Part-time Princess

by Pamela DuMond

  Like I could say that?

  I handed the phone to Joan. “You tell her.”

  “Make that the Perrier-Jouet Belle Epoque Rose Cuvee champagne, Helga,” Joan said. “The 2004. Perfect. Thank you.”

  We noshed on sandwiches in my bedroom and the Ladies drank champagne from crystal flutes. I turned down the bubbly—I didn’t want to meet Cristoph’s family for the first time (for real) even a bit tipsy.

  I encouraged Cheryl and Joan to invade Elizabeth’s closet, rifle through her clothes and pick the crucial meeting-the-royal family-outfit. I sat on the floor, leaned back against my bed and downed the last of that lamb/venison Fredonia sausage. It was freaking delicious.

  “The key word here is—” I said, “—informal. I’ve already met Cristoph’s family so many times in the past.”

  I could practically feel my nose growing.

  “And yes, my sleep has sucked for the past three nights.”

  Make that the past three weeks since I’d taken this part-time job.

  “Every night Carolina brings me herbal tea before I go to bed. She’s so sweet,” I said. “Such a lady! What a catch for Elizabeth’s Da-I mean Papa. But I still toss and turn. And every morning Helga brings me fresh coffee. But it never really wakes me up. I don’t feel like myself. I think it’s all the stress.”

  Maybe it was all the lying. Or maybe I missed Nick. I hadn’t heard boo from him since that day in the park.

  “What stress?” Cheryl asked. “You’re engaged to a hot Prince, you’ll want for nothing ever again, and all you really have to do to cement the deal—post-wedding of course—is pop out an heir someday. I delivered two. Hubby is quite content with his little Ladies who adore him. Of course he travels five days out of the week and only has daughter duty on weekends. Sign me up for a boob lift, a tummy tuck, a ten-pack of facial peels and valerian root tea.”

  “Oh cut the crap, Cheryl,” Joan said. “It’s called Xanax.”

  “I’d like to see you handle two little ones under the age of five who already snark at each other like high school mean girls,” Cheryl said. “Xanax, valerian, reikki, yoga, watching too much tennis on TV—love that Rafa—whatever it takes to keep my sanity, I’ll do it. Mommy Makeover here I come.”

  “I read an article in Euro Cosmopolitan that said getting engaged was right up there on the top twenty list of major life stresses,” I said. “I come by my eye circles the old-fashioned way—too much stress.”

  “Or perhaps your lack of sleep is from all the clandestine sex you’re finally getting.” Esmeralda waltzed into my bedroom. “Great job you’re doing with Elizabeth’s under eye circles, Joan. You’re gifted.” She threw herself onto her back on my bed. “Can someone pour me a glass of champagne?” She propped herself up on her elbows and held out one hand. “Por favor?”

  “What do you mean, ‘clandestine sex?’” I poured a glass of Perrier Whatever and passed it to her.

  “What do you mean ‘finally getting?’” Joan asked. “Good Lord, Elizabeth’s been getting more than her share for years. I’m a single barrister and I work a forty-hour week. When do I have time to meet men, let alone date?”

  “You meet men all the time,” Cheryl said.

  “I meet men ‘all the time’ who are married, incarcerated or married and soon to be incarcerated. My ‘getting’ pool is in the shallow end,” Joan said.

  “Trust me, all the clandestine sex will be screeching to a stop after Elizabeth gets married and pumps out two heirs. Color me happy if we have sex once a week.” Cheryl guzzled what remained in her glass and held it out. “And even then it’s usually in front of the TV during a soccer match. Top me off, please.”

  “Clandestine, Joan. Secret. Not out in the open. On the QT,” Esmeralda said.

  “Nothing’s happening on the QT,” I said.

  “You’re engaged to a royal, darling,” Esmeralda said. “The good citizens of Fredonia assume you’re doing the horizontal hokey-pokey, and while most of them fantasize about it, everything still must remain hush-hush for etiquette’s sake. Excuse me while I multi-task as we chat. I have a date tonight. Yoga keeps me limber.” She downed the champagne and handed me back the glass. “Gracias.”

