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

by Meg Cabot

  My family, I’m not so sure about.

  CHAPTER 36

  1:55 p.m., Tuesday, May 5

  HELV on the way to the Consulate

  Rate the Royals Rating: 1

  Ugh. Also, damn. And also, eww.

  Now I realize Perin wasn’t being sweet when she told me I didn’t have to stay at work. She was being practical. And also trying to protect the center . . . and me.

  I was trying to get Dominique on the phone to tell her that while I appreciate the itinerary she sent over, we needed to tweak it a little—such as scheduling a meeting with my future in-laws and the fact that my brother Rocky’s birthday is May 10, so I can’t exactly leave for Genovia before that, especially in light of the fact that I fully intend to be forcing my ne’er-do-well father to be coparenting my long-lost little sister by then—when Ling Su came running into my office to say that Brian Fitzpatrick had just been found in the center’s women’s restroom, standing on one of the toilets, trying to hide a lipstick camera and microphone in the vent.

  Of course Brian had another story. He claimed he found them in there, having spied them while sitting on the toilet, and that he’d been trying to save us from suffering humiliation by them.

  But it’s obvious he was the one planting them so he could record my private conversations. Why else would he have been in the women’s restroom (let alone the building) in the first place?

  Seriously. This is my life.

  Ling Su insisted we call the police (she is very feisty for such a tiny person), but cooler-headed Perin suggested this would only bring more unwanted press to both the center and to me.

  So we “escorted” Brian out (meaning Lars and Perin basically carried him, although they didn’t get to rough Brian up as much as we all would have liked, since Brian is exactly the type to file a multimillion lawsuit, like the pap that Grandmère hit with her Birkin).

  Afterward Perin told me Brian wasn’t even the first to have pulled such a stunt today. Apparently since I’ve been at my desk, several paps who look young enough to pass as teens have managed to sneak in—mainly by wearing hoodies, high-tops, and cross-body messenger bags—only to get caught when they specifically asked for help with their algebra homework from “Princess Mia” (our regulars know I’m incompetent when it comes to algebra. I can only help with French, English, and papers on European citrus production).

  “It might be better,” Perin said, “if you worked from home again for the next few days . . . just until the excitement over your engagement to Michael dies down.”

  I didn’t want to make her feel bad by telling her that I have no home and that this is the excitement dying down, thanks to the Crown Prince of Qalif outlawing swimming for women and of course the E. coli outbreak.

  Instead I said, “Thank you, Perin. That’s a good idea,” and gathered my bodyguard and left.

  I was feeling a bit depressed, but rallied after Lars and I grabbed sandwiches at Murray’s Shop (also Fritos, Butterfingers, and sodas from a bodega, where I saw that on the cover of the Post it says: “Michael Makes His Move!” and there was a photo of Michael kissing me in the backseat of the HELV. The accompanying article explained the tax breaks to which both Michael and his corporation, Pavlov Surgical, Inc., will be entitled once we’ve been married five years, since Genovian citizens—and companies—pay no taxes, and a “close friend” of Michael’s is speculating that Pavlov Surgical will soon be reincorporating on Genovian soil to avoid paying American taxes).

  (Yes, I bought the paper and read the article.)

  It must be a slow news day if this is the most scandalous reason they could come up with for why Michael’s finally proposed. The tax break? I like Inside Edition’s theory—that I’m carrying his twins—better.

  CHAPTER 37

  2:45 p.m., Tuesday, May 5

  Third-Floor Apartment

  Consulate General of Genovia

  Rate the Royals Rating: 1

  Got a message that the crowd outside the consulate had dissipated enough for me to be smuggled in through the back service entrance, so I’m home (well, my temporary home). So happy to see Fat Louie.

  He did not even appear to notice I’d been gone, having apparently slept the entire time, judging by the fur matted on the left-hand corner of my bedspread.

