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Except it’s totally unlikely Dad would be getting anybody pregnant, since the whole reason I was his heir, instead of some legitimately produced offspring, is that he is no longer fertile, due to the massive doses of chemotherapy that cured his testicular cancer. But I suppose Grandmère is still in denial about this, considering what a disappointing heir I’ve turned out to be.
It was at this point that a strange moaning noise came out from under Grandmère’s chair. We both looked down. Rommel, Grandmère’s miniature poodle, was cowering in fright at the sight of me.
I know I am hideous and all of that, but really, it’s ridiculous how scared that dog is of me. And I love animals!
But even St. Francis of Assisi would have a hard time appreciating Rommel. I mean, first of all, he recently has developed a nervous disorder (if you ask me, it’s from living in such close proximity to my grandmother) that made all his fur fall out, so Grandmère dresses him up in little sweaters and coats so he won’t catch cold.
Today Rommel had on a mink bolero jacket. I am not even joking. It was dyed lavender to match
the one slung across Grandmère’s shoulders. It is horrifying enough to see a person wearing fur, but it is a thousand times worse to see an animal wearing another animal’s fur.
“Rommel,” Grandmère yelled at the dog. “Stop that growling.”
Except that Rommel wasn’t growling. He was moaning. Moaning with fright. At the sight of me. ME!
How many times in one day must I be humiliated?
“Oh, you stupid dog.” Grandmère reached down and picked Rommel up, much to his unhappiness. You could tell her diamond brooches were poking him in the spine (there is no fat on him at all, and since he doesn’t have any fur, he is especially sensitive to pointy objects), but even though he wriggled to be free, she wouldn’t let go of him.
“Now, Amelia,” Grandmère said. “I need your mother and whatever-his-name-is to write their guests’ names and addresses down tonight so I can have the invitations messengered tomorrow. I know your mother is going to want to invite some of those more, ahem, free-spirited friends of hers, Mia, but I think it would be better if perhaps if they just stood outside with the reporters and tourists and waved as she climbed in and out of the limo. That way they’ll still have a feeling of belonging, but they won’t make anyone uncomfortable with their unattractive hairstyles and ill-fitting attire.”
“Grandmère,” I said. “I really think—”
“And what do you think about this dress?” Grandmère held up a picture of a Vera Wang wedding gown with a big poofy skirt that my mom wouldn’t be caught dead in.
Vigo went, “No, no, Your Highness. I really think this is more the thing.” Then he held up a photo of a slinky Armani number that my mom similarly wouldn’t be caught dead in.
“Uh, Grandmère,” I said. “This is all really nice of you, but my mom definitely doesn’t want a big wedding. Really. Definitely.”
“Pfuit,” Grandmère said. Pfuit is French for “No,” duh. “She will when she sees the luscious hors d’œuvres they’ll be serving at the reception. Tell her about them, Vigo.”
Vigo said with relish: “Truffle-filled mushroom caps, asparagus tips wrapped in salmon slivers, pea pods stuffed with goat cheese, endive with crumbles of blue cheese inside each gently furled leaf. . . .”
I said, “Uh, Grandmère? No, she won’t. Believe me.”
Grandmère went, “Nonsense. Trust me, Mia, your mother is going to appreciate this someday. Vigo and I will make her wedding day an event she will never forget.”
I had no doubt about that.
I said, “Grandmère, Mom and Mr. G were really planning on something very casual and simple—”
But then Grandmère threw me one of those looks of hers—they are really very scary—and said, in this deadly serious voice, “For three years, while your grandfather was off having the time of his life fighting the Germans, I held those Nazis—not to mention Mussolini—at bay. They lobbed mortars at the palace doors. They tried to drive tanks across my moat. And yet I persevered, through sheer willpower alone. Are you telling me, Amelia, that I cannot convince one pregnant woman to see things my way?”
Well, I’m not saying my mom has anything in common with Mussolini or Nazis, but as far as putting up a resistance to Grandmère? I’d place my money on my mom over a fascist foreign dictator any day.
I could see that reasoning wasn’t going to be effective in this particular case. So I went along with it, listening to Vigo gush over the menu he had picked out, the music he had selected for the ceremony and later, for the reception—even admiring the portfolio of the photographer he had chosen.
It wasn’t until they actually showed me one of the invitations that I realized something.
“The wedding’s this Friday?” I squeaked.
“Yes,” Grandmère said.
“That’s Halloween!” The same day as my mom’s courthouse wedding. Also, incidentally, the same night as Shameeka’s party.
Grandmère looked bored. “What of it?”
“Well, it’s just . . . you know. Halloween.”
