a second. I'm trying to watch this."
To which I replied, "Really? Are you planning to buy a pair of Fabletics pants for yourself? Or is it just the sight of her long, gorgeous legs that has you riveted?"
"Oh, you noticed them as well?" he asked with a surprised smile.
His smile faded the instant he noticed the look on my face, but by then, it was too late. We ended up getting into a most spectacular row about her legs, which then took a detour down “you probably wish we were hiring a sexy, young nanny” road and ended with me in tears in the shower.
Possibly the worst part is that Arthur seemed to think I was setting some type of trap for him, using Veronica's sleek, sexy gams as bait. This could not be further from the truth since I'm not the one who turned the TV on in the first place, and all I was trying to do is shop for furniture for our unborn babies. It's not my fault he was drooling like that dad from A Christmas Story who won the leg lamp.
So now, I’ve been torturing myself with a thorough examination of my changing body and doing my very best to make peace with it in an effort not to allow the dejection I’m feeling to take over. After all, pregnancy is not only the most natural thing in the world, but it is quite beautiful. It just seems like so much beautiful, if you know what I mean.
The other day, I saw a very sexy photo of Victoria Beckham pregnant, sitting on her husband's lap, her tiny legs splayed out in a ballet pose with her
big baby bump on display. I imagined me and Arthur posing like that, but even imagining it made me cringe. My legs are not tiny little dainty sticks that jut out from under my belly like Victoria’s. Not even close. They’re puffy and bloated, like the rest of me. It's like my entire body, including my face, has become pregnant. If I look really closely at my hair, I’m certain the hair follicles are farther apart than they were a few weeks ago. Can the top of your head gain weight?
Oh, screw it, Tessa. Just get on with your day. I close my robe, knotting the sash, then set to work rubbing cream on my face and elbows. I don't really want to leave this bathroom because I have a sneaking suspicion my next conversation with my husband will include words I really don't want to hear, like hormones and overreacting. And those words would be accurate, wouldn't they?
Last year, had Arthur and I been in the same situation, I would've given him a light smack on the arm to get his attention, and then we would've had a bit of a laugh about it. But the truth is, right now I may be taking things very personally, and it’s possible that I go from happy to rage-y in zero-point-six seconds flat. Then later, I feel rather embarrassed at my reactions.
On Friday, for example, Gillian brought me my morning scones to my desk, and they turned out to be cinnamon raisin, when I had been fantasizing about white chocolate raspberry scones since breakfast. This is not normally something that would reduce me to tears, but I'm afraid in this situation it did. Lucky for me, Gillian has had three children herself, so when I burst into sobs, she just patted my hand and said, "Good, love. This just shows you've got the right amount of hormones at this point in your pregnancy."
"Does that mean you'll order me some raspberry white chocolate scones?"
"Oh, heavens no. Feeding you more than three scones a day would be reckless. How about I’ll have them for you tomorrow?"
The whole thing was humiliating on so many levels. I mean, honestly, crying over scones? Hmm...now that I think about it, I’m getting hungry again, which makes sense because it is almost eleven and I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I suppose I’ll have to leave the bathroom if I’m going to eat again.
Oh God, I really am turning into a Hobbit, aren’t I? If I could get close enough to the tops of my feet, I’d be checking them for hair.
A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts, and Arthur's muffled voice makes its way through the wood slab. "Tessa, are you planning to spend all day hiding from me? Because I’d really like us to have a nice Sunday together, and we can't very well do that if you're locked in the bathroom."
I sigh heavily, then force myself to open the door and be a grownup. When I look at Arthur, I see that he's wearing an expression of remorse. He reaches out and rubs my upper arms with both hands and says, "I'm sorry. I was being a complete arse earlier."
"Yes, you were." I give him a slight smile to assure him that I've calmed down some.
“It's just that sometimes, I forget that you are not only my friend to whom I can tell anything, you're also my very beautiful wife. In that moment earlier, I forgot who I was talking to."
"Yes, that's because you were distracted by Veronica Platt’s gorgeous legs in tight workout pants."
"They're not that gorgeous. And honestly, I was really more fascinated with how Kate Hudson manages to make those pants and sell them at such low prices."
I let out a small laugh, then say, "Idiot."
Arthur pulls me into his arms, “I’m your idiot.
"While we’re making admissions, I may be slightly under the influence of pregnancy hormones at the moment, which may or may not cause me to have more...robust reactions to things than normal."
"Really? I hadn't noticed at all. I'll have to keep that in mind over the next few weeks so as not to upset you unnecessarily."
“That might be wise.”
“I thought we could have a Sunday do-over. I’ve ordered crepes for elevenses. Why don’t you show me these cribs, and then we can talk prams while we eat?”
