The Royal Delivery

by Melanie Summers

  “She’s fine. As you’ve pointed out to me on many an occasion, she’s a very strong woman.”

  “Not in this case. That was awful. She’ll be feeling very bad about herself by now and will need her loving husband by her side now.”

  “In that case, I should take your advice and get going.”

  Holding her glass up to me, Gran says, “In a second. I also wanted to check on you and see how you're managing. If I remember correctly, most men start to feel a good deal of self-pity right around the middle of the second trimester." Her pinky goes up as she tips her drink back, making her look every bit the regal lady she is. So, the next thing she says should be a shock, but knowing her the way I do, I'm not the least surprised. "You're probably getting sexually frustrated. And in your case, you've got a lot of other stresses surrounding the birth most men don't have to deal with."

  I let out a sigh of relief, finally finding someone with whom I can speak openly. I'm just about to unburden myself when she holds up one finger and stops me.

  "I didn't come so you could complain. I'm sure you have quite the sob story built up in your mind already, but it will do you no good to dwell on any of it. Now, I'm going to give you a little insider’s information that should help you with some of your—ahem—marital problems. You can thank me later.”

  She pours another ‘sip’, which, when added to the first one, is a full drink for a woman who has given up drinking. “Tessa is under an enormous amount of pressure. She is expected to carry a child without ever gaining weight, complaining, swelling up, feeling sick, or having any difficulty whatsoever with labour pains.

  “And as you know, the media has been rather unkind to her in this regard. So your job is to bring your husband A game. You need to romance the hell out of her—expecting nothing to come of it, mind you. She needs someone to make her feel beautiful, and that someone had better bloody well be you. God knows her mother won’t be any help at all. The woman is nothing short of nasty when it comes to her daughter. It's appalling, really. I've done my best to compliment Tessa and assure her that she looks perfectly lovely, which obviously she doesn't, but she needs to hear it from you. Every day, over and over, until those babies are born and she starts the long and arduous journey to get her figure back—which in her case will likely include surgical assistance.”

  “Surgery? Do you really—?”

  “Most definitely.” She sets the glass down and starts for the door. “All right, I should go. My poker game’s about to start. Chin up. Man up. Be a good husband.”

  And with that, she’s gone.

  WHEN I WALK THROUGH the front door, I know immediately that Tessa’s gone to bed already. My first clue is that all the lights are off. The second is the incredibly loud snoring coming from the far end of our apartment. I mean, seriously, every night it seems to increase in volume. I’m a little scared that by the time the babies are born, she’ll have lifted the roof off the palace like Fred Flintstone. But that little comparison stays between us. It would hurt Tessa terribly—she doesn’t even know she snores actually. And she certainly doesn’t know how much worse it’s gotten in the past few weeks.

  I’m a little crestfallen that she’s asleep already because I have to leave for Geneva before six tomorrow morning and I had really hoped to undo some of the damage Veronica Platt did today before getting on a plane. I hate the idea of having to leave her here, especially since she’s likely feeling less than beautiful.

  Grabbing a sheet of paper, I sit at the kitchen table and write her a note:

  Dearest Tessa,

  In case you’re still asleep when I leave for Switzerland, I wanted you to wake to written proof of how exceptionally perfect you are. I hate like hell that I have to leave you at all, even if it’s only for three days. You have no idea how hollow my days are without you by my side. They’re not only dull, but lonely.

  I’m sorry that my life causes you to have to go through things like that horrible interview. If I could hide you away from any criticism for the rest of our lives, I’d do it. But since I can’t, please let me compliment you on how beautifully you handled yourself under such scrutiny (very Grace Kelly).

  Anyway, just in case you forget, you’re by far the most attractive woman I’ve ever met. Each day (and this is true, so don’t question it), I am increasingly under your spell. Seeing you grow into motherhood has only solidified my love for you. You are becoming quite the MILF (no pressure, of course, but just thought you’d like to know how badly I want you).

  Can’t wait for our weekend away together.

