by Holly Rayner
If she told him that she was having his baby—and that she was planning to keep the information from the press—he would surely want to have a claim to the child. Wouldn’t he want to meet him or her? Wouldn’t he want to give them enough funds to survive, what with the incredible wealth at his disposal?
That was the decent thing to do, she knew. And he was nothing if not a man with morals and a family-oriented mindset. His mother and father had stayed together to raise him and his sister. Surely he would want to make sure his child was cared for?
In her life as a paparazzo, Lisa had generated an incredible stash of emails, phone numbers, and other contacts, which allowed her to find the number of the royal family’s press office, tucked away on the Aluzzian coast. With the chilly December brewing another round of snow outside, Lisa dialed the number and waited, hearing the phone ring across oceans and seas.
The call was answered by a woman speaking Aluzzian, which sounded like a mixture of Spanish and Italian.
Lisa smiled with her response. “Hello. I don’t suppose you speak English?”
“Of course I do,” the woman answered, her tone bright and professional. “My name is Anika. How may I help you this evening?”
Lisa sat upon her chair, wrapping herself tight in a blanket. Hearing the woman’s warm tones, she suddenly felt like everything was going to be fine. “Actually, I’m a friend of the palace,” Lisa began.
“Oh?” Anika asked, feigning interest. “Who in the palace, exactly?”
“Well, I’m friendly with Prince Francesco,” Lisa answered, pushing the conversation forward. “He and I met while he was in New York, around the time of the break-up between him and Princess Rose.”
“Hmm. Our records don’t show them ever ‘breaking up’, so I’m not quite sure when that would have been, Miss—”
“Lisa,” she stammered. “Lisa Garcia. And that’s funny, as I seem to recall reading something about their break-up in—”
“Ah, the tabloids. Trashy magazines. They never report the truth, but of course, you know that. Anyway, it’s kind of you to call, but you should know that the Prince is incredibly busy these days, on his many humanitarian travels, alongside Princess Rose, and he will be unable to take your call. I can take a message, but I highly doubt—”
Panic throttled through Lisa. “I’m sorry, Anika. It’s terribly important that I speak with him. You see, something rather intimate happened between—”
But Anika interrupted her. “I’m sorry, Miss Garcia. If you’d like to leave a message for the Prince, we can absolutely arrange something. But know that whatever you tell me will be shown to all members of the royal family, including Princess Rose.”
Lisa sensed the warning in Anika’s voice. She bowed her head, realizing she was against a wall. “I see. All right, then. Any other ideas for me?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Miss Garcia,” Anika said, her voice sounding robotic now.
“I was wondering how else I could contact the Prince. Perhaps another office?”
“No, miss. This is the only official channel through which to contact Prince Francesco.”
“And you’re telling me that I can’t even communicate with him this way.”
“Perhaps if you knew him well enough to have his cellphone—”
“Fine,” Lisa spat, angry. “That’s fine. Thank you. Have a wonderful day.” She smashed her finger on the phone to end the call, seething.
In all her years as a paparazzo, she had never been brushed off so easily. Anika’s voice had started off friendly, ready to guide her. But the moment Lisa had started to inquire about the Prince, her tone had changed. She’d iced up, pushed back, and informed her that contacting the Prince through that, or any other channel, would be highly unlikely.
Lisa read the clues. But she didn’t yet have enough information. She stationed herself in her living room, a large bowl of popcorn before her and the television blaring. She fell asleep on the couch, and when she awoke, she dialed the press office of the royal family once more, hoping to reach a different receptionist who might be more understanding.
A male voice answered in a beautiful Aluzzian accent, welcoming her to the royal family’s press office. Again, Lisa requested that the man speak English, rather than Aluzzian. Again, he responded brightly, in perfect English.
“Of course, miss. How may I be of service?”
“Thank you,” Lisa said primly. “I wondered if I might be able to contact Her Majesty the Queen of Aluzzi.”
