Of course, Mignonette is also my grandmother’s middle name (and a sauce with which raw oysters are served). But this means nothing.
Olivia loves animals (like me) and also drawing and math (okay . . . unlike me. But everyone has their individual talents and we are all unique. Not like snowflakes, though, because they’ve actually discovered that there ARE snowflakes that are alike. So we all need to stop saying that thing about snowflakes being unique).
She also lives with her aunt and the “bohunk” uncle and his two older children from a previous marriage.
So I don’t want to make her life harder than it already is. Maybe she wants to move overseas.
• Note to self: Find out where overseas they are moving. Maybe it’s someplace nice, such as the South of France. Maybe they’ll be near Genovia!
But where she lives should be up to her. She should know she has a choice.
Although first I have to work on having a choice to give her.
CHAPTER 30
10:15 a.m., Tuesday, May 5
In HELV on the way to the Community Center
Rate the Royals Rating: 1
Just got off the phone with Michael. We had a very serious conversation about what we were going to do about our living situation, and also about my sister, Olivia. (After some initial silliness about whether I was or was not wearing underwear.)
Grandmère’s announcement of our wedding plans is forcing us to make decisions about things we hadn’t yet discussed in a lot of detail, such as where we’re going to live. Obviously Michael can’t move into the consulate, because the apartment there is too small and also hideous (the décor is circa 1987), and no one who doesn’t absolutely have to should be forced to live under Madame Alain’s sanctimonious gaze.
Of course Michael’s loft is wonderful but it’s in a nondoorman condo building, which means:
• There is no one to keep stalkers from being buzzed in.
• There is no desk for packages, etc., to be signed in/scanned by the Royal Genovian Guard.
• It doesn’t have proper walls between rooms (except for the bathrooms), which is fine for us but inappropriate if we’re going to be playing Fireman (or Space Alien) while also entertaining overnight house guests, such as a little sister (whom I hope to entertain one day). What if she were to hear us? It could permanently warp her developing little mind.
“Wait,” Michael said, when I mentioned this. “Are you thinking we’re going to adopt her, or something?”
“Of course not!” I said. “We’re going to be newlyweds. We can’t have a tween girl lounging around the house, doing tween-girl things like painting her nails and FaceTiming with her friends about her new teen heartthrob.”
“Is that really what you think tween girls do? Have you been watching 13 Going on 30 again?”
“No. I know what tween girls do. I was a tween once.”
“If I recall correctly, when you were a tween, you would walk around with a cat stuffed down your pants while my sister filmed you for her public-access TV show.”
“That is not correct.”
“From my observations, it is. I was there, remember? I don’t think you really have a solid grasp on normal tween behavior.”
“Please let’s move on. It’s not like Olivia can live with my dad. He’d be the worst person to raise a tween. He stays in a hotel room here in New York half the year, and the rest of the time he hangs around Genovia, pretending to govern it.”
“Yeah,” Michael said. “That’s true, but I thought the whole point was that her mom didn’t want her to know she’s Genovian royalty.”
“Right. But if my grandmother’s right, she’s going to find out eventually. So it’s better for me to be the one to tell her. I can do it gently and compassionately. And so it will be nice if we had a room for her to stay in,” I said. “So she feels welcome. If she wants to.”
“Okay,” Michael said, sounding skeptical. “You’ve decided you’re going to tell your long-lost sister that she’s Genovian royalty. That will probably go well. When are you going to do this?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t decided. But soon. Stop making it sound weird. It’s no weirder than the fact that we had to stay in a hotel last night because our places were swarming with paparazzi.”
“It’s a little weirder than that,” Michael said. “But that cop did advise me to get a new apartment. I suppose I can just buy one with a spare bedroom for your sister—”
“See?” I said. “That’s the spirit.”
How amazing is he? I can just buy a new place with a spare bedroom for your sister. I’m seriously the luckiest girl in the world.
• Note to self: Remember this for gratitude-journal entry.
(Wow, it’s sad that I have to make notes in my regular journal to remember to put things in my gratitude journal.)
“Why don’t I buy it with you?” I suggested. “Our first place together! Should it be uptown or downtown? Or what about a place looking out over Central Park? Too bad everyone is having embolisms about the safety of those carriage horses, I bet my sister has never had one of those—”
“Why don’t I have my real-estate broker look into where the market is strongest right now,” Michael interrupted, “and we can buy where we get the most square footage for our money?”