“Lady, lady, lady, lady,” the irritating female customer at MadDog hissed.
“Yeth,” My tongue seemed to be glued to the top of my mouth, it felt like it was filled with cotton. “Got it. One Rum and Coke. Two shots of Cuervo. And a refill on the pretzel mix bowl, pronto. Give me a second, okay?”
Make that more like a couple of hours because something was definitely off. My eyelids were super-glued shut. I ran my tongue across my lips; they were swollen like they’d been stung by bees. And my tongue felt like an over-sized slab in my mouth—like something you’d buy in an Italian deli.
When—holy smokes—the origin of my predicament dawned on me—I vaguely remembered over-imbibing in fancy champagne last night. I hope I didn’t sleep with that Johnny’s Pizza Delivery Guy again.
“I don’t need more pretzels. I need you to wake up.” The woman customer shook my shoulders. When did the job description for being a waitress transition from slightly subservient to a victim of violence?
“Good decision on the pretzels,” I said. “They put some kind of preservative in those things that makes them last ten years. Blech. Terrible for the human body. But I do believe those pretzel manufacturers could make a fortune if they discovered a way to market that ingredient as an anti-aging cream.”
“Wake up and smell the coffee.”
“I have a name you know. It’s…” I blinked my eyes open and squinted: a glorious sunrise bloomed on the horizon outside my bedroom window, high over the pristine streets of Sauerhausen. “…Lady Elizabeth Billingsley,” I said. “I’d like another wake-up call in like an hour, please? Thank you so very much.” I pulled my sleepy-time mask back over my eyes, clamped my hands over my ears and rolled over in my gigantic, pillow topped, queen-sized bed.
“Elizabeth!” Esmeralda hollered. “You’re not the only one who had an early morning wake up call. Cut the crap and get your precious behind out of bed—now!”
I pulled off the mask, rolled over again, and squinted at her.
“Better,” she said.
“Finally,” Cheryl said.
Joan held a steaming mug of coffee in front of my face. “It’s the double dark Ethiopian brew. I brought an extra large thermos and set it up on a side table. I think we all need to be a little over-caffeinated today.”
I sat up in bed, took the mug and sipped. “Yikes. Strong. Delish.” I racked my brain for what was on today’s agenda. “So what’s on today’s itinerary? Walking my puppy. Sucking up to some dour Count or Countess. Another photo shoot? A meet and greet with the lovely citizens of Fredonia? Where’s Tulip?”
“Larry’s taking her for a run in Centralaski Park,” Esmeralda said. “We want her to be as worn out as possible.
“That’s nice of him. We want her worn out—why? Oh crap, I’m getting married today, aren’t I?”
Cheryl hummed the bridal march as she smiled and waved a platter of croissants in front of me. “Freshly baked for the Princess to be.”
Esmeralda picked up a remote from a nightstand, aimed it at the flatscreen TV high on the wall and clicked.
The screen flashed to ducklips, the female news reporter, dressed in a floor-length, sparkly gown. She ran a few fingers over her immovable hair, swiped her tongue over her upper lip and caressed the mic like it was a lover. “Gwendolyne Joffries reporting for Fredonia Cable News. Welcome, one and all, to today’s Fredonia royal wedding festivities. We at FCN have round-the-clock reporting, covering the gowns to the bridesmaids. The bride’s family’s reactions to the inside scoop on the Royal Family. And even a few surprises… Stay tuned for the pageantry, the fun, the gossip… and the scandals!”
“I’m so happy for you that butterflies are dancing on my head,” Esmeralda said. “And that irritates the shit out of me, so let’s get this show on the road.”
A thunderous round of applause swept my bedroom.
I sprayed coffee out my mouth, tossed the mug and dove back under the covers. “Who the crap is in my bedroom besides you Ladies?”
“Your entire bridal entourage, sweetie,” Cheryl said.
“Come on Luc—I mean—Elizabeth,” Joan said. “This will be so much fun!”
I peeked out and saw a makeup artist, my wedding gown designer, Giuseppe Felipe and his two attendants, Duchess Carolina von Sauerhausen, two guards, a makeup artist, three hair stylists, a photographer, and five general assistants. Everyone curtseyed as if on cue.
