It was very soothing.
Three things I’m grateful for:
1. Fair judges.
2. My mother, for never entering me in a baby beauty pageant.
3. Austrian schnaps.
CHAPTER 41
5:05 p.m., Tuesday, May 5
Third-Floor Apartment
Consulate General of Genovia
Rate the Royals Rating: 7
I didn’t think things could get much worse, but everyone knows the minute you think this, they do. It’s like saying, “I think I’ll go to the pool today.” The second you say this, the sun disappears behind a cloud.
I was filling out baby Iris’s beauty pageant essay when my phone rang.
It was my father’s office, wanting to know when was the most convenient time for me to meet with “the Prince of Genovia and his lawyers.”
“His lawyers? Why does Dad need me to meet with his lawyers?” I asked.
“I believe it’s to discuss your prenuptial agreement, Your Highness,” his assistant said. “What day is best for you?”
“Prenup? My father wants me to get my fiancé to sign a prenup?”
“Why, yes. Yes, Your Highness, he does.”
I cannot believe this.
I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked, given what I know about my family.
But this is low, even for them. And frankly, the kind of thing I’d expect from Grandmère, not Dad.
But Marielle, Dad’s assistant, assured me that the prince is very concerned about protecting my (and the family’s) “financial interests.” A prenup is “standard” in all Genovian royal marriages (oh, really? Because there have been so many?) and are really meant to protect the assets of both parties.
But I know what all this actually means:
It means that somewhere deep down inside, Dad must believe the stupid rumor started by the Post. As if that is why Michael has been dating me on and off since the ninth grade: because he has been plotting to take advantage of me—like Bud took advantage of Tiffany on Judge Judy.
Only instead of refusing to pay half the rent and taking off to Atlantic City with an ex-girlfriend in a new Corvette, Michael is only marrying me to reincorporate Pavlov Surgical in Genovia in order to reduce its tax burden.
Except that I don’t need Judge Judy to rule on how stupid this idea is. I told Marielle that a good time for me to meet with the prince and his lawyers about my prenup would be “never.”
“I beg your pardon?” she said, sounding surprised.
“You heard me. Never. Also, please tell my father to call me, as I have something important I’d like to discuss with him.”
When Marielle asked politely if she could know “the nature of the matter” I’d like to discuss with my father, I said: “Yes, please tell him it has to do with Olivia Grace Clarisse Mignonette Harrison.”
Then I hung up the phone.
What is wrong with me? I don’t know.
I can’t even blame the schnaps because I only had a few sips.
CHAPTER 42
7:45 p.m., Tuesday, May 5
Third-Floor Apartment
Consulate General of Genovia
Rate the Royals Rating: 7
I was eating cheese popcorn while checking on my phone to see if there is a Wiki-How for “How to Discuss Your Dad’s Secret Love Child with Him” (there is not. This seems like a missed opportunity) when the RGG buzzed up and announced, “Your Highness, your father is here.”
“Uh . . . send him up,” I said into the intercom (after I’d got done choking). What else was I supposed to do?
Then I ran around really fast, getting rid of all evidence that I’d been drinking, even though of course I am an adult, and should be able to drink if I want to.
When I opened the door, I was shocked. Dad looks awful. I mean, he hasn’t been looking too good anyway since his arrest, all pasty-faced and sort of green around the gills (although that could have been partly due to the excessive celebration in which he engaged last night over my engagement. Or possibly he’s been eating prewashed lettuce from California).
But then I realized that for some reason he’d taken it into his head to shave off his mustache, which he’s had for quite some time now, and which has become as distinctive a part of his look as his bald head (the hair on his scalp never did grow back after the chemo, but he’s been rockin’ a ’stache since growing one for a Save the Children charity drive one “Mo”-vember, and we all said how sporty he looked in it).
It’s frightening how horrible he looks without it!
“Dad, what happened?” I couldn’t help blurting when I saw him.
“What happened? What do you mean, what happened?” he demanded. “You know about your sister, that’s what happened.”
He barged in past me, and then went to lie down on my couch like he was in his analyst’s office, or something.
“No,” I said, shutting the door. “I mean what happened to your face? Where’s your mustache?”
“Oh, that.” He touched his upper lip, which for the first time I realized he doesn’t have—an upper lip, I mean. It’s been hidden under a patch of sandy-colored hair for so long, I stopped noticing he only has a lower, no upper, lip. “I shaved it off. Apparently only men who work in the pornography industry have mustaches anymore.”
“Dad, who told you that? It isn’t true. You should grow yours back. You look—” I wanted to say naked without it, but thought that might hurt his feelings, so instead I said, “Less dignified without it.”