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

by Meg Cabot

  “No one looks good in khaki shorts. And they’re not mad that we’re getting married, just upset that you aren’t converting to Judaism. They’re very concerned about how I’m going to be able to keep kosher in the palace.”

  “Michael! Stop it. It’s not funny.”

  “Also, that when I become Prince Michael of Genovia, my children are going to be Renaldos and not Moscovitzes.”

  I stopped laughing. “Wait . . . they really did say that last thing, didn’t they?”

  “Well, I’m their only son, so you can understand their concern. I think they’re torn between the idea of losing a son and the idea of gaining a prince. I told them not to worry, that in the unlikely event Lilly ever gets married, she won’t take her husband’s name, so her kids will be Moscovitzes. Weirdly, this didn’t seem to placate them.”

  “Of course it didn’t,” I said. “Lilly swore off men her junior year in college.” I knew better than to mention the thing about Lars, especially with Lars sitting right there in the car. I thought it would be good for him to hear the thing about her having sworn off men, though. Lars’s ego is inflated enough. “She says she’s never getting married. How could you forget?”

  “I didn’t forget,” Michael said. “What she actually said was that you fall in love with the person, their gender doesn’t matter. Although to be honest, if you were a guy I don’t know if I’d be as into you.”

  “Maybe we should call this whole thing off.”

  He sounded shocked. “Why? Because I said I wouldn’t be as into you if you were a guy? I mean I guess I could get used to it, but it might take time.”

  “No, because your parents are right. Michael, you know you’re not only going to have to take my name, you’re going to have to renounce your American citizenship when we get married.”

  “I’ll be Genovian on paper,” Michael said, “but I’ll always be American in my heart. These colors don’t run.”

  “Uh . . . maybe we’re rushing into this.”

  “Mia, I’m kidding. We’ve been going out for eight years—more if you count high school. How can we be rushing into anything? And I couldn’t care less what last name I or our kids have, or even if we have kids, or what country I’m a citizen of. I just want to be with you, and I’ll renounce whatever I have to in order to make that happen.”

  My heart swelled with love for him. “Aw. Michael, that’s so sweet,” I whispered (I had to whisper because of Lars, and also François, the driver. It would be nice to have some privacy, but privacy goes out the window when you get a chauffeur/personal security). “I just want to be with you, too.”

  “Then how come at the first sign of trouble you’re ready to bail? I thought you were made of stronger stuff, Thermopolis.”

  I had to ignore the little thrill I always get when he calls me Thermopolis. “I’m only thinking of you. Things are just going to get worse from here on out, you know. She’s trying to Game of Thrones us.”

  “Who is? What are you talking about?”

  “My grandmother! The story about our engagement is going to be everywhere in exactly one hour. Reuters. BBC. TMZ. They’re all going to be covering it. Our royal wedding will be the lead on the national news tonight. And after that, there is no way we’re going to get our small, private, family-and-friends-only wedding. We’re going to have to do what my grandmother says, which means there probably will be a national day of celebration declared, and a commemorative stamp issued of your head.”

  “I don’t care,” Michael said, sounding bravely determined. “If that’s what I have to go through in order to marry you, I will.”

  “Oh, Michael, thanks.”

  “That’s the worst of it, though, right? There’s no weird secret royal Genovian marriage ritual I have to undergo, do I? Sacrificial scarring? Ritual cutting?”

  “Well, you’re already circumcised, so no.”

  There was silence from his end of the phone.

  “Oh my God, I’m kidding,” I cried. “The first rule of being a royal is that you have to learn to take a joke.”

  “The first rule of jokes is that they have to be funny,” he countered.

  “Fine. Can we get down to the real question, which is how my grandmother even found out? I know Tina didn’t tell her.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Lars supplied, from the front seat. “I didn’t tell.”

  “Of course it wasn’t Lars,” Michael said, having overheard him. “Tell Lars no one is blaming him.”

  Seriously, if my life were one of those romance novels with a love triangle, Lars and Michael would be the sexy paranormal alpha males, but the two of them would be in love with each other and just ignore me.

  “We know it wasn’t you, Lars,” I said. “And before we left this morning, I put the ring on my snowflake necklace around my neck so no one on the plane saw it. It had to have been Gretel.”

  “Gretel?” Michael echoed.

  “The chef. Who else could it have been? I swear, I’m going to write the meanest review about her on TripAdvisor. Unless—” I gasped. “Unless there were cameras in the cabana. You don’t think—”

  “Mia,” Michael said. “Calm down. I know who leaked the story.”

  “You do? Who?”

  “It was me.”

  “You?” I was stunned. “Michael, what are you talking about?”

  “That part of the press release about me asking your father’s permission to marry you was true—well, partly true, anyway. I didn’t ask permission—I knew you wouldn’t like that, it’s sexist. You’re not your father’s property. But I did see him before we left, to tell him I was going to propose to you this weekend, and ask for his blessing.”

  I was stunned. “Wait . . . is this what you meant when you said before we left that you’d talked to my parents?”