Carolina burst into tears.
Giuseppe held out a huge linen garment bag high in the air. “It is perfection,” he said.
I sat up in bed.
His assistant unzipped it, revealing my wedding dress. A chorus of ‘Ooh!’ and ‘Aah!’ bounced around the room.
When Elizabeth’s Papa cracked open the door and peered at the crowd. “I need a moment alone with my daughter,” he said.
There was a cacophony of ‘Yes sir,’ as the designer and attendants scurried out of the room.
Esmeralda, Joan and Cheryl regarded me, eyebrows raised.
“It’s okay.” I nodded.
They bustled away. “Do you still have Prince Harry’s Private Reserve?” Joan asked.
“Funny you should ask,” Cheryl pulled a flask from her purse.
Carolina went to Papa and took his hand. “David? Are you okay?”
He nodded but couldn’t hold her look. “I will be, sweetheart. Thank you. I’ll see you in just a few moments.”
She patted his arm, smiled at me and left the room.
Chapter 33
Elizabeth’s Papa sat on the edge of my bed and stared at me.
“Do you want a cup of coffee, Papa? Or a croissant?”
“No, sweetie. I just want you to be happy.”
I pulled the covers up to just under my chin. “Papa?”
He peered at me and his eyes misted over. “I remember when you were born, Elizabeth. I held you in one hand and I thought: this is my daughter. She will be smart and she will be savvy. She’s already beautiful. I will wipe every snotty nose with an extra cushy tissue. I will make sure she gets a great education. And no matter what, I will always love her.”
“You did a great job, Papa,” I said. “Thank you for being a great father. I’m so lucky to have you in my life.”
He shook his head. “I should have done better by you. You were only ten-years-old when your mama passed. I shut down. I was scared and angry. I wanted to find you a new mother—but I haven’t been so great at doing that.”
“Papa—no.” I dropped the covers from my face, and took his hand in mine.
“I knew when you hit those precarious teen years, that you’d fall in love a hundred times. I promised myself to wipe away your heartaches as well as your tears. And I knew that one day I’d have to let my beloved daughter go. Because one of those times you fell in love—it would stick.”
“You did a great job,” I said and thought of Nick. “I think it did stick.”
“Did I? Your wedding is a business. Planned, arranged—and like Marie Antoinette on Bastille Day—soon to be executed.”
“Promise me I won’t be guillotined after I get married today and we’ll be good.” I smiled.
He smiled back. “Do you love Cristoph, Elizabeth? Does he make you happy?” Because as much as your dear mother wanted this for you, as much as we stand to gain from this royal alliance? I’ll pull the plug if you want me to. I’ll call off this wedding if you don’t want to be with him.”
A few tears leaked from my eyes. Elizabeth’s Papa loved her enough that he was giving her a way out. Elizabeth’s Papa loved her just perfect. I wished my parents were here. I wished they hadn’t died in a motorcycle accident. I wished I were marrying Nick today. But maybe the love of my life wasn’t a person—maybe it was actually this life—Elizabeth’s life.
Elizabeth didn’t want her life in Fredonia. She gave it away. And except for a handful of folks back in Chicago—no one really wanted me. If I stayed here, what would be the harm? I could still be around my
Ladies, Cristoph, Elizabeth’s Papa, Queen Cheree, Royal Nana, Tulip, Mr. Philip Philips, and maybe even… Nick.
“What say you, Elizabeth?” Papa stroked my hand.
Did I want to give everybody and everything I’d grown to love in this part-time job up just for principle? Just so I could be right? Just so I could be broke, unloved and alone? And I made my decision.
I intertwined my fingers between his. “I say that you are the best daddy a girl could hope for.” I squeezed his hand and cradled it next to my cheek. “I’m getting married today. You’re walking me down the aisle, yes?”
“Yes, my darling daughter.” He pulled me close and hugged me. “Yes I am.”
Lady Elizabeth Theresa Billingsley was getting married today. And considering I was her imposter—I guess that meant I was getting married today. I hadn’t planned on this when I took this part-time job.
Note to self: check the fine print on work-related contracts.
