Perin shook her head and said, “You know, Mia, you don’t have to stay at work today. I know how busy you must be with, um, everything you have to do with the wedding, and the stuff your dad has, uh, going on. You could leave, if you want to. You don’t even have to work from home. Ling Su and I have everything under control.”
I told her not to worry, I plan on coming in every day, as normal . . . well, as much as my schedule will allow.
I never saw myself as one of those women who only worked until she got a ring on her finger, then spent the rest of her life being a professional bride/wife (especially since I’m already a princess, which is basically a profession unto itself). I’m not exactly Lana Weinberger (Rockefeller).
But based on the itinerary Dominique has sent over, I can see how that happens for some people, especially when they have pushy families or spouses-to-be or their wedding is going to be internationally televised. There’s just so much to do!
I feel a renewed respect for every royal bride who ever existed.
Honestly, though, I have the best friends (and staff) in the world.
My family, I’m not so sure about.
CHAPTER 36
1:55 p.m., Tuesday, May 5
HELV on the way to the Consulate
Rate the Royals Rating: 1
Ugh. Also, damn. And also, eww.
Now I realize Perin wasn’t being sweet when she told me I didn’t have to stay at work. She was being practical. And also trying to protect the center . . . and me.
I was trying to get Dominique on the phone to tell her that while I appreciate the itinerary she sent over, we needed to tweak it a little—such as scheduling a meeting with my future in-laws and the fact that my brother Rocky’s birthday is May 10, so I can’t exactly leave for Genovia before that, especially in light of the fact that I fully intend to be forcing my ne’er-do-well father to be coparenting my long-lost little sister by then—when Ling Su came running into my office to say that Brian Fitzpatrick had just been found in the center’s women’s restroom, standing on one of the toilets, trying to hide a lipstick camera and microphone in the vent.
Of course Brian had another story. He claimed he found them in there, having spied them while sitting on the toilet, and that he’d been trying to save us from suffering humiliation by them.
But it’s obvious he was the one planting them so he could record my private conversations. Why else would he have been in the women’s restroom (let alone the building) in the first place?
Seriously. This is my life.
Ling Su insisted we call the police (she is very feisty for such a tiny person), but cooler-headed Perin suggested this would only bring more unwanted press to both the center and to me.
So we “escorted” Brian out (meaning Lars and Perin basically carried him, although they didn’t get to rough Brian up as much as we all would have liked, since Brian is exactly the type to file a multimillion lawsuit, like the pap that Grandmère hit with her Birkin).
Afterward Perin told me Brian wasn’t even the first to have pulled such a stunt today. Apparently since I’ve been at my desk, several paps who look young enough to pass as teens have managed to sneak in—mainly by wearing hoodies, high-tops, and cross-body messenger bags—only to get caught when they specifically asked for help with their algebra homework from “Princess Mia” (our regulars know I’m incompetent when it comes to algebra. I can only help with French, English, and papers on European citrus production).
“It might be better,” Perin said, “if you worked from home again for the next few days . . . just until the excitement over your engagement to Michael dies down.”
I didn’t want to make her feel bad by telling her that I have no home and that this is the excitement dying down, thanks to the Crown Prince of Qalif outlawing swimming for women and of course the E. coli outbreak.
Instead I said, “Thank you, Perin. That’s a good idea,” and gathered my bodyguard and left.
I was feeling a bit depressed, but rallied after Lars and I grabbed sandwiches at Murray’s Shop (also Fritos, Butterfingers, and sodas from a bodega, where I saw that on the cover of the Post it says: “Michael Makes His Move!” and there was a photo of Michael kissing me in the backseat of the HELV. The accompanying article explained the tax breaks to which both Michael and his corporation, Pavlov Surgical, Inc., will be entitled once we’ve been married five years, since Genovian citizens—and companies—pay no taxes, and a “close friend” of Michael’s is speculating that Pavlov Surgical will soon be reincorporating on Genovian soil to avoid paying American taxes).
(Yes, I bought the paper and read the article.)
It must be a slow news day if this is the most scandalous reason they could come up with for why Michael’s finally proposed. The tax break? I like Inside Edition’s theory—that I’m carrying his twins—better.
CHAPTER 37
2:45 p.m., Tuesday, May 5
Third-Floor Apartment
Consulate General of Genovia
Rate the Royals Rating: 1
Got a message that the crowd outside the consulate had dissipated enough for me to be smuggled in through the back service entrance, so I’m home (well, my temporary home). So happy to see Fat Louie.
He did not even appear to notice I’d been gone, having apparently slept the entire time, judging by the fur matted on the left-hand corner of my bedspread.
But he purred quite happily when I petted him, and even let me pick him up and carry him around like a big fat baby (for about one minute. Then he got cranky and growled and I had to put him down and give him a chunk of ham from my sandwich. But it was a lovely minute, until he bit me).