Royal Wedding: A Princess Diaries Novel (The Princess Diaries Book 11)

by Meg Cabot

  “He’s a masseur? Oh, how—”

  “No, no, not the massage! The ancient art of Reiki, laying on of hands. Only the hands, they never touch you.”

  I was confused. “If they never touch you, then how do they heal anything?”

  “The flow of energy from the universe! And for you, Principessa, Stefano do it for free. But of course after first half hour, it’s two hundred dollars for every thirty minutes.”

  “Um,” I said.

  Of course sweet Paolo has fallen in love with some guy who’s convinced he can cure people’s problems by waving his hands over them and channeling the flow of energy from the universe.

  But if anyone could actually do that, wouldn’t all of life’s ills have been solved already?

  I said, plastering on my fake smile, “Thank you, Paolo, that’s so kind of you, but I don’t think I have time right now. Maybe another day, all right?”

  Paolo looked disappointed. I know he’s probably been fantasizing about having his current boyfriend magically restore balance to my universe, and then me raving about it to the press. Then the two of them could open some new spa—Paolo and Stefano’s Universal Beauty and Wellness. If we can cure royalty, we can cure you!

  But I think it’s going to take more than one pair of healing hands to find the balance in my universe.

  CHAPTER 8

  11:36 p.m., Thursday, April 30

  Third-Floor Apartment

  Consulate General of Genovia

  New York City

  Ugh. So glad that’s over. At least I looked good. Paolo is a true artist of hair.

  I couldn’t tell Lilly the truth about why I didn’t want her or Michael around tonight. It wasn’t that I was afraid of them getting oranges thrown at them (no oranges were thrown; everyone behaved with perfect decorum when Grandmère and I went out to greet our guests. Except for the booing).

  It isn’t even that the security system is still glitchy and that I’m afraid Michael will get caught entering the building in the wee hours and we’ll get more bad press.

  It’s that Genovians are snobs.

  That’s why they don’t want the Qalifi refugees to be given Genovian citizenship, even temporary Genovian citizenship. They barely think I’m good enough to have Genovian citizenship.

  My eye was twitching like crazy the entire time (when my jaw wasn’t aching from fake smiling), but I don’t think anyone except Grandmère noticed.

  Of course, even though I overheard half of them making catty remarks about the fact that I’m a “commoner” and, even worse, an American (but of course the other half of me is royal, so to them that makes up for it), they were falling over themselves in an effort to get selfies taken with me (and the portrait of my dad in the Grand Hallway, since he didn’t show up—probably a good thing, given his current state of near-constant inebriation).

  Now they’ll be busy posting their pics to their social media accounts, saying what a fantastic time they had.

  Since Michael wasn’t there, several of them asked me with fake concern if “everything is all right” between the two of us. I could tell they were hoping things were not all right and that we’d broken up, so then I could date one of their half-wit chinless sons (who would then become prince consort and father to the future heir to the throne).

  “No,” I said, with my big fake smile. “Michael’s fine. Just working late tonight.”

  “Oh,” they said, giving me smiles that were every bit as phony as mine. “He works? How wonderful.” (You could tell they didn’t think this was wonderful.)

  But has Cousin Ivan (who insists on everyone calling him Count Renaldo, even though he isn’t a Renaldo and that isn’t even a correct title, which I can’t believe I know, but that is what over a decade of etiquette lessons from your grandmother, the dowager princess, will do to you) ever invented a robotic surgical arm that helped save the life of a suffering child?

  No. No, he has not.

  All Cousin Ivan does is manage the properties his father purchased ages ago, and by “manage” I mean raise the rents so ridiculously high that decent, hardworking Genovians can no longer afford them, which is why there is no longer a single bookstore in all of Genovia.

  But when I pointed this out (politely) tonight to one of the count’s supporters, he said, “Books? No one reads books anymore! Look at all the tourism that guy’s bringing in with his T-shirt shops and bars. Have you ever been to Crazy Ivan’s? That place is the bomb. It has a bar that’s topless only! Everyone who comes in—male or female—has to take their top off. It’s mandatory!”

  I said I have never been to Crazy Ivan’s, but I certainly do not want to go there now.

  That’s when Grandmère took me aside and told me I was being rude.

  “I’m being rude?” I demanded. “I’m an adult, for God’s sake—nearly twenty-six years old, the age at which neuroscientists have determined most people’s cognitive development is fully matured. I can say I do not want to go to a bar where shirtlessness is mandatory if I don’t want to, and I can especially say it while I’m standing here on American soil.”

  (It’s a common misconception that consulates and embassies sit upon “the soil” of the country they represent. So in all those episodes of Law & Order where Detectives Briscoe et al arrest foreign diplomats who then claim immunity because they’re on “Flockistan soil”? They can’t.)

  So then Grandmère dragged me into the drawing room—she has a pretty strong grip for such an old lady, although of course no one knows how old she is since she won’t tell anyone and she had all copies of her birth certificate destroyed, which you can do if you’re the dowager princess—and said, “You will be civil when speaking about your cousin Ivan and his businesses.”

