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So I said, “The truth is, Doctor, I have been feeling a little stressed. You might have heard about my recent family difficulties, which have led to . . .”
I pointed meaningfully out the window. Dominique, the director of Royal Genovian Press Relations and Marketing, says if we don’t encourage the media, they’ll go away—like stray cats are supposed to, if you don’t feed them—but this isn’t true. I’ve never fed the media, and they still won’t go away.
“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” Dr. Delgado said, seeming to realize things were a little out of the ordinary—as if the fact that he was visiting me in the consulate instead of seeing me in his office hadn’t given it away. “Of course! But your father is doing very well, isn’t he? All the reports I’ve heard say that he’ll most likely be given a slap on the wrist, and then he’ll be able to return to Genovia. The press seem to find his little mishap with the law quite amusing.”
Little mishap with the law! Thanks to my father’s decision to take a midnight jaunt down the West Side Highway in his newly purchased race car, Count Ivan Renaldo, Dad’s opponent for prime minister, is ahead five points in the polls. If the count wins, Genovia will be transformed from a charming medieval-walled microstate on the French Riviera to something that looks more like Main Street USA in Disneyland, with everyone strolling around in T-shirts that say WHO FARTED? and eating giant turkey legs.
“Oh, Dad’s doing great!” I made the huge mistake of lying (I realize now). This is what we’re supposed to tell the extended family and the press. It’s not the truth. Royals never tell the truth. It isn’t “done.”
It’s for this reason that I think I’m losing my grip on my sanity and can no longer tell the difference between what’s real and what’s a façade for the sake of the media (iTriage says this is called disassociation and is generally used as a coping mechanism to manage stress).
“Wonderful!” Dr. Delgado cried. “And things are going well between you and—what is the young man’s name?”
I swear Dr. Delgado must be the only person in the entire western hemisphere who doesn’t know Michael’s name.
“Is Michael Moscovitz the World’s Greatest Lover? ‘YES!’ Says Sex-Mad Princess Mia,” declares the cover of this week’s InTouch.
Michael’s dad thought this was so hilarious he bought dozens of copies to give to his friends and even his patients. Michael’s asked him to stop, but his dad won’t listen.
“You really expect me not to buy this?” Dr. Moscovitz asked. “My son is the world’s greatest lover! It says so right here. Of course I’m going to buy it!”
This could be one of the reasons for my twitch.
“Michael,” I said to Dr. Delgado. “Michael Moscovitz. And yes, everything’s fine between us.”
Except that’s a lie. Michael and I hardly ever see each other anymore thanks to our work schedules and the fact that I’m being held a prisoner in my current home by the paps. I had to move out of my old apartment last year on account of my stalker, RoyalRabbleRouser, who enjoys posting online about how he’s going to “destroy” me for writing a historical romance novel (years ago, under another name) featuring a heroine who has premarital sex (he claims this is proof of how “feminism has destroyed the fabric of our society”).
The consulate is the only building in Manhattan guarded 24/7 by military police specially trained in the protection of a royal.
And now lately on the limited occasions Michael and I do find time to get together, we mostly just order in, then watch Star Trek on Netflix, because leaving the consulate is such a pain, unless I want to hear all sorts of horrible questions hurled at me on my way to the car by the press:
“Mia, what’s it like to have a felon for a father?”
“Mia, is that a baby bump or did you just have too much of that falafel we saw delivered an hour ago?”
“Mia, how does it feel to know that seventy-four percent of those surveyed think Kate Middleton wore it better?”
“Mia, why hasn’t Michael put a ring on it?”
I tried to show Michael my twitch earlier on FaceTime, but he said my eye looked perfectly normal to him.
“If you’re twitchy, though, Mia, it’s probably in nervous anticipation at the prospect of going out with me, the world’s greatest lover.”
“I thought we agreed we weren’t going to read our own press,” I reminded him.
“How can I help it?” he asked. “Especially since my erotic powers seemingly extend all the way to the Upper East Side, where they’ve rendered you sex mad.”
“Ha ha ha. You probably planted that story yourself.”
“You’ve grown so jaded and cynical since I last saw you. But really, Mia,” he said, finally getting serious. “I think you’re just stressing too much about all of this. I’m not saying things aren’t bad—they are. But maybe all you need is to get away for a day or two.”
“Away? How am I possibly going to get away? And where am I going to go that the press can’t follow me and ask about my alleged baby bump or how my dad looks in his orange jumpsuit?”
“Good question. Let me work on it.”
I know he’s just trying to help, but really, how can I go away with Dad in so much trouble and the country in such an uproar and the election so close and Mom being a new widow and Grandmère as crazy as ever?
Plus my boyfriend having rendered me sex mad, of course.