  All my love and affection,

  Arthur

  TWENTY-ONE

  Black Wool Socks Paired with Paper Gowns

  Tessa - 23 Weeks

  Arthur: I have seven minutes to myself. Baby Name Brainstorming time?

  Tessa: I’m in! BTW, I got your note this morning. Swoon-worthy stuff and just what I needed. Thank you. How’s Geneva?

  Arthur: You’re most welcome - all true. Geneva as a name or the place?

  Tessa: Place, silly. I want to know how you are.

  Arthur: I’m fine. It’s boring as all hell though and people keep offering me cheese with holes in it for some reason.

  Tessa: LOL. Tell them you’ll eat it if they put it back together first.

  Arthur: Exactly. It can’t be sanitary like that. I mean, who put the holes in it? Who, Tessa?

  Tessa: Truly one of life’s greatest mysteries. How about James for a boy, and Alice for a girl?

  Arthur: James is good—solid name, traditional. I went out with an Alice once. Nice girl. Not too bright.

  Tessa: So, no to Alice but I’ll add James to the list of potentials.

  Arthur: How about Delilah?

  Tessa: Are you even trying?

  Arthur: What? Delilah’s nice. Isn’t it?

  Tessa: Rhymes with too many things.

  Arthur: Like what, exactly?

  Tessa: Defile yah, Compile yah...I could go on.

  Arthur: If you don’t like it, just say so. No need to make up rhymes.

  Tessa: Yes, there is. It’s more fun to reject via rhyme.

  Arthur: But I’m down to three minutes now.

  Tessa: Peter for a boy?

  Arthur: No names that are also pseudonyms for a penis.

  Tessa: Fair point. So that rules out Richard and Johnson.

  Arthur: Were we ever going to consider Johnson?

  Tessa: I suppose not. We should take Randy off the list, too. No little hornball heirs.

  Arthur: What if they take after me?

  Tessa: Then may God help us. Alexander?

  Arthur: Went to school with an Alexander. Total whiner - told everyone I hit him with a cricket bat and bloodied his nose.

  Tessa: Did you?

  Arthur: Yes, but he didn’t have to tell on me. I didn’t mean to hit him that hard and I ended up having to scrub the gym floor after school every day for a week.

  Tessa: So, no Alexander, even though it’s a perfectly good name.

  Arthur: Exactly. One minute. Oliver?

  Tessa: The Simpsons ruined it for me - Oliver Clothes Off.

  Arthur: This is trickier than I thought it would be.

  Tessa: We’ve literally only been at it for six minutes and we already have one contender.

  Arthur: What?

  Tessa: James, remember?

  Arthur: Oh right. But if I already forgot, maybe it’s not such a memorable name.

  Tessa: So you want memorable, like say, Moon Unit or Pilot Inspecktor?

  Arthur: Now you’re talking. Let’s go with something so awful it shocks the world. Gotta run. Love you!

  I'M LYING ON THE EXAM table in Dr. Dropp's office. I've left my black wool socks on, not because I want them there, but because the struggle to get them off and back on again is somewhat humiliating even when I'm alone. Xavier, who’s come across some information about women having trouble with this at this stage of pregnancy, offers to do the job for me most days, but
I decline, saying it's good for me to put on my own socks to stay limber. The truth is, I have no idea what's going on in my toe region, so there's no way I'm allowing my bodyguard down there. I can't be sure, but I took a photo of my feet with my mobile phone yesterday, and when I zoomed in, I'm almost positive there are some hairs sprouting on the tops of my toes, which means I really am going full Frodo.

  I’m rather stressed at the moment, actually, and I’m not sure if it’s just hormones or the fact that I barely see my husband or that I’m terrified of being a mum, but whatever it is that’s bothering me, I’m a mess. Dr. Dropp walks in and goes straight to washing her hands while I mentally prepare myself for another humiliating update on my weight and measurements.

  "I saw your interview the other day."

  "Oh, that. I was hoping you were one of the very few people who hadn’t witnessed that delightful moment in my life."

