Like about how with my luck, Michael will end up marrying Judith Gershner, so that even if I do ever get the guts to break up with Kenny, I will still never get a chance to be with the man I truly love.

And probably, given my luck, it will turn out that Sebastiano isn't just in town to design me a dress for my royal introduction, but to kill me so that he can assume the throne of Genovia himself.

Or, as Sebastiano would say, 'ass' the throne.

Seriously. That kind of stuff happens on Baywatch all the time. You wouldn't believe the number of royal family members Mitch has had to save from assassination.

Like supposing I put on the dress that Sebastiano has designed for me to wear when I'm introduced to the people of Genovia and it ends up squeezing me to death, just like that corset Snow White puts on in the original version of her story by the Brothers Grimm. You know, the part they left out of the Disney movie because it was too gruesome.

Anyway, what if the dress squeezes me to death and then I'm lying in my coffin, looking all pale and queenly, and Michael comes to my funeral and ends up gazing down at me and doesn't realize until right then that he has always loved me?

Then he'll have to break up with Judith Gershner.

Hey. It could happen.

OK, well, probably not, but thinking about that was better than listening to Grandmere and Sebastiano talk about me as if I wasn't even there.

I was roused from my pleasant little fantasy about Michael pining for me for the rest of his life by Sebastiano saying suddenly, 'She has bute bone struck,' which, when I realized I was the she he was referring to, I took to be a compliment about my

bone structure.

Only a second later it wasn't such a compliment when he went, 'I put make-up on her that make her look like a mod.'

Which, of course, is insulting because a nice person would say that I already look like a model (although of course I don't).

Grandmere certainly wasn't about to come to my. defence, however. She was feeding bits of her leftover veal marsala to Rommel, who was sitting on her lap shivering as usual since all of his fur fell out due to canine allergies.

'I wouldn't count on her father letting you,' she said to Sebastiano. 'Philippe is hopelessly old-fashioned.'

Which is so the pot calling the kettle black! I mean, Grandmere still thinks that cats go around trying to suck the breath out of their owners while they are sleeping. Seriously. She is always trying to convince me to give Fat Louie away.

So while Grandmere was going on about how old-fashioned her son is, I got up and joined him on the balcony.

He was checking his messages on his mobile. He's supposed to play racquetball tomorrow with the prime minister of France, who is in town for the same summit as the Emperor of Japan.

'Mia,' he said, when he saw me. 'What are you doing out here? It's freezing. Go back inside.'

'I will in a minute,' I said. I stood there next to him and looked out over the city. It really is kind of awe-inspiring, the view of Manhattan from the penthouse of the Plaza Hotel. I mean, you look at all those lights in all those windows and you think, for each light there's probably at least one person, but maybe even more, maybe even like ten people, and that's, well, pretty mind-boggling.

I've lived in Manhattan my whole life but it still impresses me.

Anyway, while I was standing there, looking at all the lights, I suddenly realized that one of them probably belonged to Judith Gershner. Judith was probably sitting in her room right this moment cloning something new. A pigeon or whatever. I got yet another flash of her and Michael looking down at me after I'd split open my tongue. Hmm, let me see: girl who can clone

things, or girl who bit her own tongue? I don't know, which girl would you choose?

My dad must have noticed something was wrong, since he went, 'Look, I know Sebastiano is a bit much, but just put up with him for the next couple of weeks. For my sake.'

'I wasn't thinking about Sebastiano,' I said sadly.

My dad made this grunting noise but he made no move to go back inside, even though it was about forty degrees out there

and my dad, well, he's completely bald. I could see that the tips of his ears were getting red with cold, but still he didn't budge. He didn't even have a coat on, just one of his ubiquitous charcoal-grey Armani suits.

I figured this was invitation enough to go on. You see, ordinarily my dad is not who I would go to first if I had a problem. Not that we're not close. It's just that, you know, he's a guy. What does he know about teenage girls?

On the other hand, he's had a lot of experience in the romance department so I figured he might just be able to offer some insight into this particular dilemma.

'Dad,' I said. 'What do you do if you like someone but they don't, you know, know it?'

My dad went, 'If Kenny doesn't know you like him by now then I'm afraid he's never going to get the message. Haven't you been out with him every weekend since Halloween?'

This is the problem with having a bodyguard who is on your father's payroll: all of your personal business totally gets discussed behind your back.

'I'm not talking about Kenny, Dad,' I said. 'It's someone else. Only like I said, he doesn't know I like him.'

'What's wrong with Kenny?' my dad wanted to know. 'I like Kenny.'

Of course my dad likes Kenny. Because the chances of me and Kenny ever getting past first base are like nil. What father doesn't want his teenage daughter to date a guy like that?