The Royal Delivery

by Melanie Summers

  “Of course.”

  “Yes, good. I’m just wondering if you know how long it usually takes before...that bit resumes again. Not that it matters in the least, mind you,” I say quickly. “I mean, poor Tessa’s going through so much that this whole sex thing is just more of an afterthought, really. Doesn’t make a bit of difference to me.”

  “No, none, I’m sure,” he says, nodding. “Who needs it to be happy?”

  “Exactly. We can busy ourselves with higher pursuits, certainly.”

  “Of course,” he says.

  We’re interrupted when our drinks arrive, along with a basket of warm rolls.

  “Mmm. You simply must try one,” Chaz says. “These are the best sourdough rolls I’ve ever had.” He lifts the cloth napkin off the basket, and steam rises into the air.

  We each take one, and it nearly burns my fingers as I break off a piece and butter it. “Yes, no, I’m not thinking about it for now, obviously.”

  “What for now?” Chaz asks, stuffing a large bite of the bun in his mouth.

  “Umm. Sex.”

  “Oh, right, yes.”

  “Poor girl’s been told she needs to go on a bit of a bed rest starting at week twenty-eight of her pregnancy to ensure she doesn’t go into labour too early, so I’m definitely not talking about now. Or anytime soon. Obviously, I feel quite bad for her. She’s going through so much, what with the hormones and how physically uncomfortable she is...”

  “Oh, yes, it’s quite a lot that these poor women have to go through, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed. And the media has been particularly harsh with her, I have to say.”

  “I saw that,” he says, buttering another hunk of bun. “They should be ashamed of how they’ve treated her.”

  “Agreed. It’s been just awful,” I say. “I am wondering, though...”

  “How long it took before I got sex again?"

  "If it's not too personal." Nothing is too personal with Chaz. He’s never even heard of the concept of TMI.

  "Well, I may not be the best person to ask since my wife doesn’t generally like me all that much, but yours seems nice enough."

  "Yes, Tessa's a real peach. Maybe not quite so much lately, but that's totally understandable."

  "Perfectly normal. I can't even imagine carrying one baby, let alone twins.”

  “Me either,” I say, starting to feel a bit irritated at how long it’s taking to get an answer.

  "Well, after our first was born, Janica had absolutely no interest in sex until...let me think...oh, well...I guess it was when she wanted to have a second child. So, two years and a bit.”

  “Oh. I see. And after that?”

  “After Jaxson was born, she showed no interest in sex until she decided she wanted to get a mummy lift."

  "And forgive me for forgetting. Jaxson is..."

  "Six."

  "I see."

  "You're regretting having asked, aren't you?"

  "A little bit. Yes." I pick up my glass of scotch and tip it back, letting it pour down my throat.

  "Not to worry. Our situations are totally different. First of all, I really don't believe Tessa married you for your money,” Chaz says, letting go of this little fact rather freely.

  I don't know if I should be impressed or filled with pity. He's not wrong, but for him to know it and to remain in the situation is a rather surprising choice. He's not the best-looking bloke, but he is smart and kind and funny as all hell. There are lots of women out there who would love a man like him. Unfortunately, he decided to go for supermodel hot instead of a good life partner.

  He continues with his list of why I shouldn’t worry. “Not to mention that your wife, as far as I can tell, is madly in love with you. So, I imagine once the babies are born and she's had a little time to recover, things should return to normal."

  "Right, well that’s what I'm hoping." I pause for a second, then ask, “By normal, do you mean everything goes back to normal or... "

  Now that I’ve started down this road, I’m wishing I could back up. I’m asking him to dish on his wife’s lady bits. Not appropriate, Arthur. This is exactly why Google was invented.

  "Oh, yes, that. It bounces back. Don't worry. Especially if she keeps up with her Kegels."

  "Although, I don't really feel like it would be appropriate for me to remind her to keep that up."

  "Good God, no. You can never say a word, even if her you-know-what ends up so stretched out, you could park a bicycle in there."