  Walking over to me, she rubs her hands together for a moment to warm them up, then presses them to my belly, starting her exam. "It got me thinking about how difficult having a pregnancy under a microscope must be. It's hard enough for most women going through all of these changes—especially the first time around—but in your case, I can't even imagine the pressure."

  Tears prick my eyes, and I nod. Before I know it, I'm spilling everything to my doctor, telling her about the lobby groups vying for my endorsement, Veronica’s long legs, Brooke’s perfect pregnancy nonsense, about being the Cowntess of Camembert, and turning into a Hobbit. I talk and talk and even cry a little as I ramble on about my fear of beautiful, young nannies, and my husband's busy schedule, the nursery that isn't finished, and my fear of screwing up so badly that my children end up the first royal children to have to be apprehended by Child Protection Services. I end my monologue with the fact that no matter what I do, I'm pretty sure I'll never be a beloved member of the royal family, at least not as far as the upper-crust is concerned.

  Dr. Dropp nods sympathetically, then says, "I think you're right there.”

  Crap. That’s not what I wanted to hear.

  “There really isn’t much a person can do to change how others see you, not if they’ve made up their minds already,” she says. “In the end, I think it may be best to put your focus into being a good person, being a good mum—not a perfect one, mind you, that doesn't exist—but a good enough mum. The more you focus on helping others, the less any of this will matter to you, which in the end I think is all you can hope for, isn't it?"

  I wipe the tears from my cheeks, nodding quickly in agreement. This is like one of those Oprah Ah-hah! moments. “I suppose so. It's pretty much the only thing I haven't tried to impress people. I should've taken your advice about the eating, though. Maybe become a spokesperson for the Avonian Healthy Pregnancy Foundation instead of going the opposite way with things."

  Dr. Dropp wrinkles her nose up in disgust. "God, no. Join that ridiculous group of mummy bullies who thrive on making others feel inadequate?"

  I laugh, feeling a little bit shocked at her opinion on the matter.

  “I only mention your weight so you would have all the facts. I'm not worried about your weight gain, and no one else should be either. To be honest, in the past forty years I think women have gone the wrong direction when it comes to pregnancy—and parenting, for that matter. Everybody's operating in such a high state of anxiety, terrified that everything they do will mess up the future generation forever. If you ask me—and I know you didn't—I'd say the one thing that's going to mess up today’s children is all this needless worrying."

  "Oh God. I've never thought of that. Now I need to worry about worrying," I say with a little grin.

  Dr. Dropp laughs and pats me on the arm. “I think that's the key right there. If you can keep your sense of humour about all of this, you and Arthur and your babies are going to do just fine."

  TWENTY-TWO

  Ill-advised Topics of Conversation

  Arthur

  Email from Lance Devonshire, Head Gardener, Valcourt Palace

  Dear Prince Arthur,

  I hope you won’t mind that I’m writing. I don’t mean any disrespect toward you, the rest of the royal family, or your in-laws. I do need to ask a favour, though. Would it be possible to ask your father-in-law to stop coming by to critique the staff’s work with regards to groundskeeping?

  If you’re unhappy with our work, we will endeavour to improve in any way you see fit. However, Mr. Sharpe has been by with some very strong opinions for us several times per week since he moved into the palace. Some of the staff are threatening to quit, should he keep it up.

  Please accept my deepest apologies for making the request. I know this puts you in an awkward position, but I felt it important to let you know that the situation has become quite dire. I’d hate to lose our very skilled, long-time employees over this.

  Yours in faith and servitude,

  Lance

  Oh, bugger.

  I’VE BEEN IN NEW YORK for exactly twenty-one hours, and I’m already wishing I were on the plane home. I still have another three days here, including the last remaining two hours in what has already been a very long and somewhat frustrating day at the U.N. Headquarters. I’m tired, lonely, and I miss my wife. I was barely home for two days from Switzerland when I had to leave again.

  How is it possible to miss someone this much? It’s like I’ve had a piece of my heart surgically removed, leaving a gaping hole. Oh, my, I am getting somewhat whiny, aren’t I?