“Absolutely,” the man answered. “The entire royal family is contactable through this office.”
“The entire royal family?” Lisa repeated, her eyes glittering.
“Absolutely. The King, Queen, Prince, and, of course, the Prince’s betrothed, Princess Rose of the Netherlands. All through this office.”
“Oh, well, that changes everything,” Lisa said, nuzzling deeper in her couch. She yawned briefly, noting that her hunger had escalated—a reminder that she needed to eat for her baby. “I’d love to speak with Prince Francesco, if at all possible.”
“Certainly,” the man chimed. “And if I could just take your name.”
“Lisa Garcia,” she responded promptly.
Immediately, the man paused, clearly gawking at his mistake. “Lisa, Lisa Garcia. I’m—I’m terribly sorry—”
“What is it?” Lisa asked, playing dumb.
“Well, the Prince is, um. He’s currently traveling and unable to accept phone calls. So, you see, even for us—he’s unreachable.”
“Is that so,” Lisa said, smiling grimly. “Well, that’s really quite unfortunate. I do need to contact him. I don’t suppose I could—”
“Leave a message? Unfortunately not,” the man stammered, perturbed. “It’s not our standard operation here.”
“Right. So, I’ll just call back later, then?” Lisa asked.
“Um. Of course. Maybe in—um. Yes. Thank you for your call, Miss Garcia.”
Immediately, the man hung up. Lisa glared at her phone, her eyebrows lowering, understanding that she was being avoided.
“Wow. He really did it,” she whispered. The Prince had actually set a block against her—probably declaring her a crazed paparazzo, someone who would damage the family name.
She’d been blacklisted. And so she would remain, probably for the rest of her life, if she didn’t do something about it.
She walked toward the refrigerator and retrieved several celery sticks she’d bought the previous week when she’d thought she needed to lose weight, post-Christmas cookie snacking. Now, the celery felt dry and bendy against her sandpaper tongue. She poured water down her parched throat, realizing that her body was fueling the growth of another, tiny person. It would no longer respond to nourishment in the same way. It would constantly be searching for something more fulfilling.
Exhausted, and still starved, Lisa slept for the rest of the morning and early afternoon, allowing her Sunday to slip away. She couldn’t fold into her blankets deeply enough. She wanted to hide, to fall into another dimension, to rectify her problems by becoming invisible. But each time she opened her eyes, she awakened to the reality in which the Prince wanted her to carry his baby, alone, as a single mother.
At nearly five in the afternoon, Lisa dialed her favorite pizza place and ordered three pizzas, unable to choose which flavor suited her. “Pepperoni, with black olives,” she requested, counting on her fingers. “And one with just vegetables. Yes. All the vegetables, Louis. I know I don’t normally order that, but here we are. And the last one is—oh. Surprise me.”
She kept up a playful, joking rapport with the pizza guys, who’d often commiserated with her on the street as she awaited one celebrity after another. “They don’t stand a chance against you, Lisa,” the pizza boys had said. And always, she snapped their picture in response.
Louis delivered the pizzas around thirty minutes later, sauntering up to her apartment and accepting the generous tip—something Lisa knew s
he couldn’t afford any more. But she smiled at him, bleary-eyed.
“You don’t look so hot, Lisa. You sick?” Louis asked, his timid, 22-year-old eyes peering up at her. “And why’d you order three pizzas? You having people over?”
“Why are you asking so many questions?” Lisa said, laughing. “I’ve already paid you, Lou. Get out of here.”
Louis grinned playfully before turning down the hallway and skipping out of sight.
Grateful to be alone again, Lisa eased heavily down onto the couch, opening the first pizza box—the pepperoni and black olive—and began to tuck in to the first slice. As she chewed, allowing the flavors to course over her tongue, she began to imagine another plan of action.
If she was going to reach Francesco, she was going to have to be creative. And if she was going to be creative, then she would have to use every resource she had at her disposal. In this case, that meant the driver. Sergio.