  I won't recount the rest of the conversation for you because things got horrifyingly graphic from there. I now know everything I didn’t want to about episiotomies and hemorrhoids. Now that I think of it, it probably was a mistake to have brought up the topic. I didn’t really learn anything that will help me at all, and now I’m terrified of what could happen.

  As I lay in bed in my hotel suite pondering my nonexistent and future sex life, I tell myself it'll all turn out okay. He's right. Tessa and I are very much in love, which is really all you need. The Beatles were right about that.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Unexpected Gifts of Being Utterly Normal

  Tessa

  It’s early on Thursday evening. Arthur’s in New York, and I’m enjoying a few hours of quiet. Oh, I don’t mean I’m glad Arthur’s away, because I definitely miss him. I’m just relieved that my parents have gone to babysit for Noah and Isa tonight, so there’s no chance they’re going to ‘pop by to visit their favourite neighbour, haha.’ Funny the first two dozen times, Dad.

  Anyway, the pop-bys would be fine if it weren’t: a) the moment I’m finally set up on the couch with the comfort snacks required by the babies; and, b) at the same time the Daily Cricket Recap comes on, which means my father takes over the telly while my mum talks nonstop about my niece Tabitha, who has ‘gotten in with the wrong crowd and is suddenly wearing knee-high boots, of all things. And they’re black leather. With laces all the way to the top! Where did my little sweet granddaughter go?’.

  I mean, honestly, it’s a pair of boots. Let’s get over it already. She’s thirteen, for God’s sake. My mum should be glad she’s not vaping or giving blowies behind the bleachers, like half the girls in seventh year these days.

  I flick on the telly and start channel surfing while I let my Choco Loco ice cream warm up a bit—I’ve taken to enjoying it in almost liquid form. But not to worry about the wait because I have a bag of crisps to eat in the meantime.

  A knock at the doors has me scowling. Xavier pokes his head in, and when he sees what I’m about to eat, his face falls.

  My cheeks heat up with shame, and I slide the bowl of crisps onto the couch next to me. I don’t know why I should feel so worried about disappointing my bodyguard, but I do.

  “I thought you’d gone home already.”

  “I just finished my last set of rounds. Can I get you a healthy snack before I go?”

  Grrr. That’s it. I’m saying something. “No, thanks. You know, you really don’t have to worry about what I eat, Xavier,” I say in a harsh tone. “It’s not actually part of your...” My voice trails off, and I’m immediately filled with remorse.

  “Job?” he says, finishing my sentence for me.

  Fiddling with the hem of my sleeve, I say, “Yes. I don’t want to be rude or something, but sometimes it’s just a bit...much.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to help myself when it comes to people I care about.” He looks shocked after the words come out of his mouth. “I don’t mean like that. It’s just that...I...developed a bad habit of giving fatherly advice at a very early age. When my father died, I took it upon myself to fill that role and obviously haven’t figured out how to shut it off. I’ll do my best to stop, though.”

  Well, there goes my ability to be irritated with him. Now I feel horribly sorry for him and guilty for being so annoyed and never bothering to ask him about his life. I knew he has two younger sisters, but not much else.

  “Oh. I’m really sorry, Xav. I had
no idea.”

  “I’m the one who should be sorry—sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong,” he says. “You’re my employer, not one of my little sisters. What you eat is none of my business.”

  I shake my head. “No, you shouldn’t feel bad. I’m lucky to have someone like you to watch over me—so much nicer than some cold guard who’s just putting in time.”

  “I’m definitely not just putting in time, Princess Tessa,” Xavier says. “You and Prince Arthur, and your parents, have been so good to me. Your well-being matters to me. Having said that, I should probably stop nagging you so much.”

  “I appreciate that you care, Xavier, but I’d also love it if you could dial it back to about half.” I stare into his eyes for a second, suddenly understanding how lonely he must be—spending his life silently standing nearby, basically being ignored all day, waiting for some danger that likely will never come. “How old were you when you lost your father?”

