So, turns out Chester was wrong. Things could get worse. And they did. I’ve just been served notice that the makers of the Shock Jogger are suing me for one million dollars for ‘misrepresenting and thereby creating a hostile market for their product.’
I shouldn’t blame Chester, though. His brain is the size of a grain of rice. No way I should be counting on his predictions to come true.
Thirty-Five
Dad Jokes and Finger Guns
Arthur
Have you ever had to become a version of yourself that you despise? I mean really loathe with everything in you, and even standing under a scalding shower until you run the entire palace out of hot water doesn’t make you feel clean? Maybe not, but that’s been how I’ve felt over the last two weeks. I’ve become the cheesy, dad-joke-making, finger-gun-pointing-while-clicking salesman for the Royal fucking Family. I’ve kissed so many babies that my lips are going to stay in the pucker position if I don’t stop.
At least it gives me something to focus on all day, rather than succumbing to the black void of despair that overtook me when Tessa ran out on me. Pathetic, I know. I’m fighting the urge to call and text her repeatedly until she gives me chance to explain. Yes, I used the information from her dating profile to cheat a bit, but only at the beginning. The rest was real. Very real.
I should call her. I can’t let things end this way. This is foolish. I pick up the phone yet again, but then I think about her plotting with the Prime Meanister and I set it back down. I go through this cycle about twenty times a day. The guilt, the wishing to explain, then the hurt, the anger, and the hopelessness.
Her words in the letter come to mind and slap me on the face again. If there’s one thing about me, it’s that I can take a hint. She’s clearly through with me. Wham, bam, thank you, Arthur.
I hope she gets the job with Jack Janssen. I really do. They deserve each other. It was all a lie on her part. All those late-night confessions, and all that stupid staring into each other’s eyes, and all those laugh-until-your-cheeks-hurt moments… all of it meant nothing to her.
Too bad I miss her so much it actually hurts. I’ve been rather an idiot, haven’t I? I kept my enemy so close that I can’t seem to sleep or eat or even think without her near me. So, for now, I’m in some weird sort of hell where I feel sick to my stomach all day and night—either from acting like a sodding politician or because, across the river, the only woman I’ve ever let even close to my heart is either very angry or very hurt or both. And I feel the exact same way. The irony of it is that the only person I want to talk to about this is the person who inflicted this horrible pain on me. She’s the only one who will truly understand what I’m going through. Isn’t that a kick in the neck?
I pace the room and check my phone for what must be the twelve millionth time, but still nothing. Just a few hundred notifications on my Instagram and Twitter accounts. Urgh. Dex has given up on me and has gone to bed. He paced behind me for the first evening but then gave up around two a.m. Lazy, lazy pig.
A buzzing on my phone has me hurrying across the room. I pick it up, but it’s not her. Instead, it’s an article about her. “Royal Watchdog Sued for One Million Dollars.”
Oh, bollocks. I sink onto my bed and quickly scan the article. I think about how she promised she’ll still help me even though we’re through, and a glimmer of hope comes over me. What if I can do something to help her? It would only be fair, really.
Besides, what if it worked and she would see that I meant every damn word I said to her? What if this is my one chance to prove to her that I’ll hold the wall?
Thirty-Six
Cures for the Commoner’s Heartache
Tessa
“Oh, honey. I’ve never seen you this bad before.” Nikki stands over me with a blend of disgust and sympathy on her face.
I am lying in the exact same spot I’ve been for a full day now. I reach under the coffee table and hold up the notice of civil litigation, and an eviction notice signed by Charles Porter for nonpayment of landscaping bills plus disrupting the peace of my fellow residents. Nikki takes them and then sighs. “Oh, no...”
“I have to move home with my parents. My parents, Nikki! My parents. I’m going to lose everything. I can’t afford to pay for a lawyer.” I sit up and scratch my head, which makes me cringe. “Ouch. My hair hurts.”
“Yeah. It looks a little... crusty.”
“I may or may not have spilled runny ice cream down the side of my head.”
