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(So unoriginal. You can do better, Brian Fitzpatrick.)
CHAPTER 27
9:21 p.m., Monday, May 4
Still in the HELV
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Double crap. Just pulled up in front of Michael’s building, and it’s surrounded by press, too, waiting for us.
Lars is calling José to ask him what the hell we’re supposed to do. NYPD flagged us over, and when the nice officer looked inside and saw who we were, she said, “Do us a favor, would you?”
I said, “Of course, Officer.”
She said, “Don’t get out of the car.”
“But I live here!” Michael cried.
“I would seriously consider moving.”
So tired. All I want to do i
s crawl into bed and cry myself to sleep. But right now it appears I have no bed to crawl into.
I never thought having a happily-ever-after was going to be so complicated.
I miss Fat Louie.
See, this is what is making me think I shouldn’t go rushing to New Jersey to yank Olivia Grace away from her bohunk uncle. When something is keeping you away from home—even if it’s only a temporary home, like the third-floor apartment of the Genovian consulate—home is the only place you want to be.
CHAPTER 28
12:22 a.m., Tuesday, May 5
Regalton Hotel Central Park Suite
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This is not how I expected to be spending my first night back in Manhattan as an engaged woman.
Not that I’m complaining, because I know there are many, many people who would trade places with me in an instant. And I am very, very content seeing as how I, along with my fiancé, am currently checked into a premier “tower suite” at the Regalton (one of Manhattan’s finest luxury hotels) courtesy of the Genovian consulate under the name “Mr. and Mrs. James T. Kirk.” I am not exactly homeless or sleeping in my car under a bridge. I am very much enjoying my diamond shoes.
Still, it’s a bit disturbing not to be able sleep in my own bed (or see my own cat) because of the hordes of press staking out our individual domiciles.
“If it’s like this now,” Michael asked earlier in the evening while we were enjoying our steak au poivre (room service), “what’s it going to be like closer to the actual wedding?”
“Don’t worry,” Dominique assured us cheerfully over the phone (I’d put her on speaker). “I’m sure there will be a weather disaster or celebrity scandal soon.”
But what if the celebrity scandal is my newly discovered little sister? I thought (but didn’t ask aloud since Dominique has not yet been let in on the secret).
I don’t want Olivia having a bunch of reporters pointing telephoto lenses at her every door and window, wondering when she’s coming home so they can snap a photo of her, whether she’s ready for it or not. (There’s nothing worse than getting your photo taken when you’re not expecting it. I know because I’ve had countless photos taken of me when I was chewing or sneezing or in my bathing suit, then posted online and in magazines, accompanied by unflattering and unfair captions like Royal Rebel: drunk again! or Pity Pity Princess or Cellulite Surprise!).
What saddens me is when I ask young girls (and boys) at the center what they hope to be when they grow up (so lame, I know, and a sign that I’m getting old, because only adults ask young people this question. Why do we do it? Because we’re looking for ideas! I’m twenty-six and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, except of course that I want to help people and be brilliantly happy and with Michael Moscovitz, of course), all too often they answer, “When I grow up, I want to be famous, like you, Princess Mia!”
At first this made me very depressed. Famous? Being famous isn’t a job!
Then I realized that it is. Being famous is very hard work, but it’s also empowering, because you have influence over a large number of people and can do amazing things with that power.