  “Nine."

  I sigh, imagining him as a much smaller version of himself. “That must have been awful.”

  He shrugs and glances at the floor, then back at me. “At least I remember him. My sisters were four and two at the time.” Clearing his throat, he says, “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your evening. You should get off your feet...if you want, that is.”

  I grin at him. “I do want to. And I should. Good night, Xav,” I say with a sad smile. “And thank you...for everything.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  When he leaves, I sit back down, feeling sad. His life is devoted to us, which really leaves him with not much in the end—employers instead of a family. I stare at the television screen for a minute. What if we make Xavier part of our family? The kind of addition you choose, like Nikki or Grace next door for my mum. As far as big brothers go, he’s so much freaking better than the ones I got saddled with biologically.

  I pick up my crisps and start channel surfing.

  Oh, is that...?

  Shit, it’s Brooke, back on ABNC. I turn up the volume and put down the remote.

  “Let’s see what Awful Brooke has to say today,” I tell Dexter, who’s standing with his chin resting on the arm of the couch, watching the crisps with great intensity.

  My mobile rings. I pluck it off the couch cushion and see it's Nikki calling. Swiping the screen, I say, "Hey, girl."

  "If you're not watching the telly, don't turn on the news right now."

  "Oh, you mean the latest episode of Brooke the Incredible Shrinking Pregnant Woman Looks Down on Everyone Else in the World?”

  Nikki laughs, then puts on a TV announcer voice and says, “Today, an inside look at Brooke and Blake’s twenty-two-bedroom mansion in South Valcourt.” Switching to her normal voice, she says, “But seriously, I thought we agreed you shouldn't watch this? On account of your rage?"

  "Yeah, about that, reminding me of things I previously asked you to remind me of—not so good for my rage.” I take a handful of crisps and shove them in my mouth.

  "Thanks for the warning. I’ll take that under advisement. Salt and pepper crisps for you today?"

  “I’m living on the edge tonight. Jalapeño Cheddar."

  I hear Nikki crunching as well. It's nice to have friends you can be rude with. "What are you eating?"

  "Prawn Cocktail Crisps washed down with ginger beer."

  "Ooooh, nice. God, I miss alcohol. So, so much. The great irony of pregnancy is that the time when you need a drink the most is exactly when you can’t have one.”

  “So true. I’ve never thought of that, but somehow I feel like if you’d had a bottle of wine in front of you the past few weeks, you’d be much more chilled out.”

  “My rage would be lowered by a factor of ten, guaranteed."

  "The fact that you aren't drinking right now, with everything that's been going on, makes you my hero."

  "Aww, thanks, hon." I take a sip of my boring cranberry juice, imagining there’s some vodka in it. "Good God, that's a gorgeous house. Look at the view out the nursery window."

  "Is that..."

  I gasp. "That's my house. Okay, that’s just weird.”

  "Two things about that last statement—number one, that a palace is what you call ‘your house’ is kind of mind blowing, right?"

  "Very.”

  “Second thing—it's a little creepy that she can see your house from her house, no?"

  "Definitely. Shit. I think they just said my name."

  I watch the screen closely as I hear Veronica say, "Now, not to get gossipy, but I'm afraid our Duchess of Wellingborne, a.k.a. the Cowntess of Camembert, as she's been so cruelly nicknamed, is not necessarily having what you would call an optimal pregnancy."

  "Well, as much as I hate to comment on someone else, I do have to say it's important for those of us in influential positions to model healthy behaviours and habits for other people around the kingdom."

  “Shut if off!” Nikki hollers into the phone. “That’s an order. Do not listen to any more of this.”

  I scramble to shut off the telly.

  “Is it off?” Nikki asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Good girl. Oh, I’d love to slap that smug look off her face.”

  “Me, too. It would feel so good to take her down a few notches. Just really let her have it. Or have people finally see her for who she is.”

  “If only.”