She dialed the number quickly, remembering the savage morning when he’d attempted to bribe her. God, he’d think this was rich—her acknowledgement that what she’d done that night had been a mistake, and it hadn’t even been for any story. The only person affected by that evening was Lisa. Meanwhile, the Prince was on a beach somewhere, sunning himself alongside his false love.
Sergio answered on the third ring, his voice hesitant, without the sneer it had held during their previous encounter. The moment he answered, Lisa sensed that something was off.
“Hello? Sergio?” she asked, her voice meek.
“Lisa. Hi,” he said. “It’s a surprise to hear from you. After our last meeting.”
“Right. I am sorry about that,” Lisa said, hoping that an apology would rectify the awkwardness, “but I was wondering if you might have a way to contact Prince Francesco. It’s crucial that I speak with him as soon as possible.”
The driver only guffawed in response, and Lisa sighed inwardly.
“You know, I can pay you to contact him for me,” she said, falling back into old habits. After giving one too many bills to Louis, she knew she was dipping into the last of her savings. But she couldn’t care. This was her last-ditch effort, her chance at survival. “I can pay more than last time—call it four hundred. That’s a lot of money, Serg. Think about it.”
“I don’t know, Lisa,” Sergio crooned, clearly tempted. Tension hung between them, stretching thin with each passing moment. “I just really don’t think I can be a part of this game. Whatever it is.”
Lisa bowed her head, understanding. The Sergio she’d known previously, the one who’d driven the basketballer, earnestly seeking whatever else she had dangling from her bank account, wouldn’t back away from four hundred dollars. She sensed what was going on: the Prince must have told him not to talk to her.
“I see,” Lisa whispered. Her thoughts spinning, she felt her throat catch. Tears began to stream down her face. “Damn,” she mumbled, becoming choked up. “I just—I don’t know what I’m going to do.” She began to weep full-force, then, shuddering and cradling the phone. “Jesus. I’m so sorry.”
“What’s going on?” Sergio asked, his voice crackling like an old radio. “Why are you crying? This isn’t like you, Lisa. So what if I can’t help you with this one? You have a million other celebrities to stalk. Stop chasing this one. I promise. It isn’t worth your while.”
“You don’t understand,” Lisa breathed. “I’m pregnant with the Prince’s child.” It was the first time she’d said the words out loud. She closed her eyes, wincing. “And I have to tell him. He has to know.”
Sergio was quiet for a long time. He muttered to himself, cursing in his first language.
“I’m sorry to involve you,” Lisa murmured. “But you’re all I have. You’re the only connection.”
“I understand,” Sergio said. “I can’t believe it has to be me. But I understand.”
Lisa breathed heavily, seeing a clear path to what she needed to finally feel safe, to feel warm. Outside, the snow whirled menacingly.
“Why don’t we talk about it in person, then?” she said after a long pause. “We can meet somewhere. Like the old times.”
“Like the good times?” Sergio said, laughing, almost good-naturedly.
“Sure. Absolutely,” Lisa said, swiping a tear from her cheek. “Central Park, by the Bethesda fountain, at noon. What do you say?”
“I bet there will be tons of kids there,” Sergio said, teasing her. “To help you warm up for your new life. Funny. I never imagined you as the motherly kind. Always running after celebrities, looking like a scavenger.”
“I won’t be able to run for long,” Lisa agreed. “Once I turn into a beach ball.”
Sergio and Lisa, the unlikely duo, ended their phone call moments later, with Lisa brimming with sudden relief. She reached toward the small stack of pizza boxes and ate some more, zoning out to her favorite cheesy crime show on the small-screen television. She allowed herself some relaxation before she had to confront the Prince, and convince him she wasn’t the villain he believed her to be.
She had her work cut out for her, certainly.
By midnight, Lisa found herself vomiting, her stomach clenching with pain. Despite being pregnant and needing sustenance, her body wasn’t accustomed to such grease-laden debauchery. And, as she apparently was with everything else, she was paying for it.