I stood in the vestibule of Fredonia’s Royal Cathedral and peeked out from behind one of the ginormous wooden doors, both opened to allow wedding guests to enter. Stained glass windows were lined up high on the cathedral’s stone walls like soldiers on alert. An organist played a medley of the wedding classics: Bach. Beethoven. Mozart. Pachelbel.
Ushers in tuxedos escorted formally attired guests into row upon row of wooden pews. I spotted a magnificent mix of odd hats, extravagant gowns and impeccable tuxedos. There were bouquets of roses hanging by white, silk ribbons on the side of every pew.
My bridesmaids, the Ladies Cheryl, Joan, Esmeralda and my flower girls fluttered around me like hummingbirds hopped up on sugar, prettiness and adrenaline. They too looked like brides—except their dresses were pastel-colored versions of mine and less extravagant in the poofy department.
Church bells pealed high above our heads. I gazed in an ancient mirror: I held a gorgeous bouquet of trailing roses, but I still resembled an overly frosted vanilla cupcake on steroids. For the record? When you don’t have a strong opinion about your own wedding dress—too many folks will be happy to choose it for you.
And you will most likely not be thrilled with the results.
There were yards and yards of white fabric. Tulle, sparkles, in-laid pearls, glitter, a veil, a headpiece, and thankfully—low heels. The only thing I had insisted on were low heels because I couldn’t walk in high ones. “I look like a meringue pie exploded.”
“Elizabeth, stop that.” Cheryl twirled next to me in her smaller lemony version of my dress. “You look adorbs! Thank you for getting married. As much as I love my munchkins, I’m kid-free for two whole days!”
“Squee!” Joan hiked her boobs up and played with the spikes on her pretty, shiny, short-cropped red hair. “Did you see that guy toward the front of the cathedral seated on the groom’s side? I do believe that’s Theodore, the Grand Duke of Latvia. I spotted him on the field at a polo match a year ago and I’ve been dying to meet him. He’s so hot!”
“What happened to the handsome medical doctor-in-training stripper?”
“A girl needs more than one man on her plate. Don’t you watch The Bachelorette?”
Folks craned their heads and smiled as they tried to catch a glimpse of me—the bride—the future Princess of Fredonia. Or as I liked to call me?
The no good, lying Princess impersonator.
In the front of the Royal Church of Fredonia’s sacristy the Archbishop of Sauerhausen walked onto center-stage.
Mr. Philips was seated in the third row from the front on the bride’s side of the cathedral. He swiveled back toward me and I swear he winked. I gave him a clandestine thumbs-up. But then my hands started to shake. Had I eaten today? Had I not eaten today? Oh good God, I couldn’t remember. Crap.
But—I could do this. I could marry Cristoph, Prince of Fredonia, and have this amazing life.
My Uncle John would be taken care of. We would never have to worry about money or support or love—well, perhaps we’d eventually be dealing with the gossip-mongers. But I could handle that.
Two of Cristoph’s groomsmen, attired in immaculate tuxes, strode into the front of the church. I then watched as the most handsome smart-ass in the world walked to the front of the church.
Nick.
Fucking Prince Nicholas of Fredonia was dressed in a tux and looked absolutely stunning and delicious. He stared at the floor and rocked back and forth on his heels.
“Nick looks so handsome!” Joan said.
“He’ll be the hottest bachelor in Europe as soon as Cristoph’s off the market,” Cheryl said.
I frowned. They were right. All the tarts in tiaras would be after my Nick.
The Trumpet Voluntary played—the same version that was performed during Princess Diana's royal wedding march.
My Ladies’ eyes turned to me.
“It’s time,” Cheryl said and sniffled.
“Hang on. I need to adjust your veil.” Joan leaned in and fluffed the veil that draped over my face and adjusted my tiara.
“You look beautiful.” Esmeralda wiped a tear away.
I peeked out at the crowd. Photographers huddled in every corner imaginable.
Cristoph walked into the front of the church. His eyes met mine and he smiled. My eyes glazed over, time slowed down and I froze as Nick continued to stare at his feet.