  But he purred quite happily when I petted him, and even let me pick him up and carry him around like a big fat baby (for about one minute. Then he got cranky and growled and I had to put him down and give him a chunk of ham from my sandwich. But it was a lovely minute, until he bit me).

  Weirdly, Madame Alain greeted me even more warmly than Fat Louie. At first I didn’t understand why, since I’ve never been her favorite person, or even seen her smile.

  Then I saw that she was packing all the things in her office into boxes. She’s being transferred back to Genovia.

  I completely forgot that I suggested she might be happier elsewhere. Apparently someone agreed with me.

  Fortunately she couldn’t be more pleased. She’s always hated her job here (and me) and now she’ll never have to see the consulate (or me) again.

  I wonder where she’ll be working. But actually I don’t care so long as it’s well away from me.

  CHAPTER 38

  2:55 p.m., Tuesday, May 5

  Third-Floor Apartment

  Consulate General of Genovia

  Rate the Royals Rating: 1

  Since we didn’t bring our laptops to the Exumas, I haven’t checked my e-mail in ages.

  Well, I just did, and guess what?

  J.P. sent me his dystopian YA novel, Love in the Time of Shadows.

  I have sent it straight to Tina.

  I read the synopsis, and I’ve decided I’m not in a place right now where I want to know more about J.P.’s vision of the future, especially since in it:

  1. One percent of the population owns all the wealth and property while being catered to by the impoverished 99 percent who have no chance of attaining any of that wealth and property (except through armed rebellion or a randomized lottery system).

  2. The police are militarized.

  3. Everyone has skin cancer/radiation poisoning because the ozone layer is being destroyed by humankind’s disrespect of the environment.

  4. The media is highly biased and censored.

  5. All anyone does is watch reality television to escape their problems.

  6. Everyone is overweight (except of course the lithe heroine and her two love interests) because healthy food options are so expensive/unavailable.

  J.P.’s vision of the future seems eerily similar to the world we live in NOW!

  Why would I want to read this book in what little free time I actually have, considering the fact that it doesn’t seem to offer any realistic solutions to the problems it presents its characters, is very depressing, and is also written by my ex-boyfriend?

  That’s why I’ve sent it to Tina. Maybe she will find something to like about it. Or at least find it a nice distraction from her ex-boyfriend.

  CHAPTER 39

  3:35 p.m., Tuesday, May 5

  Third-Floor Apartment

  Consulate General of Genovia

  Rate the Royals Rating: 1

  Just spent a half hour on the phone arguing with Dominique over my itinerary. She says it’s “too late” to change anything on it, and “after all, Princesse, you do want to get married this summer, non? Well, then, we must get started, and that’s going to require traveling to Genovia. I’m sure your little brother won’t mind your missing ’is birthday.”

  Uh, she is evidently not very well acquainted with many nine-soon-to-be-ten-year-old boys. I love Rocky very much, but he is challenging. Most of our conversations revolve around farts (his favorite subject) and dinosaurs (his second favorite subject).

  “How much did the dinosaurs fart when the giant asteroid that destroyed their habitat struck the earth?” is one of Rocky’s favorite questions.

  He guesses quite a lot, but I usuall
y say probably not so much because they were so frightened.

  Mom worries Rocky might be held back because of his obsession with flatulence, but Michael says it’s quite normal for nine-year-old boys.

  For his birthday, Rocky wants a dinosaur-themed cake, preferably one with “a giant asteroid splatting in the middle.” When my mother questioned Rocky as to whether or not this request was serious, he farted in response, and was sent to his room to “think about what he’d done.”

  I think it might be quite nice to have a female sibling to talk to. Not that girls don’t enjoy discussing flatulence and dinosaurs as well, but Olivia Grace looks adorable.

  I could take her to the American Girl store and have tea. That is, if she likes dolls. The problem is, she’s twelve. Twelve is too old for dolls, isn’t it?

