Tessa - 6 Weeks

I am going to vomit.

I think. Maybe not. But if I do, it will prove rather inconvenient since my father-in-law, King Winston, is hosting a state dinner to celebrate four hundred years of peace between Avonia and our surrounding nations of Belgium, The Netherlands, and the UK. Vomiting isn’t exactly considered acceptable behaviour at these things, but I’m afraid there’s a very good chance it’s going to happen anyway. Unfortunately, I’m not only seated at the center of a table for one hundred twenty-two, I’m also dressed in a Dior gown that frankly is very restrictive and therefore will definitely not allow me to move quickly enough to get out of the dining hall.

I’m also seated next to the King of Belgium—an avid hunter, as luck would have it—who is currently regaling me with a most detailed account of how to properly clean a duck the Belgian way and with every word, I feel slightly more nauseous.

“...dig around in the chest cavity until you find the entrails. You do not want to leave it...”

Entrails? Oh, no. Please stop talking about entrails.

“...keep the heart and liver in a plastic bag...”

Burp. Maybe if I try that slow breathing technique, I’ll feel better. Yes, I’ll pretend to listen while I concentrate on breathing in calm, cleansing air, two, three – nope. Shit. There is absolutely no way I’ll be able to get up and scurry out of the room before—

Oh, there it is. I have vomited in my nearly empty soup bowl.

Four times.

Fuckity fuck.

I daintily dab at the corners of my mouth, then push my chair back. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty,” I say to the king, who is now wiping recycled black truffle soup off his lapels. “My, that certainly splashed a lot more than I thought it would.  My apologies.”

The entire room went silent sometime between my second and third heave, and now I can feel one hundred twenty-one sets of eyes on me as I hurry out of the room, burping and gagging. I wave a hand at the string quartet, who have stopped playing and are also staring at me, mouths agape.

“That was a lovely tune. Please continue.”

I give them a little nod and attempt a grin, but I’m sure with the green tint to my face, it’s coming off as creepy rather than warm. A hand on my elbow takes me by surprise. I look up to see Arthur, who truly is a prince of a husband.

“Nice aim. You almost got it all in the bowl this time.”

He gives me a small wink as he wraps one arm behind my back. We make it out into the hallway with our bodyguards, Ollie and Xavier, flanking us. As soon as the doors are closed behind us, I stop and hold out my wrists. Xavier peels off the diamond tennis bracelet and replaces it with a Sea-band, checking to make sure it’s applied directly to the proper pressure point before he does my other wrist. Xavier swears by Sea-bands based on his days in the Navy, but I’m not convinced.

“There you go, Your Highness,” he says. “In a few minutes, you’ll be right as rain.”

“Thank you, Xavier.” I take off my tiara and necklace, then hand them to him. “Can you please return these to the vault?”

“Certainly. Let’s just get you to your room first.”

Arthur gives him a nod. “I’ve got her. You take care of the jewels.” His tone is a little sharp, which I’ve noticed is happening more since we found out about the baby.

Xavier, who doesn’t seem fazed, smiles and nods before turning toward the vault room. Ollie, who it turns out has a very weak stomach for a man of his size and profession, follows us at a safe distance. Yesterday, he dry heaved repeatedly when I got sick in the limo.

Feeling a wave of dizziness, I close my eyes for a second. “Why did I think I could manage this dinner? I’m such an idiot.”

“Nonsense. You’re an optimist. I love that about you.” Arthur gives me a peck on the forehead. “Besides, it would have been a huge scandal had you not shown up. The press would have had us on the verge of divorce before the desserts were brought out.”

“I suppose, but I’m sure they’ll find a way to turn my most recent undignified incident into something sinister, so either way, I’m really no closer to becoming a proper princess, am I?”

“Nonsense, you’re every bit the perfect princess.”

“Ha! I just yakked on the King of Belgium. I’m neither perfect nor proper.”

“Proper’s dull as all hell. Now, can you make it to our apartment, or do we need to make a stop at the ladies’ room?”

“I think I can make it.” I lean my head on his shoulder while we slowly walk toward the private residence wing of our home, Valcourt Palace.

He lets go of me for as long as it takes him to pluck a Ming dynasty vase out of a niche in the wall. “Just in case.”

“Oh no, Arthur, I could never vomit into a priceless vase.”

He shrugs. “You’re my princess. Nothing’s too good for your vomit. Besides, it can be much more easily washed than my tux.” He’s referring to three days ago, when I ruined his navel uniform just as we were on our way to the academy for the graduation ceremony. 