I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. A fake, a phony, an imposter. A girl from Southside Chicago caught up in a big fat womping lie of a part-time job who was about to become the Princess of Fredonia.
Papa approached me, dressed to the nines, in a handsome tuxedo. “I’m here to walk my favorite daughter down the aisle.” He hugged me and smiled.
He looked so debonair in his black tuxedo with his silver hair. “But I’m your only daughter,” I said, “Daddy.”
And for a moment—he was. And I wondered how—with or without child—how could Elizabeth leave him behind?
“My Princess.” He clicked his heels and bowed as we both wiped a few tears away. “Time waits for no one. Your carriage awaits.” He held out his arm to me.
My hand shook as I took his arm.
“Papa,” I said. “I’m not sure I ever told you how much I love you. And you need to know that your daughter really does love you,” I said. “So very, very much.”
“If you make me cry again, I’ll disown you.” He wiped away a tear.
As did I. “If you make me ruin my makeup, I’ll have you thrown into the royal dungeons. I can do that after today—I think. Walk me down the aisle, Papa.”
“If you or anyone else in this church has an objection to holy matrimony between Lady Elizabeth Theresa Billingsley and Prince Cristoph Edward George Timmel the Third? Speak now or forever hold your peace,” the Archbishop in his flowing robes said.
Cristoph looked down at me, smiled and whispered, “We’ve got this Elizabeth. We are the new face of Fredonia.”
I glanced at my Ladies-in-Waiting: they smiled and gave me a thumbs up. With the exception of Lady Joan, who stared over her shoulder, completely smitten, at Theodore of Latvia.
I swiveled and peered at Mr. Philips. But his head was collapsed in his hands and he wouldn’t meet my look.
Nick coughed.
I turned and stared at him. “What?” I hissed.
“Elizabeth?” Cristoph whispered.
Nick’s hacks escalated from a rumble to full throttle. The nattily attired wedding guests’ dilated eyes started to veer from focusing on me—to fixating on him.
I felt like I was back on the airplane flight from London to Fredonia as we dropped like a bag of stones toward the jagged mountain peeks below. I broke into a sweat, clutched one perfectly manicured hand to my pearl-embedded silken clad chest and wheezed as the cathedral appeared to wobble a little side to side.
“Elizabeth, what’s wrong?” Cristoph whispered. “Tell me what’s wrong, love. Is it your hypoglycemia?”
Flashbulbs popped from every corner of the cathedral. The wedding guests murm
ured amongst themselves. The room felt like it was closing in on me. “Nick,” I hissed, but he wouldn’t meet my eye. The room started spinning.
Tulip barked, broke free from her handler and raced toward me. In a haze I scooped her up, buried my face in her face and inhaled her puppy breath.
“This is highly unorthodox,” the Archbishop said. “I clearly stated that I’d only allowed the dogs if they were confined.”
Queen Cheree jumped up from the front pew as Sunny stood next to her. “You only allowed my Labrador Retrievers because I paid the cathedral an extra three thousand euros. Do not denigrate my dogs.”
Nick coughed.
“I repeat! If anyone present here has an objection to holy matrimony between Lady Elizabeth Theresa Billingsley and Prince Cristoph Edward George Timmel the Third? Speak now or forever hold your peace,” the Archbishop said.
“No one has an objection!” Cristoph said.
Tulip barked.
“Could you get on with it?” Nick asked.
“There are no objections!” Mr. Philips yelled from the third pew.
I peered at Nick, who hyperventilated as he gazed back at his shoes. We were both on the verge of having panic attacks. And it dawned on me that as much as I loved my part-time job, and the people of Fredonia, I couldn’t live a lie for the rest of my life.
Time was precious. The people you love might not be with you forever. And maybe sometimes, in spite of all the odds, in spite of everything, you just needed to stick up for your heart. Stick up for your life. Stick up for your dreams.
And I made a better decision.
Chapter 34
I placed Tulip gently on the ground, turned toward Cristoph, wrapped my arms around him and hugged him tight. The crowd gasped.
I whispered into his ear. “I adore you. You deserve to marry a girl who is better for you than me. I sincerely apologize for what is about to happen.”
Part-time Princess Page 23