Royal Wedding - Meg Cabot Page 0,17

sober him up in time for his own wedding, but it was too late. Delirium tremens nearly took the poor boy off. But I’m sorry to be burdening you with all this, Amelia. This should be a very special time for you, so close to your birthday. You should be flitting from social engagement to social engagement and shopping for folderols, enjoying the companionship of your friends while you still can, before you have to settle down to the very hard work of providing the country with an heir. Let me worry about the governance of the monarchy. You worry about being young and having fun.”

It was amazing how she was able to say all this, considering how much she’d had to drink—really, it’s a miracle of science she’s lived this long. Every other week, it seems, they announce the results of some new study warning that women who consume more than one alcoholic beverage a day increase their risk of cancer by quite a few percentage points.

But Grandmère, who has at least six to eight drinks a day, plus smokes the equivalent of multiple packs of cigarettes (though it’s hard to tell with these new vapor ones), keeps going strong.

My mother says it’s because she’s pickled.

Still, Grandmère had a point about trying to get along with Cousin Ivan’s supporters instead of antagonizing them. It’s annoying how often my grandmother is right.

“Okay, Grandmère,” I said. “I’ll play along with your little game. But Cousin Ivan isn’t going to win. We can still beat him. I know we can.”

“I’d be quite interested to hear your strategy,” Grandmère said, blowing a long stream of orange-scented smoke (despite the claims of the vapor companies, I’m quite sure there is still nicotine in the “juice” Grandmère smokes). “Unless of course you’re planning to get yourself photographed with him in a compromising position. But I’m afraid that will only make him more popular, and forever cement your reputation as the Princess of Gen-HO-via.”

This was a low blow, and disheartening to think that even my own grandmother thinks that the only way women can get ahead in this day and age is with their sexuality.

I was so disgusted that I had no choice but to leave the dining room and go back to my own apartment and lie down with a cool cloth on my forehead and watch television (which is quite hard to do when your eye is twitching nonstop).

CHAPTER 9

12:01 a.m., Friday, May 1

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

New York City

Michael just texted.

Michael Moscovitz “FPC”*: Wanted to be the first one to wish you a happy birthday. Wish I was there.

*Future Prince Consort

HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”: No you don’t. I can still hear them down there. They’re drinking shots and comparing Genovian Yacht Classic horror stories.

What could turn the Genovian Yacht Classic into a horror story? Protesters?

Worse. Computer programmers.

The Chosen People? What have we done now?

You came sweeping in with your advanced technology and won all the trophies and made them feel inferior.

It’s not only our advanced technology that makes them feel inferior.

Is sex really all men ever think about?

Not always, sometimes we think about food. Why, is that not what women think about all the time?

No, we think about it—and food—all the time, too, but more in a narrative context where the girl ends up being trapped in a secret room full of cake with a bed in the middle of it and then you come in dressed in full armor and go, “Put down that cake and prithee get naked.”

Noted, though I’m not sure how the sex works with the armor. What was with going outside with your grandma in front of those protesters tonight?

Oh, nothing.

They weren’t throwing fruit over nothing.

What are you wearing?

Mia, I’m serious about this.

I’m serious, too. The armor has a codpiece. I’ve researched it.

We’re going to discuss this tomorrow.

Couldn’t we discuss it now? I think I need a professional trained in extinguishing fires. Because there’s one going on in my pants.

I meant we’re going to discuss the protesters.

Before or after the show of shows, story of stories, sights of all sights?

If by that you mean Cirque du Soleil, how would you feel if we skipped that particular tradition this year?

Uh, Michael, you know Grandmère always pays extra for front-row VIP seats.

What if I’ve come up with something better for us to do?

What could be better than a dramatic mix of circus arts and street entertainment performed live under a large tent near New York