Royal Wedding - Meg Cabot Page 0,39
May 4
Grandmère’s Condo, The Plaza Hotel
Rate the Royals Rating: 1
Well, that was . . . I don’t even have words to describe what that was.
But I have to write it all down because it’s the only way I’m ever going to make sense of it, let alone figure out what I’m going to do about it.
It started normally enough—normally enough for my family, anyway—when I walked in and Grandmère didn’t want to talk about it (of course).
All she wanted to do was order us “tea” from room service. She said she couldn’t bear the thought of telling me the “heinous news” on an empty stomach, and of course she’d sent away her assistant, Rolanda, because what we needed to discuss was “so private.”
Except not so private that certain other people don’t know all about it. Only of course I didn’t find that out until later.
“So let’s be honest, Grandmère,” I said, sitting down on one of her overstuffed pink satin-covered Louis Quatorze armchairs (her new decorator has told her that “everything old is new again,” which is another way of saying, “I need a hundred-thousand-dollar commission, so let’s redecorate”).
“There is no heinous news, am I right? You’re simply upset that I caught you using my marriage proposal as a propaganda tool to boost Dad’s image since he got arrested. Or is it that I’m marrying Michael, and not the heir to some wealthy European family? Well, I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to get used to the idea of the next prince consort of Genovia being a Jewish computer genius who looks incredibly good in board shorts.”
“Don’t be a fool, Amelia,” Grandmère said. She was trying to keep Rommel from humping an incredibly ugly antique milking bench for which I happened to know she’d paid sixteen thousand euros. “Why would I want you to marry anyone other than Michael? He saved our lives that summer he fixed the hi-fi at the palace and I was able to cast my vote for my darling Rudolpho on Genovia Can Dance.”
I rolled my eyes. “You mean when he fixed the Wi-Fi.”
“Whatever it’s called. Now get up and help me with this dog.”
I thought she meant Rommel, so I got up to help her place him back in his basket (eighteenth-century French egg-gathering, one thousand euros). But she said, “Not that dog! He’s fine. The other one. Get the other one!”
Yes, Grandmère now owns another dog (although this isn’t the national emergency. I wish).
And while it is very adorable—for now, anyway, the dog still has all its hair—really, people who can’t take proper care of their current pet shouldn’t go out and buy a second one.
“Why?” I demanded, lifting the tiny white powder puff I found digging for a stray cocktail onion under the $40,000 white satin-covered couch. “Why did you get another dog?”
“She’s top of the line,” Grandmère said. “The breeder assured me that any puppies she has with Rommel will be of the highest quality, intelligence, and beauty. And you’re the one who said I needed to solve Rommel’s little . . . problem.”
I was horrified. “By getting him fixed, not by buying him a wife! And look, he’s not even interested in her.” Rommel was humping his thousand-euro French egg-gathering basket.
“Oh, that’s because she isn’t in heat yet,” Grandmère said matter-of-factly.
“But he’ll hump my leg, regardless of whether or not I’m in the mood. Grandmère, this is worse than The Bride of Frankenstein, because instead of building Rommel a girlfriend out of corpses, which he’d have been fine with since he can’t tell inanimate objects from animated ones, you actually went out and bought him a living girlfriend.”
“Stop worrying about the dog, she’s perfectly happy. Show me the ring.”
I put Grandmère’s sweet, innocent new dog down in the kitchen with a bowl of food and another of water, then closed the door to keep her safe from Rommel’s advances (should he choose ever to make any) and went back to show my grandmother the ring Michael had given me.
“As you can see,” I said, “your spies got it wrong. It’s not a sapphire.”
“Good Lord!” she cried. Of course, while I’d been out of the room she’d put on her jeweler’s loupe to examine the stone. “This must be seven carats at least. I didn’t know robot builders made so much money. I have renewed respect for the boy.”
I snatched my hand away from her. “Michael isn’t a boy, he’s a man. And I’ve told you repeatedly he doesn’t build