Royal Wedding - Meg Cabot Page 0,90

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).

I could tell she was touched, though she was trying hard not to show it. Her mouth was squeezed into a tiny frown (some of the muscles in her face are permanently frozen from all the Botox she’s had shot into them, but she’s still able to move most of her mouth to varying degrees).

“So this is she?” Grandmère asked grammatically correctly, if not exactly warmly.

“This is she, Grandmère,” I said, poking Olivia in the back. I’d coached her in the car on what to do and say when she met her grandmother, and she pulled it off perfectly . . . almost.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Grandmoth—is that a miniature poodle?”

Olivia’s curtsy wasn’t very graceful to begin with, but she practically fell over herself when she saw the little white powder puff peeking around Grandmère’s still shapely ankle (Grandmère is inordinately proud of the fact that her legs haven’t gone).

“I love poodles!” Olivia cried. “They’re the most intelligent breed of dog. And they’re also very excellent swimmers.”

I hadn’t coached her to say that.

The tiny frown on Grandmère’s face curled ever so slightly into a smile.

“Yes,” she said, trying but failing to sound cold. It’s very difficult to speak coldly to a child expounding on the virtues of your favorite breed of dog. “Poodles are very intelligent, aren’t they?”

Then the two of them stood