  “Yes. I spoke to your mother, too, because she played an even bigger role in raising you. I thought it was the right thing to do. How do you think you got out of doing all those events—and birthday Cirque du Soleil with your grandmother—so easily?”

  “Oh, Michael,” I said into the phone. I was feeling a maelstrom of emotions. “That’s so . . . that’s so . . .”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know. Messed up, right? Especially considering the way everything’s turned out.”

  “No,” I said. “That isn’t what I was going to say at all. It was very romantic of you. In an ordinary family it would have been a sweet thing to do.”

  “I can see that now,” he said. “I think your dad must have mentioned it to someone—”

  “You don’t have to be coy, Michael,” I said. “You’re family now. You can come right out and say it. My dad must have mentioned it to my grandmother, who turned it into an opportunity to drum up some positive press for my dad after his brush with the law.”

  Michael sighed. “I guess I should have known better after all these years.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I said affectionately. “I wouldn’t change a thing about this past weekend for the world, not even this. But why didn’t you tell me you’d asked them?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It never came up. We were sort of busy doing . . . other things.”

  I blushed, even though Michael was speaking to me from another state and no one in the car could hear his end of the conversation. “Er, yes,” I said. “I guess we were.”

  “Anyway, sorry about that. I guess I’ll see you in a little bit.”

  “In a little bit? What happened to your medical conference in New Jersey?”

  His tone was light. “Oh, it’s still happening, but the press found out about my speech and swamped the hotel, and they don’t have enough security to handle the situation, so they’ve politely asked me to reschedule.”

  “Oh, Michael,” I cried. “I’m so sorry!”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “There’s no way those doctors were going to listen to a talk about the new strides Pavlov Surgical is making in neural prostheses research when they find out the guy w
ho’s giving it just got engaged to the Princess of Genovia anyway.”

  He said it lightly, trying to make a joke of the whole thing, but there’s nothing amusing about this to me. It actually made me angrier than ever at Grandmère. She isn’t only selfishly Game of Throning our wedding: she’s hurting Michael’s business, and causing vital medical research information to fail to be disseminated.

  “Michael, I’m so sorry. I’m going to get to the bottom of this if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Mia, it’s fine. None of this is your fault. I guess it’s all part of being a—”

  But I didn’t get to find out what it is he thought it was all part of being because his phone died.

  Or the Russians had gotten to him, but when I mentioned this out loud, Lars said I’ve been watching too much NCIS and from now on I need to stick to the Lifetime Movie Channel for women.

  I’ve just told him to stop being so sexist since men watch that channel, too, and also, tons of people get kidnapped on Lifetime, particularly pregnant women whose babies are later sold on the baby black market, which is a completely real thing. I once attended a charity event to raise money to help fight it. Mariska Hargitay was there, and we both complimented each other’s outfit in the ladies’ room.

  CHAPTER 23

  3:40 p.m., Monday, May 4

  Still in the HELV

  Rate the Royals Rating: 1

  Managed to reach Mom to tell her about the wedding before she heard it on the news (she only listens to National Public Radio while she paints, so there wasn’t much of a chance of that, as NPR is not known for keeping its listeners aware of all the latest royal gossip).

  Mom asked for the details about Michael’s proposal, which I gave her, but briefly. There are some things I’ve found it better not to share with my mom. When discussing my life with her, I try to keep it to the highlights, like the sports reel in a half hour news cycle.

  Unfortunately, Mom has never felt the same about me. I was forced to listen as she told me every single facet of Michael’s visit to the loft last week to ask her if our union was something she felt she could support.

  “He was very gentlemanly about it,” she said. “He was even wearing a tie. I appreciated that he was respecting my role as your primary caregiver. So of course I told him that I supported your union wholly—”

  “Aw.” This warmed my heart. “Thanks, Mom.”

  She wasn’t finished.

  “—but that to be honest, I didn’t think you’d had enough dating experience, so I thought you two should wait.”

  “Mom!” I yelled. “You said that to him?”

  “Well, of course I did. You’re twenty-six and you’ve only ever slept with one person. Don’t you think you ought to broaden your horizons?”

  “No, Mom, I do not. And I don’t really want to discuss this with you right now.” I eyed Lars and François, who were having an animated discussion in the front seat about how to avoid chafing while wearing a shoulder holster on a hot day. Dropping my voice, I added, “But just to remind you, I have dated other people, even if I didn’t actually have sex with them. So I’m a hundred percent sure I’m with the right person.”

  “I thought you kids today were all about the casual hookups,” Mom said. “Friends with benefits, and all of that.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you need to stop watching rom-coms that bill themselves as edgy but still end with the guy running through an airport.” Not that there’s anything wrong with that, since I still totally watch them, usually with Tina, who can’t get enough of them, especially if they involve a heroine who works as a sassy surgeon, as most gorgeous size-two ladies who are unlucky in love are wont to do.

  “I just don’t understand it,” Mom said, with a sigh. “Kids today are so different from when I was your age.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “We are. When you were my age, you already had a toddler—me—with someone you weren’t even interested in being with long term. I, however, am marrying someone I want to be with forever, and I have never not used birth control in my life.”