“How…? Never mind.” She opens her mouth, then closes it again. “Nope.”
“I’m totally screwed.”
“Come on.” Nikki takes me by the hand. “Let’s go, lady. You’re going to shower, then we’re going to figure out what you’re going to do about all of this.”
One hour, three shampoos, and two cups of strong coffee later, I’m sitting at the table eating a bowl of cheesy macaroni that Nikki whipped up. She’s on the phone with her dad who is a retired barrister. My stomach tightens as I listen to her saying a whole lot of ‘uh-huhs’ and ‘okays,’ and ‘is there any other way around it?’”
When she gets off the phone, she looks at me. “He doesn’t think they have a case, but he said the worst thing you could have done is to ignore it. You need to get someone to respond quickly, someone with a lot of experience in this type of thing. He said to tell you to hang in there, and that he’ll make a few calls to see if he can find someone to help you out. Oh, and they want you to come around for dinner soon.”
“Thanks, that’s very kind of them. But maybe call him back and tell him not to bother calling around. I can’t hire anyone anyway.” I have a sip of tea and stare out the window at the palace in the distance. I feel a jab to my stomach and turn back to Nikki. My brain can only focus on something other than Arthur for about one minute at a time, which is utterly pathetic. You’d think that given the fact that I’m about to be broke and homeless, I’d forget all about his royal liar pants. But I can’t.
“Have you heard from him?”
I shake my head. “He’s been too busy parading around town—literally—and having an absolutely wonderful time without me, while I’ve been lying stuck to the couch with ice cream in my hair.” My voice rises with every word until I’m practically shouting. I slump down in my chair and tears stream down my cheeks. “I let myself get caught up believing that it was something it wasn’t, but the whole time he was just using me. I’ve been a total fool, Nikki. I fell in love with the wrong guy, again. But it’s the last time. I’m done. Done with men for good. That’s it. I surrender. I’m just going to grow old alone and wait for the chin hairs to start coming in.”
“Other than the chin hairs, you might be onto something there, because men clearly don’t work out for you.”
I gasp, but she keeps talking before I can launch into an indignant rant.
“Now, I know you’ve just had your heart stomped on and handed to you, but you have to get your arse back to work. This is the exact time you should be capitalizing on everything, but you’re not, and I’d hate to think that you went through all of this for nothing.”
“Me, too.” I turn back to her and my eyes fill up again.
Nikki slides a tissue box to me and sits back in her chair. “It’s time to get it together because you need to face your life. Like yesterday.”
“I know. I will.” My voice lacks any hint of enthusiasm, even though I know she’s right.
I’m starting over. Again. And this time, I’m going to do things right. Face problems head-on, be honest, and use integrity as my guide. Unfortunately, I have to start with my final post about the Royal Family. I’ll have to set aside my anger and pain, and do my best to be objective for the first time since I’ve started writing about them. It’s going to hurt like hell, but I know when it’s over, I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I did the right thing. Plus, I have another carton of Choco Loco ice cream in the freezer.
BLOG POST – May 12th
Tessa here. This will be my last post as The Royal Watchdog. I have spent the last few days reflecting on my time at the palace, and on my previously held beliefs and notions about the Royal Family.
I must admit publicly that my earlier posts were based, in large part, on ‘educated guesses’ as to what the Royals were doing and why. This is extremely difficult for me to admit, but I must, because it is the right thing to do. In my defense, had the Family been more forthcoming with their financial records, their values, beliefs, and duties all along, none of us would have had to guess. But, if their only crime is to have been private about such matters, this is not a good enough reason to oppose them.
I stand by my belief that a nation’s people should elect their leaders, but otherwise, I am no longer adamant that the Royal Family takes more than they give. The financial burden that they place on the taxpayers is far less than the money that they bring in through tourism and charity work.
I’ve spent time with dozens of recipients of the Family’s patronage, and I must say, their lives have all been made better by the kindness and care they’ve received by Princess Arabella, Prince Arthur, and the Princess Dowager Florence. I’ve shared some of their stories on the blog recently, and it has been a truly touching experience to witness and would be a great loss to many, should the vote go against them.
