Part-time Princess

by Pamela DuMond

  “What’s about to happen?”

  “This.” I lifted my veil, kissed him on the cheek, pulled away from him and peered up at the Archbishop. “Um, excuse me your holiness?”

  “Yes, Lady Billingsley,” he said.

  “I’m speaking now because I can’t forever hold my peace.”

  He shook his head. “What say you, Lady?”

  “It pains me something fierce to say this—but I know a reason that I cannot marry Prince Cristoph.”

  “Merde!” A wedding guest hissed.

  “Sacrilege!” Another one said.

  “Honey? Are you okay?” Papa asked.

  “Shit,” Mr. Philips said.

  Hisses and gasps rose from the crowd as flashbulbs popped and cameras whirred. I heard a thud and I think someone passed out.

  “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” Esmeralda asked.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Okay,” she said softly. “The Ladies have your back.”

  “Speak up, Lady Billingsley,” the Archbishop said. “Speak your truth, now. In front of God, the Royal Family and all present here today. What is the reason you should not be united in holy matrimony with Prince Cristoph?”

  “You see—therein lies the dilemma.” I gazed out into the crowd of folks in the cathedral who were deathly quiet as they leaned forward, practically on their tippy toes, waiting for my answer.

  A few guests wearing big hats fanned themselves. Royal Nana snored in the first pew.

  Nick stared at me and shook his head, ‘No’.

  My hand flew into my chest. Because I knew he wasn’t expecting what I was about to say next.

  “I can’t marry Prince Cristoph because—I’m not Lady Elizabeth Theresa Billingsley.”

  “Oh my sweet darling,” Queen Cheree said. “Who else would you be? You’re simply sleep-deprived and stressed out from that awful woman’s terrible machinations.”

  Royal Nana woke with a start. “Cocoa,” she said. “Make me hot cocoa with the mini-marshmallows, Elizabeth. It’s so yummy the way you make it.”

  “Of course,” I turned to my Ladies. “Will one of you please make hot cocoa for Royal Nana? I’m in the middle of something.”

  Joan’s hand popped up. “Consider it done.” She pulled her cell out of her cleavage and texted.

  “Elizabeth.” Cristoph eyed his brother Nick and then regarded me. “What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on is that I’m not Elizabeth.”

  “Hah!” He said. “No. Seriously.”

  “Seriously. I’m not Elizabeth. My name is Lucy.” Out of the corner of my eyes I spotted the cameras creeping closer to the front of the church.

  He shook his head. “But, but… then where’s Elizabeth?”

  “Somewhere—” Mr. Philips caught my eye as he ran his fingers across his lips in the universal sign for ‘zip it’. I nodded at him. “I’m not exactly sure,” I said. “But I don’t think she’s in Fredonia.” I back-stepped down the few stairs, but my feet tangled in my gown and I teetered on the last one.

  Cheryl hiked up her dress, jumped down the stairs, grabbed my arm and stopped me from falling.

  “But why?” Cristoph asked. “I don’t get it. I’m offering you—I mean her—my allegiance, my throne, my heart. Why?”

  I shook my arm free from Cheryl’s grasp and I started crying. “I can’t speak for Elizabeth’s reasons, Cristoph. She hired me to impersonate her for just ten days. And then ten days turned into over a month. And in that short time, I’ve grown so fond of you. I’ve fallen in love with all of you really. And I’m so sorry. Because I never ever wanted or planned to hurt anybody.”

  “God dammit!” Nick exclaimed.

  “Don’t you swear in church, young man,” the Archbishop exclaimed. “I mean Your Royal Highness.”

  I looked up and Nick stared at me like he was seeing me for the first time. His eyes were wide open, and his gaze calculated: as if it all started to make sense.

  The Archbishop of Sauerhausen’s face had turned beet red and I feared his head was going to pop off his robed body like the top of a Pez dispenser. “So, Elizabeth, or Lucy, or whatever your name is—you do not take Prince Cristoph Edward George Timmel the Third of Fredonia to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do you part?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “I do not. However, except for the husband part, I do solemnly vow I will do all those things with Tulip. Queen Cheree—can I keep the puppy?”