  I didn’t want to admit it in front of Michael, but I have no idea what twelve-year-old girls like to do these days. The ones I meet at the center are all pretty focused on their homework, their families, fingernail polish (obviously, I’m out), video games involving helping puppies find homes and reality stars pick out what to wear, and several boy bands and skimpily clad female singers I’ve never heard of who are popular, but they don’t seem to me to be as talented as either Adele, Taylor, or of course my sweet, sad Britney.

  • Note to self: Ask Tina what her younger siblings enjoy, and why.

  I have no memory of what I liked at age twelve. I’m spending this afternoon combing through my old journals, looking for a hint as to the existence of Elizabeth Harrison, but so far I haven’t found a trace, and unfortunately I only started keeping my diaries at the age of fourteen.

  Of course, the thing about diaries is that they’re always about you, not other people. It’s even worse if they’re the diary of an adolescent. It’s dreadful rereading them, because they seem so . . . egomaniacal. How could one person drone on so much about herself? Was I blind? The only thing I ever wrote about was:

  1. My grades.

  2. My boobs (or lack thereof).

  3. Grandmère.

  4. Lilly being incredibly annoying.

  5. Josh Richter (ACKKKKK).

  6. My then arch nemesis, Lana Weinberger.

  7. Michael.

  My dad possibly conducting a secret love affair across the river is never mentioned anywhere.

  Ugh! I am so depressed now.

  And even though Marie Rose stocked my kitchen while I was gone, so my refrigerator is full of delicious things to eat—such as a tarragon chicken salad; wild-caught Alaskan salmon poached in a court bouillon with a cumin dill sauce; crisp prosciutto, rocket, and mozzarella paninis; black truffle macaroni and cheese; lobster-claw kebabs; meringue; and Genovian orange crème brûlée—all I feel like eating is the second Butterfinger I bought at the bodega. I am not following Dr. Delgado’s advice at all!

  But I have to admit, the Butterfinger is helping, as is the fact that there’s an I Found the Gown marathon on TLC.

  It would be so much simpler if I could just drive to a discount store like the girls on that show do and find the perfect gown (for $400)!

  But I have a sneaking suspicion that after all the Butterfingers I’ve just eaten, there’s no gown in existence (especially for only $400) cleverly enough designed to hide the food baby I’ve developed and the press seems to feel compelled to comment on.

  CHAPTER 40

  4:44 p.m., Tuesday, May 5

  Third-Floor Apartment

  Consulate General of Genovia

  Rate the Royals Rating: 7!

  Okay, I think I just did something really stupid.

  It probably doesn’t help that I’ve taken a couple of nips from the bottle of hundred-year-old Williams pear schnaps* that Michael and I were sent as an engagement gift from the chancellor of Austria (it was already open anyway, since the Royal Genovian Guard had to make sure it wasn’t poisoned—not by the chancellor, obviously—​which they did by tasting it themselves).

  *Austrian schnaps is completely different from what Americans call schnapps. For one thing, if it’s prepared correctly, it actually tastes like something other than toothpaste.

  I was just feeling so bummed out about everything after reading parts of Love in the Time of Shadows (radiation poisoning is so depressing! Why would anyone write about this? Unless it was a book about Hiroshima, of course) and all my own diaries that I was like, “Oh, whatever. It’s five o’clock somewhere! Skol!” and helped myself to a sip. Or maybe two. I don’t remember anyway.

  And not just because my rank on Rate the Royals has sunk from number one (not that I care, since that website is a stupid blight on humanity and is best ignored) down to seven.

  I am now even less popular than General Sheikh Mohammed bin Zayed Faisal, the Crown Prince of Qalif!

  And, apparently, the Sultan of Brunei (the one who did something with a monkey, though we’ll never know what, thanks to Lazarres-Reynolds).

  There is absolutely no reason for this to have happened other than my having kicked the founder of the website out of my community center for planting listening devices in the women’s restroom (which I now regret not having him arrested for. Ling Su was right).