  “You’re welcome. Can I get you another—”

  “I’m good.” She widened her legs high up in the air over her head, clasped onto her big toes with her thumbs and forefingers and stretched her thighs wide apart.

  Joan winced and then squinted up at the ceiling. “Esmeralda! I see London, I see France. I see that you need underpants!”

  I glared at the smart-mouthed Lady-in-Waiting, rolling all over my bed like a kitten in heat. And I wondered how much dry-cleaning a down comforter in Fredonia would cost in euros.

  “You’re going commando again, aren’t you?” Cheryl frowned. “I thought those days were over.” She sighed.

  Esmeralda rocked from side to side as she displayed almost everything but her private half-Spanish parts. “I just follow Elizabeth’s lead. She’s always been the trend setter in our group.”

  “Me?” I sputtered. “I’ve never been big on trends. And I always wear undies.”

  That was kind of a lie, but sounded appropriate, and somewhat chaste. Besides, who would call me on it?

  “Not always, Ms. Smarty-No-Pants. Remember that time on va-ca during Spring Fling in Latvia when we were nineteen?” Esmeralda winked at me. “You’re the one who said, ‘What happens in Latvia stays in Latvia. Which includes my red lace peek-a-boo bra and panty set.’ I can only assume your passionate fiancé, Cristoph—he of the big tusk—is sneaking into your room and banging you senseless every night. That’s why you’re not getting enough sleep—hence the eye circles.”

  “Cristoph is a perfect gentleman!” I wrung my hands. “No one’s banging me senseless. And if I see this quote in a tabloid, I’ll have your ass, Esmeralda.”

  “Take a number and stand in line,” she said.

  “Reminisce later,” Joan said. “We need to pick a dress. What do you think?” She held out four—one draped across each of her forearms and one dangling from each hand.

  “I like the red one,” Cheryl said. “That’s Elizabeth’s signature color.”

  “The blue one’s kind of cute,” I said. “It’s sweet and modest and—”

  “Did you turn Amish in the States?” Esmeralda squinted at me perplexed. “The Elizabeth I knew wouldn’t be caught dead in anything that droll. Now that one,” she pointed at another dress, “the blush-pink concoction? It’s feminine without being over the top. It’ll bring out your complexion—which has completely lost all the acne since last year—and it practically screams virginal, although we all know that ship sailed a long time ago.”

  Actually not all that long ago and only with the same Johnny’s pizza delivery guy. Was it my fault Danny Flynn was smoking hot, super smart, and in pre-med at the University of Chicago? I said yes to dinner dates, yes to live White Sox games, and after a whole bunch of make out sessions—yes to losing my virginity. Because I thought I was Danny’s girlfriend.

  Turns out I was Danny’s girlfriend for three weeks before he met a girl from a wealthier family on his pizza route who tipped him better. Live and learn.

  Joan, Cheryl, Esmeralda and I eyed the dress.

  “You’re right.” Cheryl ran her hand over the dress’s pink, silk fabric.

  Joan nodded. “You’ve always had an eye for details.”

  “It’s beautiful. It’s the perfect meet the royal family dress.” I felt my face flush. “Thank you my gorgeous and talented Ladies. I’ll let you know how tonight’s meet and greet goes—hopefully before it hits the press.”

  “You’re welcome.” Esmeralda rolled to sitting, cracked her neck with her hands and stood up. “But I’ll know all before it trickles into my Grandmother’s royal Depends, which will probably happen even before it’s leaked to the press. I am, after-all, Cristoph’s first cousin and part of the Timmel family. I’ll be at the royal meet and greet to
night. You need anything, Elizabeth, just look my way and give the secret hand signal.”

  I started to panic and felt my throat tighten. “What’s the secret hand signal?”

  “We had plenty of them. You don’t remember?” She regarded me curiously.

  Joan tapped her index finger to her head. “Amnesia.”

  “Ah, yes.” Esmeralda said. “It’s what we did in Latvia after you left your undies behind. We celebrated with a few shots and agreed on our secret hand signals. You’ve been different since you came home to Fredonia, Elizabeth.”

  “She passed out and hit her head on a tarmac,” Cheryl said.

  “I know that. But surely she can recall our signals. Because they’re burned into my memory.”