I cringe at the memory of it, and my stomach churns a little more. “You should go back to the dinner. I’ll be fine.”

“And yet, I’m still going to walk you to our room, help you get undressed, and get you into bed,” he says. “But not in the fun way.”

“The fun way was what ended with me vomiting on the King of Belgium.”

Arthur stifles a laugh. “I know I shouldn’t find it funny, but my God, the look on his face was absolute perfection. I assume he was going on about how to properly clean a duck.”

“He kept talking about the entrails.” I say, then burp at the memory.

We cross the Grande Hall, then make our way to the lift. When the doors slide open, I hesitate slightly, realizing the stairs might be a safer option.

“Don’t even think about the stairs. There’s no way you should walk up three flights in your condition. Besides, we’ve got the vase with us.” He ushers me onto the lift, then hits the button.

Ollie stays in the hall, looking horrified, and says, “Right, then. I’ll just meet you up there.”

When the doors open twelve seconds later, Ollie is waiting. Arthur holds the vase—which is no longer in mint condition—at arm’s length. Ollie jumps out of the way and makes a small gagging sound.

I wobble a little as I look up at Arthur. “Sorry.”

Arthur looks a little green himself but nods bravely. “No need to apologize. I’m the one who got you into this mess in the first place.”

“Yes, that’s right. You should really be apologizing to me.”

We make our way to our apartment, and within five minutes Arthur has me tucked safely in bed in my Sponge Bob pajamas, which I know are not exactly befitting a future queen, I but still can’t seem to bring myself to give them up.

Arthur tucks a cleaning bucket beside me on the bed. Since the ‘morning-noon-and-night sickness’ hit, I’ve developed a strange attachment to ‘Buckety,’ bringing him everywhere with me (except, of course, tonight’s celebration). I stroke the bucket gratefully while Dexter, our pot-bellied pig, stands next to Arthur, staring at me with sad eyes. Pigs are smart, and this one seems to realize I’m really not feeling well. He’s been following me wherever I go, which is a real shift, as he used to be Arthur’s pig through and through. It’s very sweet, except he does smell, like, well, a pig, which isn’t always helpful in me keeping the contents of my stomach in my stomach.

I look up at Arthur. He’s so handsome in his black tie and crown. How is this man my husband? I’m a failed reporter-turned-blogger, and yet here I am, in the bed of the heir apparent.

“I guess the cat will be out of the bag now that I’ve done it in public.”

We’ve been trying to keep the pregnancy a secret until I hit the second trimester, but it seems as though that ship has now sailed. In true Tessa fashion, I’ve gone and humiliated myself publicly, yet again.

“I can just imagine what your father will have to say, not to mention that awful Dylan.”

Dylan Sinclair is a media consultant the King hired shortly after Arthur and I had a little mishap on the beach in Maui on our honeymoon when we traveled to what we thought was the most secluded beach on the island so I could sunbathe topless. It was a ‘we’re wild, young, free, and on our honeymoon’ thing. But apparently, that type of freedom is not for members of the royal family because it turns out we weren’t as alone as we thought, so now the entire world has seen my tatas. Not exactly kosher for the consort to the future king.

Anyway, Dylan has quickly become the bane of my existence. She likes to hold weekly meetings with me to discuss my popularity—or lack thereof, more accurately—using her talents as a Google analytics wizard combined with her knowledge of marketing to basically destroy my ego on every Monday afternoon. So, that's a lovely way to start my week, don't you think?

The senior advisers all seem to think she’s a PR genius, which quite honestly is irritating beyond belief, since all she does is boost the king’s already sizable ego and find new ways to make sure I know I’m a total failure. Dylan keeps a “Days Without Incident” counter on the whiteboard in her office, which is utterly humiliating. Arthur’s questioned her about it, and she insists it’s to measure the movements of all palace staff and the entire royal family, but we both know it’s really about me.

I sigh and stare up at him. “I made it to sixty-eight days today. My longest stretch yet.”

“By my account, it’s really ninety-four days. It’s completely unfair to count tripping over a dog.”

Ah, yes, on a trip to London this past winter, I tripped on one of the Queen of England’s beloved corgis and broke his short little leg, which made me ever so popular with dog lovers everywhere. And British people, for that matter.

My gut tenses at the memory. “He honestly came out of nowhere.”

“Could’ve happened to anyone, really,” Arthur says.