  But even worse than this, there was a post from RoyalRabbleRouser, who was stalking me all last year. He disappeared for a while, most likely due to having joined a cult or a radical terror group, or possibly the cast of a reality show. Reality-show casting agents recruit the same kind of people as cults and terror groups do, ones who feel like there is something missing from their lives, very often romantic love.

  And since the only way woman-haters like my stalker are going to get a date is if they kidnap one or one is assigned to them by a cult leader or central casting, often such people’s decision to join up proves to be a good one . . . until they get blown up or kicked off the show.

  It must have been the latter since RoyalRabbleRouser has shown up again—probably due to the news that I’m getting married, at least based on his message about being glad that “the princess slut” is finally letting “Mike” make “an honest woman of her.”

  “It’s about time, too,” writes RoyalRabbleRouser. “Maybe now she’ll let him work while she stays home and squeezes out a few puppies, like a decent woman should. Hopefully she’ll learn to cook, too. But probably she’ll just keep on making her asinine speeches about how women should work, while letting her servants do the cooking.”

  Um . . . yes. Yes, I will. Because that’s the job for which I employ them, and if I didn’t employ them, they would have no paycheck, and without a paycheck they would have no way to feed their families, and then they would starve. It’s called economics, RoyalRabbleRouser. Look it up.

  At the center we’re trying hard to provide teens with the mentoring, education, and job training they need so that when they leave school they’ll be invulnerable to the kind of thinking RoyalRabbleRouser supports, but sometimes I worry it’s not enough. Obviously the Frank Gianini Community Center needs to expand globally.

  I really have to start following Dominique’s advice and stop reading this stuff.

  But I can’t stop reading texts from Lana Weinberger (whose birthday wishes I’d forgotten to return). She sent another, even more alarming than the last:

 
  HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”>

  Bitch, how could you get engaged and not even tell me? I had to hear it from Trish who heard it from her mom who saw it on TMZ! You are a twat and a half!

  But don’t worry, you can make it up to me by making me and Trish bridesmaids! And we’re not just going to be lame bridesmaids who do nothing but look good and carry your train. We’re actually going to do stuff. See the attached—we have your bachelorette party all planned out! It’s going to be at a place in Genovia called Crazy Ivan’s. You’ll LOVE it!!!!

  Now I have to figure out how to explain to Lana that I do not care for BJ shots, nor do I particularly want to know what a dicklicker is.

  It’s no
t just because I don’t care to support businesses owned by Ivan. It’s because it’s almost one hundred percent guaranteed that someone is going to photograph me wearing penis party beads and then put the photograph on the Internet. I’ll be raked over the coals . . . though of course it’s horrible that public figures can’t go out (or even stay in) and have a good time and be photographed doing it and not be judged for it.

  It’s one thing to say, “Oh, have a sense of humor about it,” but there’s such a double standard. The populace does not have a sense of humor about it, especially if they feel you are somehow representing their country. Was Kate Middleton ever photographed wearing “penis party beads”? I think not.

  Of course I get Lana’s plea that “we all need to spend more time together because Best Friends Are Forever and high school was the best time in our lives” (okay, well, I don’t get that part. High school may have been the best years of Lana’s life, but it was definitely not mine. Except that AEHS is where I met Michael). Yes, it would be fun to take one day off from being politically correct, but that’s much easier said than done, especially when there are cameras around, and I’m guessing there are cameras everywhere at Crazy Ivan’s, considering you’re required to take your top off as soon as you enter.

 
  HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”>

  This is so sweet of you, Lana! Of course I’d love for you and Trisha to be bridesmaids.

  But I think Crazy Ivan’s may not work for a number of reasons. Maybe we can settle for a private bachelorette party at the palace. We could do it at the pool. You know Lars loves nothing better than an excuse to sit on the roof with his long-range sniper rifle, looking for camera-equipped drone copters to take out.

  Fine!!!! You can make it up to me by writing Iris a letter of recommendation. You know, with a letter from the Princess of Genovia she’ll be a shoo-in.