More than that, we must pause to give thought to the fact that Avonia is a kingdom. It has been a kingdom for eight hundred years now, and there is something a little bit magical about that. Perhaps there is something to be said for magic to delight us and tradition to join us to our past in our busy, critical, modern world. Perhaps they serve as an important reminder of simpler times, and how we all just need to slow down a little bit and not let constant progress get in the way of having a rich life, whether you’re in a small flat on Church Street or you’re in a palace.
I had some tough questions for the Royal Family to answer when this whole thing started. I wanted to hold their regal feet to the fire, to force them to be accountable for their mistakes, but the truth is no one was holding me accountable for mine.
Did King Winston betray the people by dodging his taxes? Absolutely. Should he be held accountable for that? Yes, definitely. He has been made to pay back the money with a large fine, which is, by law, what would be required of anyone in this situation. Were his actions unforgivable? You’ll be surprised to find that I don’t believe that is for me to say.
You see, over the past few weeks, I’ve been thinking about my work as The Royal Watchdog, and what I bring to the world through it. And I’ve discovered that, although entertaining, and (I hope) thought-provoking, I’m not sure that there is value in someone spouting their hate-filled opinions into the world. In fact, I’m sure there is very little value in it. The world is filled with enough anger and judgement, without someone like me making a lot of assumptions and presenting them as facts.
I set out to be a respected journalist and have missed the mark in a way that is nothing short of outstanding. There is no room for passion in journalism—unless it is a passion for presenting the truth. Accurately, honestly, and unbiased.
Now, I know that The Royal Watchdog has never been an unbiased news source, but I can see that I’m not doing what makes me a better person.
Recently, my ten-year-old niece, Tabitha, asked me why it was okay for me to say such mean things about the Royal Family when she’s always been told by grownups to be kind to others. I had no answer. So, my new rule in life is going to be, ‘if I can’t explain it to my niece, I shouldn’t be doing it.’
(Well, maybe not in every way. I mean there are some grownup things I’d like to be doing that she doesn’t need to know about, but otherwise, the rule works.)
For those of you who will be going to the polls, and I hope it will be every eligible citizen of Avonia because this is a vital referendum, and one that cannot be undone, I would like to share some of my observations about Prince Arthur, with whom I spent the most of my time. He may act like nothing could ever faze him, but in truth, he spends much of his time worrying. Worrying about doing the right thing, about the people he can’t help, about whether he’s done enough. And now, he’s worrying about turning over our nation to Jack Janssen, a man who accepted his family’s friendship when presented in good faith, but then turned on them as soon as the opportunity presented itself. We must ask ourselves why the Prime Minister would do that? Why does he need sole power over our country? Why should we trust a man who betrayed the very people who helped him in his climb to power?
I know, it is the very definition of patriarchal to have a leader decide he knows best for our country, but Prince Arthur doesn’t see it that way. He sees it as his responsibility to hold the wall, as he put it. And to be completely honest, there’s some comfort in having someone at the top who will care for and protect us all. (And please don’t accuse me of being anti-feminist, because Prince Arthur could easily have a daughter and raise her to do the same.)
To be honest, I’m not sure which way I will vote, which is as shocking to me as it is to many of you. What I do know is that whatever decision is made, I think at the end of the day, we’re all seeking the same thing. A fair, just, kinder world, one in which we don’t feel judged or looked down on by others. And the only way to create that is to stop judging each other.
At the end of the day, the Royal Family are just people with hopes and dreams and pains and flaws, like the rest of us. They wake up each morning and do their best to get through the day. They need to sort out whether to do the right thing or the smart thing, when the choices aren’t the same. Unlike us, they live a life of privilege that few can imagine, but this life comes with pressures and hardships that we can’t fully understand, either. They have more critics than the rest of us.
But as of today, they have one less.