  She leaned back in her pew, sighed and nodded. “So be it.”

  “Thank you everyone! Have a splendid day! I think the food at the reception will still be fabulous!” I turned, picked up the end of Tulip’s leash from the ground and hiked up my dress with my other hand. We raced back down the aisle as flashbulbs exploded like the grand finale of a fireworks show on the Fourth of July.

  I wore over-sized, reflective Aviator sunglasses, a Denver Bronco’s ball cap and a Tampa Bay Buccaneers jersey to thoroughly disguise my identity. I had promised Jane Dawson an interview—but I hadn’t promised that I’d divulge my real identity to her millions of viewers.

  We sat across from each other in a hotel suite in Tampa (hence the Buccaneers attire), where she had a much more important story lined up after our interview. Her crew of makeup, camera and lighting people was positioned around us.

  Jane faced the camera. “With us tonight is the young woman who stunned not only the entire country of Fredonia, but, frankly, the entire world, when she literally ran out of her royal wedding to Prince Cristoph Edward George Timmel the Third on her actual wedding day. But as she said—it really wasn’t her wedding day. Because this young woman wasn’t really Lady Elizabeth Theresa Billingsley—she was an imposter.”

  Jane swiveled toward me. “You have asked that your real name not be revealed on camera.”

  “That’s right Ms. Dawson.” I sat regal, posture-perfect, on a settee overlooking the bay. “Thank you for honoring my wishes.”

  She nodded. “The public press has deemed you Almost Fake Fredonia Princess with a Heart—or,” she swiveled back to the camera, “for those of you following us on Twitter—#AFFPHeart.”

  “That’s right.” I winced.

  “I met you on a transatlantic flight from Chicago to London in early July of this year,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You sat next to me. You seemed like a lovely young woman. I suspected I knew you, but couldn’t quite place your name.”

  “That’s correct,” I said.

  “When I nearly died from choking, Prince Nicholas Frederick Timmel of Fredonia performed the Heimlich maneuver that saved my life. You gave up your seat for me, tucked pillows behind my head and covered me in blankets.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You were kind, but the truth of the matter is that you were a royal imposter. You were pretending to be Lady Elizabeth Theresa Billingsley.”

  I sighed. “Yes.”

  “On that fateful flight you also pretended to know Prince Nicholas.”

  “Yes.”

  “But in reality you did not know him?” Jane asked.

  “No. Well, actually I met him after he boarded the plane. When he… flirted with me.”

  “Because he thought you actually were Lady Elizabeth Billingsley?” Jane asked.

  I hung my head. “Yes.”

  “Can you elaborate on this please?”

  “Unfortunately—no. I signed confidentiality agreements. I could still be sued.”

  “Can you tell us who employed you?”

  I looked up and whistled.

  Jane nodded. “I understand. But you can confirm this. Here you were—an American commoner, a former cocktail waitress, impersonating Lady Billingsley in Fredonia’s royal court. You rose from obscurity to become the center of the world’s att
ention after Prince Cristoph Edward George Timmel the Third asked you to marry him, and you said yes?”

  I nodded—albeit sheepishly.

  “The world’s eyes were on you,” Jane said. “For example—when you visited The Holy Cross Orphanage.”

  I’d place bets Jane’s show now cut to footage of Peter, the boy from the orphanage, hugging me.

  “I had a feeling about you,” Jane said. “That you were someone special, you were newsworthy and you promised to give me your story if there was a story to be given.”

  “Absolutely, Ms. Dawson. But I think you pretty much know everything.”

  “Not everything,” she said. “I heard rumors that you fell in love with the Prince of Fredonia but not the one you were falsely engaged to. You fell in love with Nicholas, not Cristoph. Is that why you didn’t walk down the aisle? Is that why you bolted from the cathedral in that disastrous albeit spectacular manner on that special day?”

  My sunglasses couldn’t hide the tears that slid down my cheeks. I wiped them away with my fingers. “Have you ever fallen in love with the wrong guy, Ms. Dawson?”

  Her eyebrows arched as she handed me a tissue. “Why yes, I have.”