  I said, “I don’t see why, all the plans he has for Genovia are only going to ruin the place if he wins. Why are we even having these people to dinner? They’re obviously his friends. Or, I should say, spies.”

  Then Grandmère leaned in and hissed, “They’re Genovian citizens, and this is the Genovian consulate, and it will always be open to them. Besides, keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”

  I was appalled. “Are you actually quoting from The Godfather?”

  “What if I am?” She exhaled a plume of vapor from her e-cigarette—which, thank God, she’s switched to, none of us could take the Gitanes anymore. “Really, Amelia, you’re slipping. And after everything I taught you, too. I suppose you’re letting this nonsense about your father’s arrest get to you. What is wrong with your eye?”

  I flung a hand over it. “Nothing.”

  “Straighten up. You look like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame. And there was no happy ending for him, you know, like there was in the insipid Disney version, which I suppose you adore. Quasimodo lies down in the tomb with Esmeralda—who also dies—and perishes of a broken heart. That’s real literature, none of this maudlin pap you love so much. That’s the problem with your generation, Amelia. You all want happy endings.”

  I was so stunned I think my eye stopped twitching momentarily.

  “We don’t, actually,” I said. “We want endings that leave us with a sense of hope, possibly because the world we’re living in seems to be falling apart right now. People can’t find work to support their families in their own countries, but then when they try to immigrate to countries where they can, they’re either enslaved—like in Qalif—or stopped at the border and told they aren’t welcome, like in Genovia. And you’re inviting the people who are telling them that to dinner! What kind of message is that sending to the populace?”

  Her drawn-on eyebrows shot up so high I thought they might cause her tiara to go flying off. Grandmère is old school and still believes in dressing in her evening best for dinner. It’s probably what makes her so popular (with the yacht-club and racehorse set).

  “It’s not the message I care about,” she said dramatically, “it’s the populace itself. Ivan Renaldo is very likely going to be this country’s new p
rime minister, Amelia, thanks to your father’s most recent exploits, so we’d do well to position ourselves as his allies now. Although I do blame myself for all this . . . do you have any idea why he dislikes us—especially your poor father—so?”

  “No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

  “His grandfather—Count Igor—was very much in love with me, and took it very hard indeed when I chose to marry your grandfather instead.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course. Why didn’t I figure it out sooner?”

  According to Grandmère, there are approximately three thousand men who were once very much in love with her, and took it very hard indeed when she chose to marry the Prince of Genovia, instead. They’ve all taken their revenge against her in various ways, including but not limited to:

  1. Writing books about her.

  You might be surprised to know that most major works in modern literature are thinly disguised tributes to my grandmother, including everything written by Mailer, Vidal, and of course J. D. Salinger, even works written before she was old enough to have possibly known the authors. Of course Fitzgerald modeled Daisy in The Great Gatsby after Clarisse Renaldo.

  2. Competing against Genovia in every sport in every Olympics ever.

  You probably haven’t heard this, but every single athlete who has ever beat Genovia in any Olympic category (especially sailing and dressage, pretty much the only sports in which any Genovian athletes ever qualify) did so out of romantic spite against my grandmother.

  3. Sculpting or painting works of art featuring women.

  According to Grandmère, she inspired Picasso’s Cubist period by saying to him, “Darling, I think you’re quite talented, but you really ought to develop your own style,” which actually isn’t possible because it would mean she is over 127 years old. But when I informed her of this, she told me “not to be so obtuse.”

  “Really, Grandmère?” I said. “You think the reason Ivan Renaldo is campaigning against Dad is because he’s upset that you didn’t marry his grandfather?”

  “I know so,” Grandmère said. “Though of course you must never mention this to your father.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

  “Poor Igor spent night after night at Maxim’s, drinking Chambord out of one of my dancing slippers.”

  “Eww.” I made a face, not just because the guy was drinking out of one of my grandmother’s shoes, but because Chambord is a raspberry liqueur, and only tastes good when poured over vanilla ice cream. “Was he before or after the married Texas oil baron?”

  She ignored me. “Finally his parents had to come take him away. They tried to sober him up in time for his own wedding, but it was too late. Delirium tremens nearly took the poor boy off. But I’m sorry to be burdening you with all this, Amelia. This should be a very special time for you, so close to your birthday. You should be flitting from social engagement to social engagement and shopping for folderols, enjoying the companionship of your friends while you still can, before you have to settle down to the very hard work of providing the country with an heir. Let me worry about the governance of the monarchy. You worry about being young and having fun.”

  It was amazing how she was able to say all this, considering how much she’d had to drink—really, it’s a miracle of science she’s lived this long. Every other week, it seems, they announce the results of some new study warning that women who consume more than one alcoholic beverage a day increase their risk of cancer by quite a few percentage points.