So, to the Royal Family, I apologize for my previous judgements and criticisms. For Prince Arthur, and Princess Dowager Florence especially, I thank you for welcoming me into your lives, and showing me who you really are. It has been an honour, one of which I am not worthy, but will strive to be.
When I finished the first draft, I spend an hour eating ice cream while tweaking the post before I hit post. My heart pounds as I wait for my confession to be uploaded for all the world to see. Part of me—the pathetic, love-sick part—hopes that Arthur will read it and come rushing to me with his upper body poking out the sunroof of his limo like Richard Gere in Pretty Woman. But that will never happen.
This isn’t some Hollywood movie, and I’m not some beautiful prostitute who can give a billionaire a new lease on life. He’s never going to marry someone like me. He’s going to marry Lady Doctor Brooke Beddingfield, or… or someone else equally impressive and with the proper lineage. Not some failed reporter whose father is a mechanic and whose mother collects royal mugs for a hobby. I was just… someone willing to give him what he wants.
And now he has it.
I abandon the spoon and sip the Choco Loco straight from the carton.
Dignity? When has that ever mattered?
My thoughts turn to the serious backlash I’m about to face from my faithful fellow royal haters, but I don’t even care. The only thing that matters is having this whole thing over with so I can move on and forget I’ve ever heard of Arthur Winston Phillip George Charles Edward Langdon.
Text from Noah: Nina wanted me to say she loved your post, and she’s glad you’ve finally come around from the dark side. She wants to invite you to her monthly book club. Hint: say no. They’re an awful bunch.
Voicemail from Mum: Tessa? It’s Mum. Finn was by earlier and showed me your blog post. Well done, sweetie! I always knew you’d come around and become a fan of our Royal Family again! Also, I’m surprised what a talented writer you are. Maybe that’s your medium, more than being on screen, which tends not to work out for you. Are you coming by on Sund—BEEP.
Text from Bram: I take it you slept with him. Dumbass. If you need a job, I’ll be hiri
ng a new receptionist about three dates from now.
Facebook Message from KingSlayer99: I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so disappointed in another human being in my entire life. You’ve betrayed us all. I hope it was worth it, Tessa. Don’t bother writing back, as I’m blocking you as soon as I hit send. BTW, I was just being nice this whole time. You’re not smart or talented or beautiful. You’ve always been a loser and you always will be.
Thirty-Seven
I Was Mistaken. This Is Rock Bottom…
Tessa
I thought I had bottomed out the day after the ball, but that was only about three-quarters of the way down. It took another three weeks for me to really find the actual bottom. And let me tell you, it’s dark down here.
I’ve been living with my parents for exactly twelve days, sixteen hours and forty-two minutes, and there is no end in sight to this current arrangement. I could do my own version of that Sinead O’Connor song, except in it, nothing would compare to my apartment. Once I paid off the landscaping fees and paid a five thousand dollar retainer to one of Nikki’s dad’s lawyer friends (a woman named Nancy Reagan—no relation to the former American president’s wife, and whatever you do, do NOT bring that up unless you want to see her right eye start to twitch), and my income was cut by two-thirds by shutting down the Royal Watchdog blog, I am officially broke. Oh, and I almost forgot, I lost my damage deposit because the wallpaper Nikki put up in the bathroom needed to be replaced. Nikki will pay me back for that at the end of the month.
My parents claim to be thrilled to have me home, but there are moments it’s obvious that I’m intruding on their privacy. I had no idea they had such an active sex life, and maybe they didn’t when they had five children living here, but since we moved, they haven’t become empty-nesters as much as love nesters. Yuck! The other evening, I came home from seeing a movie with Nikki, and when I walked into the TV room, it was clear that they were up to something based on the guilty looks on their faces, and the fact that my father had a pillow across his lap. Also, my mum’s blouse buttons were wildly mismatched, leaving a gaping hole where her bra should have been. So, now I’ve seen the future of my chest, and I can tell you, it’s not a pretty sight.
The Royal Treatment: A Crown Jewels Romantic Comedy, Book 1 Page 24