  “How did it feel?” I asked.

  “It felt magical when it happened. It felt like my world crashed down around me when I realized I couldn’t be with him.” Jane brushed a tear away from her eye.

  I picked up the tissue box and held it out toward her. “I am not confirming nor am I denying your question,” I said.

  Jane delicately blew her nose and then gazed into the camera. “For those of you watching tonight? Please use #AFFPHeart to let us know how you feel about Almost Fake Fredonia Princess with a Heart’s situation. Should she have left Fredonia earlier? Should she have stayed? Who do you think hired her?” Jane swiveled back toward me. “Do you have regrets?”

  “Oh God, yes.” I said. “I never thought for a second that I could harm people if I took this job. But I did. And that haunts me.”

  “Anyone you want to apologize to? They’re probably watching. You can say it to them through our cameras.”

  “Prince Cristoph. You’re so handsome and such a gentleman. I’m so sorry if I hurt you. I really didn’t mean to. Queen Cheree. You are such a class act and I could never be as wonderful and kind as you are: you set the bar too high. I sincerely apologize. And I’m taking excellent care of my puppy. I can never thank you enough. Royal Nana. Except for nearly breaking my toe, I still wish you were my Nana in real life. And perhaps my biggest apology goes out to the people of Fredonia. You have a beautiful country. You were so very kind to me. I’m so sorry if I let you down. Except for the two people who tried to kill me, seriously, you are all very close to my heart.”

  “Helga Humperdink and her daughter Ivanka managed to flee the country and are now on Interpol’s most-wanted list. Do you still fear for your life?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Good.”

  “What about Prince Nicholas of Fredonia?”

  “What about him?” I asked.

  “Is there anything you want to say to him? Any parting words?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “Yes and No. Yes? I’ll miss him forever. No? How do you say goodbye to someone who never actually met the real you?”

  Jane nodded. “So what will you do now?”

  “I’ll walk my puppy. I’ll thank God every night that I was able to meet the kind people of Fredonia and live in their country for over an unforgettable month. I’ll remember the good times. I’ll try and let my heart scab over from the bad ones. I’ll really miss Elizabeth’s Ladies-In-Waiting. They’re like the sisters I never had, but always wanted. I’ll get back to living my life.” I said. “And I’ll get a new job.”

  “Good luck with that! And thank you for sharing as much as you could regarding your epic journey,” Jane said.

  “Thank you, Ms. Dawson.” And we hugged.

  “Cut camera!” she yelled. “I’m so sorry, honey. You call me if there’s anything I can do. Promise me that.”

  “Promise. Thanks.” I sniffled.

  Chapter 35

  I lay in my bed with Tulip next to me for two weeks as I cried, ate dark chocolate ice cream, (not as fabulous as the ice cream in Fredonia), and watched reruns of I Love Lucy. I could no longer view my favorite medieval show—it reminded me too much of Nick and Fredonia and my Ladies. I read The Wall Street Journal for real, but didn’t see any mention of Friedricksburgh being sold off to developers.

  I hadn’t heard from Nick, or Cristoph. Mr. Philips left me a couple of messages that I didn’t return. The Ladies texted me incessantly until I responded that they were killing me and I just wasn’t ready to talk about it. Their texts stopped abruptly.

  About three weeks after my most epic journey I ventured back into the land of the living. I jogged with Tulip around my local park. I secured her six-foot lead to the outdoor weight machines, stuffed a liver treat in her chew toy and let her have at it as I pumped iron. My exercising dealt with my grief. Attempting to dig out the liver treats seemed to make her happy. It was a win-win.

  I played Ping-Pong and hung out with Uncle John at Vail Assisted Living. Alida, Mateo and I watched some real football: Chicago Bears vs. The Green Bay Packers on a big-screen at a sports-themed restaurant.

  In late September, Chicago’s Indian summer changed overnight from scorching hot to crisp fall. The leaves turned from green to shades of oranges, reds, and browns. Lawns yellowed. My neighborhood grew quieter. Not as many partiers opened their windows in the autumn as the summer. Even the cockroaches calmed down and made room for the spiders. Fine by me. Seems like there was a time and a season for everyone and everything.