  One of the babies gives me a sharp boot to the ribs, reminding me I’m supposed to be maturing. “I suppose I have to ‘rise above it’ instead. Take the high road, and all that.”

  “What’s the fun in that?” Nikki asks. “Oooh, what if you started your own movement for women who want to eat whatever the fuck they want?”

  I laugh at the idea. “Princess Tessa’s Eat with Wild Abandon Campaign.”

  “Love it,” Nikki says, imitating Dylan.

  Suddenly, it’s like a light bulb goes on. One I’ve been waiting on for a very long time. “Actually, Nikki. You may be on to something...”

  TEXT FROM BRAM: Tessa, any decisions on the babies’ names yet? Irene wants to put a thousand down on the names Edmund if one of the babies is a boy and Madison if one’s a girl because there are fifty-to-one odds on that combo. We could really use the cash because she wants to go to Brazil for a butt lift (which I fully support) but it’s really friggin’ expensive to get there from here and for the surgery.

  EMAIL FROM HAZEL NETTLEBOTTOM to Me

  RE: Weekly Observer Woes

  My dearest Tessa,

  I hope you're feeling well. It's been quite a while since we've spoken last and much has been happening around the newspaper, none of which is good. I have had to lay off both of our interns, which is never a good sign, since they were both only paid in free coffee.

  If there is any way you might be able to provide us with an exclusive on your pregnancy or the babies or anything, for that matter, it would be a huge help to the paper.

  Your friend, Hazel

  Email from me to Hazel Nettlebottom

  RE: Weekly Observer Woes

  Dear Hazel,

  Whilst it's wonderful to hear from you, I'm truly sorry to hear that it is under such duress that you are writing. I have a feeling we may be able to help each other out. Will you be free in an hour for a phone call?

  Your friend,

  Tessa

  Email from Hazel Nettlebottom

  RE: RE: Weekly Observer Woes

  Hoorah! I shall be at my desk awaiting your call.

  Yours,

  Hazel

  EMAIL FROM ME TO DYLAN Sinclair

  RE: New PR Strategy

  Dear Dylan,

  Have been thinking of PR strategies and had epiphany last night while watching the news. I won’t be able to make it on Monday as I will be very busy with a new project that is near and dear to my heart. I’ll be collaborating with my ex-boss at The Weekly Observer on something sure to have a positive effect on my word cloud.

  The past few weeks have
been a real eye-opener for me. There's a war raging against and among women, perpetrated by magazines and the fashion industry, as well as women ourselves. The end result is that no one can live up to the impossible standards against which we are judged, results in us criticizing each other out of insecurity (see the Avonian Healthy Pregnancy Foundation for an example, should you be confused).

  What I'd like to do is start my own campaign—one which allows women to feel good about themselves, regardless of clothing-size, about not being able to afford the latest maternity fashion or two-thousand-dollar prams. Women all over the world are being sold this unattainable ideal, and it’s time to stop this.

  I’m taking my ‘normalness,’ and my understanding of what it feels like to be seen as ‘less than,’ and using both to turn the tables on all those who get a kick out of freely criticizing each other. To that end, I’m launching the Good Enough Mum Campaign. It will not have me front and centre, but rather in the background using my photography and writing skills.

  I’ll be conducting a photo shoot of regular women, capturing their beauty for the world to see. The more we see normal-looking women, the more satisfied we’re going to feel with ourselves.

  Can’t wait to give this a whirl and see where we end up!

  All best,

  Tessa

  Email from Dylan Sinclair to Me

  RE: RE: New PR Strategy

  Dear Tessa,

  This is quite disappointing. Although I’m sure your campaign will please some, your lack of regard for my position is rather misguided. As an expert in media relations and image management, I implore you to wait until we’ve had a chance to meet before going ahead with this. Should you choose to continue to go ‘rogue,’ I shall have to reconsider my position with the royal family.

  Best,

  Dylan

  EMAIL FROM ME TO DYLAN Sinclair

  RE: RE: New PR Strategy

  Dear Dylan,