  “Yes, Mia, I know,” my mother said, in a soothing voice. “You’ve always been my little worrywart. That’s why I love you. But I loved your father, too, you know. I still do. I wouldn’t want you to think that I didn’t.”

  “Well, that’s just great, Mom,” I said. “So then why don’t you let me do the worrying about my own wedding? God knows it’s getting off to a rocky enough start. Wait . . . what did you say?”

  “Oh, I think your wedding’s off to a fine start,” my mother said. “Michael asked you anyway, didn’t he? I didn’t manage to scare him off.”

  “Not that part,” I said. “The part about you loving Dad.”

  “Well, of course I love your father. I always have, and I always will. I just could never live with him. Could you imagine me, living in a palace?” She laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in the sound. “I’d make a terrible royal.”

  “Uh,” I said. “I don’t know about that, Mom. I don’t think anyone could be worse than me.” I couldn’t help thinking about Paolo and his diamond shoe analogy. Would mine ever stop chafing?

  “Don’t be silly, Mia. You’ve done an amazing job, what with bringing democracy to Genovia and building that community center for the kids and now choosing Michael as your prince consort. You’re the best thing that ever happened to that place, and I’m not just saying that because I’m your mother.”

  “Aw.” It was silly, but this caused tears to well up in my eyes. “Thanks, Mom. You have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that. But seriously, if I can adjust to being a royal, don’t you think you could? If you really love Dad that much—and I know he adores you—don’t you think—?”

  “Oh, Mia,” she interrupted, in the old exasperated tone she used to use when she’d walk into my room to find me taking my temperature before school because I had a test that day and I was hoping I’d spontaneously developed malaria in the night. “Love is wonderful but it can’t solve every problem, you know. It certainly isn’t compensation enough for the fact that your father is a grown man who still lives with his mother.”

  I winced. Mom had a point. “No,” I said. “I guess not.”

  “I suppose I’m going to have to buy one of those awful mother-of-the-bride dresses for the ceremony,” she went on with a sigh. “Nothing kicky from my own wardrobe is going to work.”

  “Um,” I said, remembering the last time Mom wore something “kicky” to a public function. She’d shown up at the opening of Mr. Gianini’s community center in a blue dress with a red petticoat, covered in purple roses. It had been Mr. G.’s favorite. “Absolutely. You can wear whatever you want, Mom.”

  “Mia,” she said, laughing. “Of course I can’t. Your wedding is going to be broadcast all over the world. I may be a crazy painter, but I don’t want to look like one on your special day. I think I can stand wearing one of those stuffy mother-of-the-bride dresses for an afternoon,” she added, bravely. “It was the idea of wearing one of them—with panty hose—every day for the rest of my life that I was never able to stand.”

  Which pretty much confirms both Tina’s and the Drs. Moscovitz’s theory.

  “That’s very sweet of you, Mom,” I said. “But the whole idea was that Michael and I didn’t want you to have to wear one of those dresses, with or without panty hose. We wanted to have a small, informal wedding, no more than fifty people, no commemorative stamps of Michael—”

  My mom laughed some more.

  “Oh, okay,” she said. “Well, best of luck with that. Actually, I quite like the idea of a stamp of Michael.”

  “I know, right? That’s what I said!”

  I love Mom, but I worry about her. One of the things my stalker likes to harp on in his anonymous letters and e-mails to me (and rants on Rate the Royals message boards) is how women like my mom, who raise children on their own, are evil. His posts go on and on about how women like her (and me) are destroying the fabric of soci
ety by being too independent (because we have our own bank accounts, jobs, etc.), and how I should try to make Genovia more like the despotic nation of Qalif, instead of advocating for equal social, political, and economic rights for women.

  If only I could find out who he is so I could have him imprisoned and/or publically humiliated, or at least tell his own mother on him.

  • Note to self: Remind press office to stop letting me read those letters. I would prefer only to read the nice letters I get from little girls who draw me pictures of themselves with their cats.

  It’s too bad that Mom and Dad were never able to work things out.

  But Mom really isn’t the panty-hose-wearing type, and unfortunately those are required for most official royal duties, especially when descending private-plane staircases in high winds while wearing dresses. Trust me, I’ve had this happen enough times in front of photographers to know.

  UGH.

  Of course neither my grandmother nor my father is answering their phones.

  So now I am resorting to texting, which is bad because, considering all the messages I’m getting, my battery is completely dying.

 
  HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”>

  Grandmère, why are all the gossip sites reporting that Michael proposed to me this past weekend? How would they even know about that? And why is Rate the Royals saying we’re getting married this summer? Call me back ASAP because I’d really like to clear up this matter.

  Who is this? Why are there words on my phone?

  It’s called a text message, Grandmère, stop pretending like you don’t know what it is, I showed you how to text last year when TMZ hacked your phone and found out about you and James Franco. So I KNOW you know how to do it. And it’s the only way I appear to be able to communicate with you right now since you won’t pick up your phone.

  I don’t know what you’re talking about. Clearly my mobile is broken. Please make an appointment with my assistant, Rolanda, if you wish to speak with me.