  Every day Tulip seemed to grow like one of those wild flowers that stuck out of a patch of melting snow in Fredonia’s Alps. First her legs got long and her gait grew even goofier. For a while her butt was higher than her chest. Two weeks later her chest caught up to her behind and her spine straightened. Her golden hair changed texture from fluffy, to sleek and short, and her face started to fill out. She loved me too much and I loved her back the same way.

  I thanked my lucky stars every night that Queen Cheree had let me keep her.

  I missed the fall semester at Columbia Technical Academy. I couldn’t handle going back to school yet, but I contacted Columbia’s administration, semi-explained my circumstances and deferred my classes to the winter semester that started in January the following year.

  One day in October it dawned on me I really did need to get back to life. Which meant I needed to hunker down and find a job. I applied via a website and was hired by Cheswick’s of Boston to be an online chat service representative. I fielded questions about clothing and accessories: color, cut, orders and other customer concerns. Unfortunately, I quit after being ‘screamed at’ online for an hour in a furious chat session with a woman who insisted she had ordered a suit in autumn brisk orange but received said outfit in spring tangerine dew.

  I scanned more listings on Daveslist. Lucky for me—the Wieners on Sticks mall kiosk still needed bouncing hot dog salespersons. I applied for the position, got it, and totally pulled it off; until one blustery autumn night after a Monday-Night-Football Bears game, when I received an e-mail from someone I didn’t know.

  Yo Wiener on Sticks Girl:

  * * *

  Lovd the vidio. I got the ex-large wiener and the stik, babe. E me back. I pwomis you won’t be disaponted.

  There was a link to a really uncomfortable, slightly demented YouTube video that featured me and my female co-workers in slow motion, interspersed between a montage of wieners and sausages. More than suggestive Twitter comments from weirdos flew across the screen: #WienersonSticks Watch Lucy’s #boobs fly next to that gigantic #Kielbasa!

  Um, no. Just flat-out no. Life was just too short for this.

  I quit Wieners on Sticks immediately and spent my first night jobless—yet again—with my new favorite time travel TV show, m
y glass of three buck Chuck cabernet and the best dog ever—Tulip. She napped with her head on my lap. Her paws twitched while tiny yelps escaped her mouth.

  I scratched her ears and realized I was less alone than before I impersonated Lady Elizabeth Billingsley and fell in love with Nick. Before he broke my heart and before I embarrassed an entire country. I stroked Tulip’s head and her back. Maybe I really had gained something beyond craziness and more important than simply money from that part-time job?

  But day after relentless day I continued to yearn for Nick. Why? Get a grip, Lucy: you can never ever be with Nick. He’s a prince for God’s sake.

  In an odd twist of events, in November, I found myself full circle, back at MadDog, working with Alida and Buddy Paulsen. The only way this happened was that a nameless investor had bought out Mark Whitford’s share. Whitford left, taking his pinkie ring and privileged party boys with him.

  The new investors shut down the place for a week to remodel. And it wasn’t just a deep clean and a coat of paint on the walls. There were some major renovations since I was last here: a small wooden dance floor was built in the middle of the bar. An ‘old-fashioned’ looking jukebox was tucked on a diagonal in a corner nearby. Harley Davidson paraphernalia still hung on the walls but was broken up with lithographs of hot guys and pretty girls riding motorcycles. I stared at one of the pictures. There were mountains in the distance and it made me think of Nick and our wild ride. Yes—I mean yeah—the art worked for me.

  Once again, we wore our MadDog T-shirts, jeans and low-heeled biker boots as we cocktailed to a crowd of folks that were, for the most part, likeable—the majority of the customers, old and new, played nice in the sand box.

  One night, the first week after Thanksgiving, snowflakes descended from the skies and fell outside the bar’s windows as fall skidded into winter. The bar was packed—most likely because tonight was MadDog’s first ever ‘Ladies Night’.

  “Two Jack and Cokes, two Stolis on the rocks, a fake lemonade for Artie and some stale pretzels, please, Lucy,” Mr. Fitzpatrick asked.