“Mia, is that a baby bump or did you just have too much of that falafel we saw delivered an hour ago?”

“Mia, how does it feel to know that seventy-four percent of those surveyed think Kate Middleton wore it better?”

“Mia, why hasn’t Michael put a ring on it?”

I tried to show Michael my twitch earlier on FaceTime, but he said my eye looked perfectly normal to him.

“If you’re twitchy, though, Mia, it’s probably in nervous anticipation at the prospect of going out with me, the world’s greatest lover.”

“I thought we agreed we weren’t going to read our own press,” I reminded him.

“How can I help it?” he asked. “Especially since my erotic powers seemingly extend all the way to the Upper East Side, where they’ve rendered you sex mad.”

“Ha ha ha. You probably planted that story yourself.”

“You’ve grown so jaded and cynical since I last saw you. But really, Mia,” he said, finally getting serious. “I think you’re just stressing too much about all of this. I’m not saying things aren’t bad—they are. But maybe all you need is to get away for a day or two.”

“Away? How am I possibly going to get away? And where am I going to go that the press can’t follow me and ask about my alleged baby bump or how my dad looks in his orange jumpsuit?”

“Good question. Let me work on it.”

I know he’s just trying to help, but really, how can I go away with Dad in so much trouble and the country in such an uproar and the election so close and Mom being a new widow and Grandmère as crazy as ever?

Plus my boyfriend having rendered me sex mad, of course.

No. Just no.

But of course I couldn’t tell Dr. Delgado any of this. It’s like my lips have been frozen into a permanent smile by all my media training (and compartmentalizing of my feelings).

“Well, that’s fine, then,” the doctor said, beaming.

Fine? It’s so not fine. Was it really so wrong of me to think that maybe, possibly, the palace physician might give me a little something to keep my eyelid from jumping around like a Chihuahua at dinnertime, or at least help me not lie awake all night?

And then when I do manage to fall asleep I have nightmares, like the one I had last night that I was married to Bruce Willis, and whenever Bruce got out of the shower, he would dry off his naughty parts while singing the song “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”

I can’t even tell Michael this. How do you explain it to the kindly old physician they found who is still willing to do house calls?

You cannot.

“I’ll make sure the lab gets the blood and urine samples you insisted I take, Your Highness,” Dr. Delgado said. “I should have the results in about a week. But I have to say that medically, I doubt they’ll find anything wrong. Your pulse is strong, your skin tone looks even, your weight is within the normal range for your height. Despite this twitch you say you have—which frankly I can’t see—and your fingernails, which I see that you bite, you seem to be glowing with health.”

Damn! He would notice my fingernails. I must be the only female left on the entire planet who doesn’t get manicures because there’s nothing left of my fingernails to file, let alone paint.

“Maybe,” I said, trying to keep the eagerness out of my voice so I wouldn’t sound like one of those crazed Oxy-addicts on Intervention, “I should be written a prescription for a very mild mood stabilizer.”

“Oh, no,” Dr. Delgado said. “Nail-biting is a bad habit, but very common, and hardly worth treating psychopharmacologically. The worst that could happen from compulsive nail-biting is that you might incur an infection, or pick up a pinworm.”

Oh my God. I am never biting my nails again. At least not before thoroughly washing them in antibacterial soap.

“What I suggest you try,” he added as he packed up his bag, “is journaling.”

“Journaling?” Was he joking?

He was not.

“Why yes, I see you’ve heard of it. Journaling has been shown to reduce stress and help with problem solving. My wife keeps what she calls a gratitude journal. She writes down three things every day for which she feels grateful. She keeps a dream journal as well. She says it’s helped tremendously, especially with her mood swings. You should try it. Well, I’ll be in touch in about a week about that blood work. Good day, Princess!”

And then he left.

Which leaves me here. Journaling.

Why couldn’t I have lied to make myself seem more pathetic so he’d have written me a prescription for an antianxiety medication, or at least a low-dose sleeping pill? Even the veterinarian does this for Fat Louie when I take him on the private jet back and forth to Genovia, and Fat Louie is a cat.

Granted, he’s an extremely elderly cat who now needs a tiny staircase to climb up and down from my bed and tends to revenge-poop on everything when he doesn’t get his own way. But still. Why does a cat get tranquilizers but the expensive concierge doctor we hired will not give them to me?

Oh, dear, I just read that over, and it sounds a bit odd. Of course I don’t revenge-poop on things when I don’t get my own way. I’m simply saying that it seems a bit unfair that we have the one concierge doctor in all of Manhattan who refuses to prescribe antianxiety medication. I’m sure every other celebrity (and royal) is loaded up on them.

•   Note to self: Check on this. This would explain a lot about their behavior, actually.