  It’ll be evening for her, so I know she’ll be trying to stay awake whilst watching the telly right now. I excuse myself from the mind-numbing meeting, saying I’ll return in a few minutes. Hurrying down the hall, I find the well-appointed men’s room and have a seat on the white leather couch. Pulling my mobile out of my pocket, I text her: Still awake?

  Tessa: Just woke up from my pre-bedtime nap. How’s the Big Apple?

  Me: Lonely because you’re not here.

  Tessa: Aww. Poor Arthur. Are you looking forward to seeing Chaz tonight?

  Me: Yes, it’ll be nice to catch up, as long as his awful wife doesn’t decide to join us.

  Tessa: But it would make for better stories when you get home, I’m sure.

  Me: Well, if it would entertain you, then I’ll hope she shows up.

  Tessa: Oooh! If she does go, secretly record the dinner for me.

  Me: I’ll see what I can do. How’re you doing?

  Tessa: Good. Spent the afternoon with my parents while my dad painted the nursery.

  Me: Christ. How’d you survive that?

  Tessa: They were really great, actually. Very helpful and we even had a few laughs.

  Me: Don’t tell me you’re changing your mind about having them there because if you do, I might have to stay in NYC.

  Tessa: God, no. Don’t worry about that. What about Clara for a girl?

  Me: Hmm. Never dated a Clara. Throw it on the list.

  AS SOON AS I FINISH up at the U.N. for the day, I hop in the back of the Escalade rental and head for dinner with my old schoolmate/best friend, Chaz Williams. He fell in love with an American supermodel/tyrant, married her, then moved to New York several years ago. His wife and Tessa couldn’t be more different. Not the gorgeous part—Tessa’s obviously very beautiful—but as far as Chaz’s wife is a total nightmare and Tessa’s basically perfect.

  But enough about Janica. Chaz and I rarely see each other anymore, so as the limo crawls through Manhattan rush hour, I’m starting to feel rather excited (especially because he texted that his wife has to stay home because the nanny forgot she was supposed to stay late and has to go work her second job. Hmm...how much aren’t they paying her for her to require two jobs?)

  Anyway, Chaz is my only friend who is married with children, so I’m hoping to get a little advice from him about the whole sex after children thing. I figure if I take what he says, then multiply by twenty, that's likely going to give me an accurate portrait of my future (on account of the fact that my wife is
twenty times better than his, give or take).

  Ollie and I step into The Century Club, a very posh gentlemen-only establishment (not to be confused with a gentleman’s club, in which strippers twirl around poles). The smell of cigars, leather, and cognac fills my nose. A young woman in a black dress offers to take our jackets, but we both decline. Looking past her, I see Chaz standing at the bar, talking up the female bartender, who looks thoroughly bored. Poor Chaz—charisma never was his strong suit. He spots me out of the corner of his eye and hurries to greet me. We exchange man-hugs, then have a couple of scotches at the bar whilst we wait for our table.

  Once we’re seated and we’ve ordered the surf ‘n turf—a real man’s meal, as the server put it—I decide to approach the topic of marital relations. “So, Chaz, how’s married life?”

  "Pretty decent, for a change of pace. Janica wants a mummy lift, so she has been extra nice to me lately, if you get my drift."

  "Well, good for you." No, not good for him. He should leave the dragon lady as soon as possible and take the children with him.

  "How are you managing?”

  “Oh, great. Excellent. Couldn’t be better. Very excited. Thrilled to be having two babies instead of just the one. It’s really most...efficient.”

  “Brilliant, really. Was that planned, then?”

  “Christ, no. Total surprise.”

  “And how is Tessa feeling?”

  “She’s a real trooper, that one. Bearing all of it with grace and composure, as she does everything.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “I do have one question for you, actually. As my closest friend and someone who’s been through this all before...”

  “Happy to help however I can,” he says, signaling the server for another round of scotches.

  “Thanks. You’re a true friend. So, um, it’s about the umm, marital relations bit, to be honest. I’m not complaining, mind you. I don’t want you to get me wrong. I’m very happy, indeed, overall...”