This should, I trust, alleviate the refugee crisis for the present time, until we can come up with a more permanent solution.

XOXO

M

Deputy Prime Minister Madame Cécile Dupris “Le Grand Fromage,” to HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”

!!!

I am, as the Americans say, very gung ho about this and dying to know what it’s all about, but for now will proceed as requested.

I was quite startled, Princess, to hear the news about your sister, but am quite gung ho about this as well. Any addition to the family is always pleasant, is it not?

XOXO

C

I’m not entirely sure Madame Dupris knows what gung ho means, but it’s reassuring that we have one normal, intelligent person on the team, anyway, and might possibly pull this whole thing off, after all.

CHAPTER 55

7:05 p.m., Wednesday, May 6

The Plaza Hotel

Rate the Royals Rating: 1

I don’t know how I could have been so stupid. All the signs were there. I suppose I was ignoring them because I didn’t want to have to face the truth.

But I can’t ignore them anymore, especially after I hobbled into Grandmère’s condo a little while ago and there stood J. P. Reynolds-Abernathy IV.

Well, he did say that after his latest movie was a flop, he’d had to take a job working for his uncle.

It’s my own fault for not asking what kind of job, or recognizing that the Reynolds in Lazarres-Reynolds is the same Reynolds as in Reynolds-Abernathy IV.

Isn’t this another kind of conflict of interest, though, not unlike Cousin Ivan’s? J.P. really should have turned down this assignment when it was offered to him. “Oh, no, she’s my ex-girlfriend from high school. I couldn’t possibly work for her family.”

But no. To do that, J.P. would have to have developed some empathy, and why would that have happened? All the signs point to him having only gotten more manipulative since high school. He’s already cornered me once in Grandmère’s kitchen (where I hobbled to get some ice for my foot. I didn’t want to bother anyone by asking for some), where he said in this completely sincere (fake) voice:

“Mia, I hope it doesn’t bother you that I’m here. I thought about messaging you to let you know, but then I realized how insulting that would be, since we’re both mature adults and what we had was so long ago—I mean, it was high school, after all. And you’re engaged to Michael now, so it seemed hardly worth mentioning.”

“Ha ha!” I said breezily. “Of course! Exactly.”

“So no worries, then,” J.P. said. “Water under the bridge.”

Meanwhile, I’m not even sure his uncle’s firm is competent at crisis managing. When François pulled up to the hotel, the entrance was a madhouse. Press was everywhere, trying to elbow their way to a prime spot in front of the red carpet (there really is a red carpet leading up the steps to the front doors of the Plaza Hotel, I guess to make guests feel like celebrities, which is all a lot of people want anymore).

“Ready?” Lars asked us, as François opened the door to the side of the limo. “One, two, three.”

For Olivia’s first time walking a red carpet, she did pretty well—much better than I would have at her age. She had her own cocky grace despite the flashes—which do blind you a bit—and the deafening noise, smiling and waving.

“Olivia, how does it feel to find out you were abandoned at birth by your rich white father?”

“Olivia, are you going to be in your sister’s royal wedding?”

“Olivia, look over here!”

“Olivia, do you think they didn’t acknowledge you before now because you’re black?”

“Olivia, could you sign my cast?”

“Olivia, what’s the first thing you’re going to buy with all the money you’re going to have?”

“Olivia, over here, honey!”

But I kept her hand in mine so she wouldn’t be scared . . .

Although I don’t think she actually was. When she reached the top of the stairs, she did the last thing any of us were expecting, which was to turn to take a quick photo (with the cell phone that Tina had given her) of all the press that was photographing her.

“Well,” Olivia explained, when we got inside and I looked at her questioningly, “I want to remember this.”

I don’t think she quite realizes that this isn’t all going to vanish tomorrow. It’s going to go on and on, forever. Of course she wants to remember it . . .

. . . unlike me, who’d give anything to forget it. In fact, I’d be drinking right now to numb the pain (and my memory), except that my foot hurts too much to get up and go to the liquor cabinet, and I’m certainly not going to ask J.P. to get me a drink, even though he’s asked three times if he can “get me anything.”

Yes, you can, J.P. You can get away from me.

I haven’t had the nerve to tell Michael that J.P. is here (Michael texted to say he’s on his way. His HELV is stuck in all the traffic outside, and the RGG won’t allow him to get out and walk due to “safety” concerns).

J.P. has never been one of Michael’s favorite people. Michael even threatened to punch him once, but managed to restrain himself. I don’t know if he’ll have that kind of self-control now, seeing as how J.P. has grown a mustache (though not as nice as the one my dad used to have) and wears skinny jeans.

Shudder.

Of course there’s one part of all this I do want to remember, and that’s the look on Grandmère’s face when she first opened the door to her condo and saw her only other grandchild (besides me).