“But it didn’t. It happened to me,” I say, slapping my hand over my eyes. “Just like I’m the one who ruined the celebration tonight.”

“You haven’t ruined anything. By now, everyone will have forgotten about it.”

I raise one eyebrow at him.

“Well, by next week, then.” He nods confidently, even though we both know the only thing to make people forget will be my next embarrassing incident.

“In the meantime, come Monday, I’m going to be subjected to another meeting with Dylan about how I can ‘improve my image.’”

“I’ll cancel it.” Arthur gives me a kiss on the forehead, then smiles at me. “You shouldn’t be subjected to such nonsense, especially not when you’re so ill.”

“No, don’t cancel it. If I’m going to earn the respect of the staff, I can’t be hiding behind you while you fight my battles for me.”

“But I enjoy fighting your battles for you. It makes me feel very manly, like I’ve just come back into the cave with a sabre-toothed cat over my shoulder for dinner,” he says with a little grin.

“Oh my God. You’re really just a very well-dressed, well-spoken Neanderthal.”

“Admit it. You kind of love that about me.”

“I love that you want to fight my battles for me. And I love that you won’t because you realize that in the end, it would hurt me if you did.”

Arthur stares at me for a moment, then says, “That was some Jedi mind trick shit, just now. Giving me credit for something I don’t want to do but now will because it will both please you and make me seem smart.”

“I’ll have to use my Jedi mind trickery to fool the people of the kingdom into liking me. Then maybe we can fire Dylan.”

“You won’t have to trick them. When the people finally figure out who you are, they’re going to love you.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you won me over, and I don’t like anyone.”

I smile, my agitation giving way to a cozy, sleepy feeling. “You should go. Some of the world’s most important people are waiting for you so they can move on to the entrée.”

“Oh, right, them,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I wish I didn’t have to. I’d like nothing more than to just lay around in bed with you all evening.”

“I won’t be fun anyway,” I say, yawning. “I’m just going to fall asleep.”

“Do you want me to have someone come sit with you in case you...”

I shake my head and lower my heavy eyelids. “No. Now that there are no food smells anywhere near me, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you certain? I’m happy—”

“Thank you, but I’m fine now. I promise.” I rub the back of his hand. “You really are turning out to be a slightly above average husband.”

“Then I should dial it back a bit, or you’re going to expect this type of care all the time,” he says with a grin. “Now get some sleep, Sponge Tessa.”

“Life’s better in Bikini Bottom,” I murmur as I drift off to sleep.

***

“THIS IS VERONICA PLATT, from the ABNC desk. At the top of the hour, scandal at Valcourt Palace last night as the Duchess of Wellingbourne vomits on the reigning monarch of Avonia’s biggest trade partner during the Four Hundred Years of Peace State Dinner. Has Princess Tessa developed a troubling drinking habit in her short tenure as princess? And what will be the impact on trade with Belgium? We’ll answer these questions and give you a preview of this summer’s hottest swim wear after this commercial break.”

***

TEXT FROM BRAM: Tessa, did you really get hammered at the dinner last night and yak all over the King of Belgium? Please tell me you did. That would be the most epic thing you’ve ever done. Also, what are you getting Mum for her sixty-fifth? Lars has been all over me to pitch in on a new refrigerator for her. Are you in on that?

Text from Mum: Tessa, it’s your mum. Call me IMMEDIATELY. The phone’s been ringing off the hook about you having a drinking problem. I’m not answering anyone until you’ve called me back but I’m pretty sure Grace next door is going to come knocking any minute and I can’t hide in my room because I’ve got a batch of lemon tarts in the oven. 

Text from Nikki: Don’t worry about what happened last night. Once you make the official announcement, everyone will forget about Vomitgate (yeah, they named it already). I’m just glad it wasn’t me who accidentally spilled the beans. Call me as soon as you can.

Voice Message from Mum (who is speaking in hurried, hushed tone): Tessa, it’s Mum. How can you be ignoring your texts at a time like this? I’m hiding in the main floor bathroom but I can hear Grace next door tapping on the kitchen window and my lemon tarts are going to be ready any minute. She won’t go away either. She knows I’m here because the car’s in the drive. For God’s sake, just text one word to me, yes, or no.

Text from Me to Mum: No. I am obviously not an alcoholic. Just not feeling well.

Mum: Thanks, Twinkle. I’ll tell Grace. Feel better soon! Have someone make you some ginger tea.