NINETEEN
The Cowntess of Camembert
Tessa - 20 Weeks
Today is the kickoff of the week I’ve been dreading since the first week of September last year. It’s the third annual welcoming of the media (inadvertently started by me during my Royal Watchdog days). This is the week in which Valcourt Palace opens the doors and the books for journalists from around the globe who have an interest in ‘getting the inside scoop’ on Avonian royal life. In principle, it’s a wonderful concept—it allows the citizens of the kingdom the opportunity to get to know their royal family, as well as to have an in-depth and transparent look into how their taxes are used and what the family does for Avonians and the realms. Yet, I still wish we could stop doing it.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. ‘Tessa, how could you dread something you used to champion day and night? A little hypocritical, no?’
Well, yes and no. The reason for my uneasiness has nothing to do with wanting to be more private and everything to do with my inability to withstand this sort of scrutiny without effing up completely; oh, I remembered to say ‘effing’ instead of ‘fucking’. Yay, me! I’m really getting better at the not swearing...oh, although I did just say ‘fuck’ in a congratulatory way. Shit...oh, bollocks, there I go again.
Anyway, back to the dread. Yesterday, some arse over at The Daily Sun Times dubbed me the “Cowntess of Camembert” in response to that awful salon video of me. Countess with a ‘w’.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Very clever.
They really went all out in their cruel description, putting side-by-side photos of me next to Kate, who is due any day now and looks as svelte as ever. The caption under the photos reads, “Their Princess. Our Princess. Really Arthur?”
Yeah, so that stung. I’m not going to lie—I may have shed a tear or two. Or five hundred over a bucket of Choco Loco ice cream.
Anyway, we’ll be taking this opportunity to announce that the reason I look like a ‘Cowntess’ is that it’s a two-for-one special here in Tessa’s womb. Hopefully, that will shut them all up. I doubt it, though.
I’m now putting the finishing touches on my hair and makeup before I go to the Gold Drawing Room for an interview with the gorgeous and smooth-voiced Veronica Platt. I’ve got on a medium grey suit with a pencil skirt and jacket, paired with a light pink silk dress shirt. My hair is down, framing my new chubby cheeks. My mobile rings, and I glance down to see it’s Nikki.
Swiping the screen, I say, “What’s up, Nikki?”
“Just wanted to wish you good luck for the interview.”
“Why would I need luck? I’m going to rock it, like I do every other social occasion—with dignity and decorum.”
We both laugh for a few seconds, then I stop when I realize how sad that is.
Nikki stops about half a minute after me, then says, “No, but seriously. I figured you might need a little pep talk since you and Arthur had that fight about Veronica’s legs.”
“Well, I’d forgotten about that, but I suppose I could use a bit of an ego boost, since I have to peer over my ever-expanding belly to even see my shins.”
“Thought so. Remember, this belly thing is just temporary. It’s going to get really big, but then we can zip off to Costa Rica for a tuck when you’re all done having babies. I thought you could bring me as your caregiver. Plus, I’d like to have some lipo under my chin. I’m getting serious ‘tech neck.’”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that, but I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Good stuff. Now, back to Veronica. I know she’s hot and never seems to get fazed no matter what happens, but don’t let that fool you. Underneath it all, she’s seething with jealousy that you bagged Arthur and she didn’t.”
She’s not wrong about that. Veronica hates my guts. The closest thing to a smile I’ve ever gotten from her is a sneer. Plus, she does stare longingly at Arthur when she thinks no one is looking. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had an Arthur collage wall at home in her bedroom. Creepy bitch.
“Good point
, Nik. Thanks.”
“Just hold Arthur’s hand through the interview and try to say as little as possible.”
“Wow. Those are the exact words Dylan the PR genius said yesterday when we had our prep meeting,” I say, feeling more than a little annoyed. “Am I really that bad at talking to the press?”
Nikki dodges my question altogether, coming back with, “You’re going to do great today, Tess. I can feel it.”
There’s a knock at the door, and I glance at the clock, realizing it’s time for me to get going and I’m still lipstick-less. “Gotta run, Nikki. They’re calling for me.”
“Okay, remember, you’re an amazing woman, and you’ve got loads of people who love you—including Arthur, who may lust after Veronica’s legs but loves your whole body, or will again very soon after the babies are born.”
“Thanks.”
I hang up and call out, “Come in.”
The door to the apartment swings open, and my mum walks in. “Hello, Twinkle. Don’t you look lovely! I came to check on you before the big interview.”
She sweeps across the room in her new, ‘I live at the palace so I better look like a debutante on the night of her cotillion’ way. She’s been doing this for weeks now, walking with her arms down at her sides, palms down and pointed out like a Barbie doll with a look of serenity on her face. It’s just awful to watch. I almost want to invite my brothers here so they can make fun of her until she stops, but then I’d have to put up with them making fun of me, so I can’t bring myself to make the call.
“That’s a beautiful suit you’re wearing. Really hides your pregnancy weight...well, mostly.” She gives me another once-over, and I find myself fidgeting with my eyelash curler. “I was thinking you should try to draw the attention up to your face. Maybe some bright red lipstick, or a very sparkly necklace and a tiara.”
The Royal Delivery Page 15
