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“Grandmère,” I’d said. “We’ll go on living in the palace as always—”
“No, we wouldn’t,” Grandmère had said. “The palace would become the residence of the prime minister—whoever that would end up being. Do you really think I could stand to see some POLITICIAN living in my beautiful palace? He’ll probably have the whole place carpeted. In BEIGE.”
Seriously. I’d wanted to wring her neck. “Grandmère. The prime minister would live—well, I don’t know. But someplace else. We’d still be the royal family and still live in the palace and continue doing all the duties we normally do—EXCEPT RULING.”
All she’d had to say to that was, “Well, your father won’t hear of THAT. So you might as well drop it. Really, Amelia, RED nails? Are you trying to give me a stroke?”
Which, all right: I’ll admit this evening seems very important to her. You should have seen how she preened when the Contessa came up to me during the cocktail hour and was like, ?
?Princess Amelia? My goodness! How you’ve grown since I last saw you!”
“Yes,” Grandmère said acidly, glancing at Bella Trevanni’s ginormous stomach. Or, should I say, Princess René’s ginormous stomach. “As has your granddaughter.”
“Due any day now,” the Contessa cooed.
“Did you hear?” Bella asked us. “It’s a girl!” We both congratulated her. She really does look happy—even glowing, the way they always say pregnant women do.
And it totally serves my cousin René right, the fact that he’s having a girl, when he himself was always such a flirt. When his kid starts dating, he’s finally going to find out how all the fathers of the girls he went out with must have felt.
But the Contessa’s not the only person Grandmère’s hoping to impress. The crème de la crème of New York society is here—well, the women. No men are allowed at Domina Rei functions, except their annual ball, which this isn’t. I just saw Gloria Vanderbilt putting on her lip gloss over by a potted palm.
And I’m pretty sure that Madeleine Albright is adjusting her pantyhose in the stall next to mine.
And look: I get it. I really do get why Grandmère is so anxious to be one of these women. They’re all super powerful—and charming, too. Lana’s mom, Mrs. Weinberger, was way nice to me when we first came in—she didn’t seem at all like a lady who would sell her daughter’s pony without letting her say good-bye—shaking my hand and telling me what an excellent role model I am to young girls everywhere. She said she wished her own daughter had as good a head on her shoulders as I do.
This caused Lana, who was standing next to her mom, to snicker into her tulle stole.
But I realized there were no hard feelings when a second later Lana took me by the arm and said, “Check it out. They have a chocolate fountain over at the buffet. Only it’s low-cal, because it’s made with Splenda,” then added, when she’d dragged me out of earshot of her mom and Grandmère, “Also, they’ve got the hottest busboys you’ve ever seen.”
Anyway. I’m supposed to give my talk any minute now. Grandmère made me go over it with her in the limo. I kept telling her it’s way too boring to impress anyone, let alone inspire them. But she keeps insisting drainage is what the women of Domina Rei want to hear about.
Yeah. Because I’m so sure Beverly Bellerieve—of the prime-time news show TwentyFour/Seven—wants to hear all about Genovia’s sewage issues. I saw her out in the lobby just now, and she smiled at me all big and said, “Well, hello there! Don’t you look grown-up!” I guess remembering that time my freshman year we did that interview and—
Oh my God.
OH MY GOD.
No. That is NOT what he meant when he told me—in no way did he mean…
No. Just…
But wait a minute. He said not to be like Pancho. He said to do what Princess Amelie would do.
She meant for Genovia to be a democracy.
Only no one knew that.
But that’s not true. SOMEone does know.
I know.
And right now, at this very moment, I am in the unique position of being able to let a couple thousand businesswomen know as well.
Including Beverly Bellerieve, who has the biggest mouth in broadcast journalism.
No. Just no. That would be wrong. That would—that would—
My dad would KILL me.