  “Oh those secret hand signals. Right,” I said. “Of course. I’ll never forget them.”

  How could I? I never learned them in the first place.

  There was a knock at the door. “Who is it?” I asked.

  “It’s Carolina, darling. I heard your Ladies had stopped by. I have a special treat for you.”

  Cheryl looked at me questioningly. I nodded. She walked the few feet to the door and opened it.

  Chapter 21

  “Surprise!” Carolina carried a silver tray filled with fancy cupcakes into my bedroom. “Strawberry tart cupcakes with white chocolate icing. A time-honored Sauerhausen family recipe and a good-luck tradition,” she said.

  “Ooh yummy!” Joan grabbed one.

  “Thank you, Duchess von Sauerhausen!” Cheryl plucked one and noshed enthusiastically.

  “Carolina, this is so sweet of you.” I picked up a cupcake. “Really you didn’t have to.” I placed it to my lips…

  When Esmeralda ripped it out of my hand and tossed it across the room where it splattered against my window. “Elizabeth! You’re deathly allergic to strawberries!”

  “I am?” I asked. “Oh right, of course I am!” I frowned and tugged on my ears. “I could swear she said fairy tart cupcakes. I think my ears are still clogged from that horrible flight on Fredonia Air when we almost crashed.”

  “I didn’t know,” Carolina said. “Oh my good God my dear girl. I am so sorry!”

  “No worries! Of course you didn’t know,” I said.

  Neither did I.

  “I’m sure my Ladies will enjoy your delicious confections Carolina. And thank you so much. You’re the sweetest!” I hugged her.

  A few hours later I was dressed to the nines, my hair shiny and curly, my under eye circles caked in concealer and I even wore false eyelashes for the first time. I stalked around the Billingsley Penthouse rooftop terrace with its gardens and vegetable boxes. It was almost like being outside someone’s house except for the tall mesh fence designed to keep folks from falling off and splattering on the concrete twenty-five floors below. I wasn’t that thrilled with heights but Carolina had told me the fence was tight, secure, could hold body weight if someone tripped and fell against it. No one would be plummeting to their death of the top of this penthouse anytime soon!

  I wore the pink dress and matching accessories and pressed the cell to my ear as I paced. I probably resembled a beauty queen wannabe or a desperate contestant on The Bachelor.

  “Do not tell me to calm down, Mr. Philips!” I hissed into the phone. “I’m freaking out here because I had to talk to you or Zara or the increasing elusive Elizabeth. I’m meeting the frigging Fredonia royal family for the first time, neither you or Zara are here to help me, and this was not included in my job description.”

  “Zara hasn’t called or even texted me in almost a week. Some kind of drama with Elizabeth,” he said.

  “Shocker,” I said. “It seems there’s always drama with Elizabeth. Why did no one tell me I’m deathly allergic to strawberries? What the hell did I do on Spring Break in Latvia with Esmeralda when we were nineteen? What is our secret hand signal? Why did I leave my undies behind? Questions, dammit! Too many unanswered questions!”

  My head pounded like it was being walloped by an internal jackhammer and I feared my fake eyelashes were going to pop off. “What if I screw this up? Oh crap, I’m turning into a self-centered, insensitive bitch, aren’t I? I’m so sorry.” I grimaced and knocked my fist against my head. “How could I forget? How is your back?”

  “My back is so-so. The physical therapists are making me walk and stand on my tippy toes and heels. The hospital food is God-awful. I just really want to go home to Fredonia,” he said.

  “Good! I can’t wait for you to get back here.” I frowned. “Actually, I meant to say I’m sorry you’re not feeling well and I look forward to the day you’re able to return to your beautiful home. Forget about me. My problems are tiny compared to what you’re going through.”

  “You’re a sweet girl, Lucy.”

  “Lucy?” I asked. “Not Lucille?”

  “Yeah there,” he said. “Regarding meeting the Royal Family? Just be you. Except for the nail-chewing or the walking like a line-backer thing.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  “Or the thing where you—”

  “Feel better Philips.” I hung up.

  A half hour later, a shiny, black limo picked me up in the underground parking garage. A royal bodyguard opened the car’s back door for me while Papa and Carolina stood next to the valet stand and waved.