  But Grandmère, who has at least six to eight drinks a day, plus smokes the equivalent of multiple packs of cigarettes (though it’s hard to tell with these new vapor ones), keeps going strong.

  My mother says it’s because she’s pickled.

  Still, Grandmère had a point about trying to get along with Cousin Ivan’s supporters instead of antagonizing them. It’s annoying how often my grandmother is right.

  “Okay, Grandmère,” I said. “I’ll play along with your little game. But Cousin Ivan isn’t going to win. We can still beat him. I know we can.”

  “I’d be quite interested to hear your strategy,” Grandmère said, blowing a long stream of orange-scented smoke (despite the claims of the vapor companies, I’m quite sure there is still nicotine in the “juice” Grandmère smokes). “Unless of course you’re planning to get yourself photographed with him in a compromising position. But I’m afraid that will only make him more popular, and forever cement your reputation as the Princess of Gen-HO-via.”

  This was a low blow, and disheartening to think that even my own grandmother thinks that the only way women can get ahead in this day and age is with their sexuality.

  I was so disgusted that I had no choice but to leave the dining room and go back to my own apartment and lie down with a cool cloth on my forehead and watch television (which is quite hard to do when your eye is twitching nonstop).

  CHAPTER 9

  12:01 a.m., Friday, May 1

  Third-Floor Apartment

  Consulate General of Genovia

  New York City

  Michael just texted.

  Michael Moscovitz “FPC”*: Wanted to be the first one to wish you a happy birthday. Wish I was there.

  *Future Prince Consort

  HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”: No you don’t. I can still hear them down there. They’re drinking shots and comparing Genovian Yacht Classic horror stories.

 
  HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”>

  What could turn the Genovian Yacht Classic into a horror story? Protesters?

  Worse. Computer programmers.

  The Chosen People? What have we done now?

  You came sweeping in with your advanced technology and won all the trophies and made them feel inferior.

  It’s not only our advanced technology that makes them feel inferior.

  Is sex really all men ever think about?

  Not always, sometimes we think about food. Why, is that not what women think about all the time?

  No, we think about it—and food—all the time, too, but more in a narrative context where the girl ends up being trapped in a secret room full of cake with a bed in the middle of it and then you come in dressed in full armor and go, “Put down that cake and prithee get naked.”

  Noted, though I’m not sure how the sex works with the armor. What was with going outside with your grandma in front of those protesters tonight?

  Oh, nothing.

  They weren’t throwing fruit over nothing.

  What are you wearing?

  Mia, I’m serious about this.

  I’m serious, too. The armor has a codpiece. I’ve researched it.

  We’re going to discuss this tomorrow.

  Couldn’t we discuss it now? I think I need a professional trained in extinguishing fires. Because there’s one going on in my pants.

  I meant we’re going to discuss the protesters.

  Before or after the show of shows, story of stories, sights of all sights?

  If by that you mean Cirque du Soleil, how would you feel if we skipped that particular tradition this year?

  Uh, Michael, you know Grandmère always pays extra for front-row VIP seats.

  What if I’ve come up with something better for us to do?

  What could be better than a dramatic mix of circus arts and street entertainment performed live under a large tent near New York City’s main jail complex? Except of course the aforementioned secret room filled with cake.

  You’ll find out tomorrow.

  Michael, you know I hate surprises, right?

  I think you’ll like this one.

  I can already guarantee I won’t unless it involves cake and armor.

  You really need to do something about that negativity. May I recommend a nice yoga/meditation retreat?

  That isn’t funny. Just reading the word meditate made my eyelid start twitching more.

  Good night! Sweet dreams . . .

&nb
sp; He added an emoji he’d made himself of a gorilla with hearts for eyes. Yes, in his spare time from work, my boyfriend designs emojis.

  I think I’m going to have to watch about three more episodes of NCIS before I’ll be able to calm down.

  I wish I were a special agent for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service Major Case Response Team and not the princess of a tiny principality on the Mediterranean. Then I could just save the country from terrorist threats over and over, and never have to hear about oranges (or Reiki, or meditation retreats) again.

  Three things for which I am grateful:

  • That I’ve got a TV with streaming Netflix.

  • Michael.

  • Tylenol PM. Seriously, I’m so sleepy right now, I think I’m . . .

  CHAPTER 10

  8:37 a.m., Friday, May 1

  Third-Floor Apartment

  Consulate General of Genovia

  New York City

  Woke up to 1,479 happy birthday posts, texts, e-mails, and voice mails, several of which are from people I actually know.

  This is what happens when you become a public figure. Total strangers wish you happiness on your birthday, which is very, very nice.

  But birthday wishes from people who know you (and still care about you, despite being aware of your character flaws) are even nicer.

  No sign yet of Michael’s “birthday surprise.”

  I’m going to try to be a less suspicious and cynical person now that I’m a year older and wiser, but I can’t say I’m a fan of surprises. “Guess what, Mia? You’re the Princess of Genovia.” That’s just one example of a surprise I’ve received that turned out not to be so great.