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It wasn’t until Paolo put it in quite that Paolo way of his that I realized he was right.
Of course, I don’t literally own shoes made out of diamonds. (Well, I do own a pair of Jimmy Choos that have diamond toe clips.)
But if you think about it, I have no real problems. Aside from my obviously annoying housing situation, my mentally disturbed family, and the fact that a stalker says he wants to kill me.
I have never even really sacrificed anything for love, or had anyone I loved die, except for a beloved stepfather, and although this was extremely tragic, the doctors assured us Mr. Gianini didn’t suffer, and probably wasn’t even aware of what was happening once he initially lost consciousness (though it’s quite sad that the last thing he saw wa
s an advertisement for Dr. Zizmor, Skin Care Specialist, Don’t Accept Substitutes).
But comparatively, I have nothing—absolutely nothing—?to complain about.
I felt ashamed of myself, and wanted to grab my checkbook and make a large donation to a cause of Paolo’s choice right that minute (except of course I’ve already made several this year alone—not to mention having donated huge chunks of my time, including only last night when I attended that benefit for Chernobyl).
“I’m sorry, Paolo,” I said. “You’re so right. I do need to find balance in my life. Only I don’t know how. Do you have any suggestions, other than keeping a gratitude journal, which I’m already doing?”
“Sì! I think my new boyfriend, Stefano, can help you, Principessa.”
“He can? That’s wonderful! How?”
“Stefano has the healing hands!” Paolo cried proudly. “He can cure you with one touch!”
“He’s a masseur? Oh, how—”
“No, no, not the massage! The ancient art of Reiki, laying on of hands. Only the hands, they never touch you.”
I was confused. “If they never touch you, then how do they heal anything?”
“The flow of energy from the universe! And for you, Principessa, Stefano do it for free. But of course after first half hour, it’s two hundred dollars for every thirty minutes.”
“Um,” I said.
Of course sweet Paolo has fallen in love with some guy who’s convinced he can cure people’s problems by waving his hands over them and channeling the flow of energy from the universe.
But if anyone could actually do that, wouldn’t all of life’s ills have been solved already?
I said, plastering on my fake smile, “Thank you, Paolo, that’s so kind of you, but I don’t think I have time right now. Maybe another day, all right?”
Paolo looked disappointed. I know he’s probably been fantasizing about having his current boyfriend magically restore balance to my universe, and then me raving about it to the press. Then the two of them could open some new spa—Paolo and Stefano’s Universal Beauty and Wellness. If we can cure royalty, we can cure you!
But I think it’s going to take more than one pair of healing hands to find the balance in my universe.
CHAPTER 8
11:36 p.m., Thursday, April 30
Third-Floor Apartment
Consulate General of Genovia
New York City
Ugh. So glad that’s over. At least I looked good. Paolo is a true artist of hair.
I couldn’t tell Lilly the truth about why I didn’t want her or Michael around tonight. It wasn’t that I was afraid of them getting oranges thrown at them (no oranges were thrown; everyone behaved with perfect decorum when Grandmère and I went out to greet our guests. Except for the booing).
It isn’t even that the security system is still glitchy and that I’m afraid Michael will get caught entering the building in the wee hours and we’ll get more bad press.
It’s that Genovians are snobs.