  Papa pulled out his iPhone, snapped a few pictures and wiped away a tear. “Oh, honey. I haven’t felt this way since you went to Senior Prom.”

  “Wish me luck,” I ducked into the limo. “I’m nervous.”

  “They’re just royals,” Carolina said. “I’m squarely mid-list nobility—a duchess—but I know all about this stuff. They put on their lederhosen one leg at a time, just like the rest of us do. Imagine them naked should they get too pompous. That’s what I do. I apologize again about the strawberry dilemma.”

  “No worries! Great advice, thank you! I’ll see you in a bit.” I practiced my princess wave on them.

  “Not tonight, honey,” Papa said. “I’m taking my girl out for a night on the town. We’ll be back late—if we’re back at all.” He smiled at Carolina, completely smitten and kissed her on the lips.

  If I really was Elizabeth I probably would have felt weird about my dad’s PDA. But I wasn’t and I didn’t—I just thought they were elegant and beautiful in that old-fashioned movie star kind of way. And yeah, he did look like George Clooney, and she resembled one of those ageless French model/actresses. I’m sure the deadly strawberry thing was simply a mistake—Duchess Carolina von Sauerhausen was growing on me.

  “Text us and let us know how it goes,” Carolina said. “And I predict it’s all going to go fabulously.”

  “If they give you any pompous shit,” Papa said, “remind them that our money can save their trees and lodges and chocolate factories from the theme park developers. Only if they get the deal done on time.”

  “Huh?”

  “Shh, David.” Carolina pinched his arm. “You can remind Elizabeth about that tomorrow. Just let her have fun tonight.”

  “You’re right,” Papa said. “We’ll see you tomorrow my darling daughter.” He placed one hand to his lips and threw me a kiss.

  I threw a kiss back to the both of them. Then tried to remember the last time anyone called me darling daughter and either of my parents tossed a kiss in my direction.

  It had been a very, very long time.

  A pristine palace loomed through the front window of the royal limo. It looked like it had been lifted from a fairy tale and dropped down into a bustling metropolitan city. A thick fence, manned by guards wearing uniforms sporting Fredonia’s royal colors, surrounded the mid-sized castle.

  We arrived at the palace’s official entrance outside the sturdy wrought iron fence, and waited as the guards called ahead and got the okay to buzz us in. The gates hummed and then opened. We drove down a narrow, straight lane toward the castle in the near distance.

  Royal flags waved from poles embedded into the castle walls. There
were turrets, a large tower and a few ancient cannons positioned on the fortress’s roof.

  The chauffeur drove me to the towering front gates and slipped the limo into park. The bodyguard hopped out the passenger side, looked around in both directions and then opened my door. From what I could see outside the tinted windows, there were no paparazzi on the premises.

  “Lederhosen,” I mumbled, chewed on my lower lip and suddenly feared my lipstick was gone. I was meeting the royal family. Bare lips would not do!

  “Coast is clear,” the bodyguard beckoned to me. “Come on.”

  “Hang on.” I raked my hand through my new designer purse but couldn’t find my Pretty-in-Pink Maybelline gloss with the sparkles. Only a stupid Chanel lipstick. I pulled the lid off and looked at the color. It totally wasn’t my shade of pink and it didn’t even sparkle. “Dammit!” I swiped it across my lips.

  “Is everything all right, Lady Billingsley?” the guard asked.

  “I’m newly engaged, meeting my fiancée’s family for almost the first time and I can’t find my favorite lipstick.”

  The guard hid a smile. “You sound like my wife when her beloved mascara was discontinued. You’ll do fine.” He held out his hand to me. “Let’s get you inside the castle safe and sound before we get any more death threats.”

  “Death threats?” I took his hand as he helped me out of the limo.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Death threats? Seriously? Who would want Eliza- me dead?”

  He shook his head. “It’s nothing unusual. Happens to everyone. Probably just a prank. This is Fredonia Secret Service’s job to handle. Not yours. Good luck. Have fun. You’re perfectly safe.” He bowed to me as the front door to the castle flew open.

  Cristoph held his arms out wide. “Elizabeth! You’re finally here! You look so beautiful. Come inside!” He gestured.