Royal Wedding - Meg Cabot Page 0,101

“That was . . . that was . . .”

“Was that enough?” I asked him as Michael tugged on my hand. Other paparazzi, having heard through their mysterious paparazzi underground that I was giving interviews, were rushing over to shout questions of their own, and the scene outside the diner was getting a little chaotic. Lars was beginning to lose it. He doesn’t like uncontrolled venues.

“More than enough,” Brian gushed. “I’ll post it right away. Thank you. Thank you!”

“No, thank you,” I said, and allowed myself to be rushed into the waiting car.

Brian was as good as his word. He did post the interview about a half hour later. And less than fifteen minutes after that, it was picked up by every major news outlet, where it’s received overall positive feedback (though Dominique is upset that I didn’t clear it, or my talking points, through her first).

That’s the good news. The bad news is, when I finally located my grandmother, my worst fears were confirmed:

She was trying to give my little sister a makeover.

Maybe it’s the hormones (I guess I’ll be saying that a lot for the next few months), but suddenly I found myself running around Paolo’s salon, screaming, “There’s nothing wrong with my sister’s hair!”

Everyone stared at me in complete shock, especially Paolo.

“Principessa,” he said, holding a hair dryer over a smocked Olivia’s soaking-wet head. “Calm down. I only give her the blowout. You want I let her catch the cold going around with the damp hair?”

Okay, maybe I overreacted. Olivia obviously loves her new blue nails and spiral curls (and Grandmère, and I don’t think it’s only because Grandmère has allowed her to name the new poodle Snowball, of all things).

But sometimes I think the entire world has gone mad.

That’s when Michael realized he’d forgotten an important meeting at the office and left.

• Note to self: Is it possible Michael left only because he couldn’t handle all the estrogen in the room from three—possibly more, if either of the babies is a girl—female Renaldos? Check with his assistant to see if he really had a meeting. No, don’t. Do not be this person.

After everyone had calmed down a bit, Grandmère and Olivia and “Snowball” and Rommel and I went to lunch at the Four Seasons (for “bonding” time), where I ordered every dessert on the menu because Olivia didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about anything else, and that’s what I felt like eating anyway.

(Although Grandmère remarked about how I ought to be “slimming” before the wedding, not trying to increase my caloric intake as much as possible. HA! Wait until she finds out the truth.)

Now we’re going back to the hotel because Grandmère says that’s where Dad is and he’s going to “hear about” my appalling behavior.

He’s going to “hear about” a lot more than that.

Things to do:

1. Make appointment with ob-gyn.

2. Break the news to Mom that she’s going to be a grandmother. Make sure she knows none of her friends can have the placenta for their weird art projects!

3. Tell Lilly she’s going to be an aunt. Ask her to be godmother? But no fairy jokes.

4. Start interviewing nannies. No robots.

5. Ask Lana what labor feels like No, better not ask Lana anything

6. Ask the vet how to prepare Fat Louie for a new baby. Will he be jealous?

7. What if Michael wants Boris to be godfather? NO.

CHAPTER 66

7:00 p.m., Thursday, May 7

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

Everything is a disaster.

When I got to Grandmère’s this afternoon and went into the library to speak to my dad, I interrupted a meeting he was having. A meeting with Olivia’s aunt and uncle and their lawyer, Bill Jenkins, Annabelle’s dad.

Actually, I didn’t know it was Olivia’s uncle because I’d never seen him before (except in the surveillance photos José had taken), but he had red hair and was wearing a light gray suit with a shirt that was open at the collar to show a lot of gold necklaces. So naturally I assumed he was Grandmère’s nemesis, the “bohunk ginger.”

Annabelle’s dad looked exactly like her, only much larger, male, and wearing a suit and tie instead of a schoolgirl uniform.

It turned out neither of my guesses were wrong.

“What it boils down to, Your Highness,” Mr. Jenkins was saying as I walked in, “is that my client is not willing at this time to give up her—”

“Oh,” I said, startled. “I beg your pardon.”

“It’s all right,” my father said, looking weary. “You might as well hear this.”

“Hear what?” I asked.