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According to Grandmère, there are approximately three thousand men who were once very much in love with her, and took it very hard indeed when she chose to marry the Prince of Genovia, instead. They’ve all taken their revenge against her in various ways, including but not limited to:
1. Writing books about her.
You might be surprised to know that most major works in modern literature are thinly disguised tributes to my grandmother, including everything written by Mailer, Vidal, and of course J. D. Salinger, even works written before she was old enough to have possibly known the authors. Of course Fitzgerald modeled Daisy in The Great Gatsby after Clarisse Renaldo.
2. Competing against Genovia in every sport in every Olympics ever.
You probably haven’t heard this, but every single athlete who has ever beat Genovia in any Olympic category (especially sailing and dressage, pretty much the only sports in which any Genovian athletes ever qualify) did so out of romantic spite against my grandmother.
3. Sculpting or painting works of art featuring women.
According to Grandmère, she inspired Picasso’s Cubist period by saying to him, “Darling, I think you’re quite talented, but you really ought to develop your own style,” which actually isn’t possible because it would mean she is over 127 years old. But when I informed her of this, she told me “not to be so obtuse.”
“Really, Grandmère?” I said. “You think the reason Ivan Renaldo is campaigning against Dad is because he’s upset that you didn’t marry his grandfather?”
“I know so,” Grandmère said. “Though of course you must never mention this to your father.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
“Poor Igor spent night after night at Maxim’s, drinking Chambord out of one of my dancing slippers.”
“Eww.” I made a face, not just because the guy was drinking out of one of my grandmother’s shoes, but because Chambord is a raspberry liqueur, and only tastes good when poured over vanilla ice cream. “Was he before or after the married Texas oil baron?”
She ignored me. “Finally his parents had to come take him away. They tried to sober him up in time for his own wedding, but it was too late. Delirium tremens nearly took the poor boy off. But I’m sorry to be burdening you with all this, Amelia. This should be a very special time for you, so close to your birthday. You should be flitting from social engagement to social engagement and shopping for folderols, enjoying the companionship of your friends while you still can, before you have to settle down to the very hard work of providing the country with an heir. Let me worry about the governance of the monarchy. You worry about being young and having fun.”
It was amazing how she was able to say all this, considering how much she’d had to drink—really, it’s a miracle of science she’s lived this long. Every other week, it seems, they announce the results of some new study warning that women who consume more than one alcoholic beverage a day increase their risk of cancer by quite a few percentage points.
But Grandmère, who has at least six to eight drinks a day, plus smokes the equivalent of multiple packs of cigarettes (though it’s hard to tell with these new vapor ones), keeps going strong.
My mother says it’s because she’s pickled.
Still, Grandmère had a point about trying to get along with Cousin Ivan’s supporters instead of antagonizing them. It’s annoying how often my grandmother is right.
“Okay, Grandmère,” I said. “I’ll play along with your little game. But Cousin Ivan isn’t going to win. We can still beat him. I know we can.”
“I’d be quite interested to hear your strategy,” Grandmère said, blowing a long stream of orange-scented smoke (despite the claims of the vapor companies, I’m quite sure there is still nicotine in the “juice” Grandmère smokes). “Unless of course you’re planning to get yourself photographed with him in a compromising position. But I’m afraid that will only make him more popular, and forever cement your reputation as the Princess of Gen-HO-via.”
This was a low blow, and disheartening to think that even my own grandmother thinks that the only way women can get ahead in this day and age is with their sexuality.
I was so disgusted that I had no choice but to leave the dining room and go back to my own apartment and lie down with a cool cloth on my forehead and watch television (which is quite hard to do when your eye is twitching nonstop).
CHAPTER 9
12:01 a.m., Friday, May 1
Third-Floor Apartment
Consulate General of Genovia
New York City
Michael just texted.
Michael Moscovitz “FPC”*: Wanted to be the first one to wish you a happy birthday. Wish I was there.
*Future Prince Consort
HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”: No you don’t. I can still hear them down there. They’re drinking shots and comparing Genovian Yacht Classic horror stories.