She crawled back into her bed and collapsed into sleep, dreaming fitful dreams about her and the Prince and a mystery person—someone she sensed she’d met before, but no one she could place. Each time she opened her eyes throughout the night, she was able to dive back into the same slumber, surrounded by loved ones, tucked away from reality.
It was beautiful.
Chapter 11
The next day, Lisa scampered from her apartment at ten thirty in the morning, stuffing her gloved hands into her coat pockets. She scanned her Brooklyn street, hopeful that she wouldn’t any faces that might be watching her. Since Connor had appeared at the coffee shop, she’d realized she could become a target at any moment. And she would combat that, every chance she could.
But she recognized no one. A stooped, elderly woman crept past, her crooked nose pointing directly to the sidewalk. Down the street, a 20-something boy set up a flower shop for his mother, lending Lisa a hearty wave. She walked briskly past him, grinning sheepishly, before diving down the subway steps and rushing uptown, toward the park.
Today was the day that everything would come together.
She neared Central Park a while later, hopeful that the smells of the subway were leaving her coat. She hardly left her house these days, especially given that Rocco didn’t offer her many assignments, and she rarely used the train. She had grown accustomed to clean clothes, to warm and earnest people. But the people on the train were shadowy, menacing: their eyes assessing her, judging her. They were, to her, the eyes of the paparazzi. And one day, perhaps soon, they would want her. And their sticky hands would clamber all over her, without letting go.
Lisa entered the park and stood near the fountain for a moment before plopping down on the edge’s cement and indulging in some people watching.
Small children scampered past, their mothers a few feet away, gazing at them with a strange mix of fear and impenetrable love. Lisa tried to imagine that love, but the depth of it was too far away for her to reach. So, she lifted her camera and began to photograph them: the mothers, with their bird eyes, their talons ready to nab their boy or girl when they grew too close to danger.
After taking several snaps, Lisa waited, eyeing her watch. It was after noon, now, which meant that Sergio was late. And Sergio was never late.
Lisa began to worry, realizing that Sergio was risking his entire career in order to help her—which was probably something he never wanted to do again without great personal gain. It wasn’t like Lisa could give him enough money to retire.
She sighed evenly and rose to her feet, resigned to the fact that she might have to keep the news to herself. She imagined p
honing her mother and telling her that the life she’d worked so hard to cultivate for her daughter had burned, all with a single pregnancy.
But the moment Lisa rose, she saw a figure in the distance, coming closer. The woman’s long coat rushed back, revealing bright red heels which rapped at the cement. Her hair flowed behind her, and her mouth came in a thin line, without a smile.
With a jolt, Lisa realized that the woman was Princess Rose. And she was heading directly toward her.
“He sold me out. The bastard,” Lisa murmured, trying to plan her escape. But Princess Rose was far too close, now. And, beyond anything, Lisa was curious. What on earth could this terrible woman say to her? What would bring her all the way out there?
The moment she reached Lisa, the Princess stuck a professional hand forward. “Hello, there,” she said. “Lisa, isn’t it? I’ve seen your name on the tabloid websites.” A false, plastic smile stretched across the woman’s face. “I’m Princess Rose of the Netherlands. I’m sure you know my name, altogether too well.”
Before Lisa could answer, Princess Rose sat beside her on the rim of the fountain, drawing her fingers over the ridge. Behind them, a small boy fell to the ground, scraping his knee. He wailed.
“So,” Princess Rose began, her voice far too chipper. “I’m sure you’d like to know why I’m here.”
“Absolutely,” Lisa said, her eyebrows high. “That would be a wonderful jumping off point.”
Princess Rose laughed falsely. “They said you had a good sense of humor, and they weren’t wrong. But here’s the deal, Lisa. I know about the baby. I know you tricked my fiancé into cheating on me with you. And I’m here to offer you a chance to make it right. Right as rain, as you Americans say.”
“Hmm,” Lisa said, folding her fingers over her knee. “I’m all ears.”
