by Meg Cabot
Lilly looked a little ashamed of herself . . . at least until Tina went on to add, “Besides, you know I look terrible in green. That cream color that Sebastiano picked out for us this morning is going to be really flattering on all of our skin tones, even if it’s derivative of what Kate, Duchess of Cambridge, chose for the bridesmaids in her wedding to Prince William, and I think we need to stick to it. Even Trisha liked it, and you know she hates everything that isn’t made out of black lace stretch lycra—”
I’m seriously going to check myself into a rehab center for stress and anxiety after this, I swear to God.
“Can we please stick to the subject?” I demanded. “Once we get to Cranbrook, here’s what I’d like to do: go to Olivia’s uncle’s business to talk to him—and the aunt—like normal, rational adults about my meeting my sister. Nothing accusatory, nothing confrontational. Just ‘Hi, hello, I’m Mia Thermopolis. Would it be okay with you if I meet your niece?’ Then we can go from there.”
“Oh,” Lilly said. “Okay. That seems like a great idea, especially without any sort of advanced planning or consulting your lawyers or your dad or anything first.”
“It will be fine,” I assured her. “It’s not like I haven’t been trained in the art of diplomacy.”
“Right!” Lilly laughed over her whiskey sour. “By your grandmother, the queen of tact!”
“We’re two separate generations,” I said. “We might do things differently, but we still get things done.”
“And the aunt might not even be aware her husband is using her niece’s money to buy bulldozers to send to Qalif,” Tina pointed out. “She could be perfectly innocent in the whole thing.”
“Exactly, Tina.”
Lilly laughed some more. “Oh, my God. You two are so naïve. It’s like watching Bambi and Thumper go after Tony Soprano.”
Lilly is such a pessimist.
Oh, great, the car is finally moving.
CHAPTER 48
12:37 p.m., Wednesday, May 6
Somewhere on Interstate 295
Rate the Royals Rating: 7
Tina is reading aloud from J.P.’s dystopian YA novel, Love in the Time of Shadows, which she downloaded to her phone.
Lilly is laughing so hard she says she’s going to wet her pants.
I’m not finding it very amusing, particularly as the heroine, “Amalia,” has light gray eyes and long sandy blond hair, which gets whipped around a lot in the unforgiving desert wind.
But I suppose hearing J.P.’s book read aloud is better than the alternative, which was listening to Tina play all of the voice mails Boris has left her recently, swearing that he was never unfaithful, and begging her to take him back. Some of them were accompanied by long violin solos.
Lilly said if she had to hear one more, she was going to fling herself from the limo and into oncoming traffic.
I’m starting to think Tina should take Boris back just so we don’t have to hear about him anymore.
I’ve left four messages for my dad, including two on his private cell, but he has not returned them. His assistant Marielle says she has no idea where he is, but as soon as she hears from him, she’ll let him know I’ve called.
Except that wherever he’s gone, he has to have taken his bodyguards. So the RGG knows where he is.
But they aren’t talking, either.
This is not a good sign.
No one told me it takes an hour and a half to get to Cranbrook, New Jersey, during periods of high traffic. This could be a very long trip.
But my resolve is not flagging.
CHAPTER 49
1:05 p.m., Wednesday, May 6
Still on Interstate 295
Rate the Royals Rating: 7
People are honking at the limo as they drive by. It’s like they’ve never seen one before, which is ridiculous. I’ve watched the show Jersey Shore, and they rode in limos all the time.
Well, not ones with Genovian flags flying from them, but still. I suppose I should get François to pull over so we can remove the flags and not draw so much attention to ourselves, but I’d rather save the time and get there, already.
Tina is continuing to read. The two rivals for Amalia’s affection, “Mick” and “Jared,” come from enemy factions. Jared is blond and warmly creative, whereas Mick has dark hair and is more coldly analytical. Amalia seems to be leaning more toward Jared.
But none of it really matters since they’re all dying of radiation poisoning.
Lilly just said she’s going to give Love in the Time of Shadows “a million stars as soon as J.P. self-publishes it somewhere.”
This caused Tina to look teary-eyed. “A Million Stars,” she echoed, with a sigh.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Lilly said in disgust. “If you miss Boris that much, why don’t you take him back?”
“How can I?” Tina asked. “He betrayed my trust.”
“Did he?” Lilly asked. “Or did you destroy it by believing some bimbo blogger’s word over your boyfriend’s?”
I widened my eyes. “Lilly!”
“Well, it’s true,” Lilly said, as Tina appeared stricken. “Look, as a lawyer, you know I’m obligated to look at the facts, and weigh everyone’s testimony impartially, regardless of their sex. But as a feminist, I’m far more likely to show solidarity for my sisters, and believe a woman’s word over a man’s. Hos before bros, and all that.”
I sucked in my breath, glancing at Lars and Halim, who fortunately weren’t paying the slightest bit of attention. “Lilly. Sisters before misters.”
“But in this particular case, I just can’t,” she went on, ignoring me, as usual. “I know Boris too well. He’s the type of man who, if he did cheat, would immediately confess to it, because he wouldn’t be able to bear the guilt for one second. So the fact that he keeps saying he didn’t do it makes me think he really, honest to God, didn’t do it, and in this one individual case, we have got to believe this particular bro over this particular ho.”
I bit my lip. “I hate to say this, Tina, but Lilly has a point. For a musical genius, Boris is pretty uncomplicated.”
Tina continued to look upset. “I know, okay? But photos don’t lie. Unless . . . do you think it’s possible that girl drugged him, or something? Maybe she—”
“Okay, let’s not get carried away,” Lilly interrupted. “He definitely wasn’t drugged. He seemed pretty . . . alert.”
Tina glared at her. “You looked? You looked at the photos? I can’t believe you looked! I haven’t even looked at the photos!”
“Hey,” Lilly said with a shrug. “I’m single. I have to have some fun.”
“I can’t believe you,” Tina declared, hotly. “I know you used to go out with him, Lilly, but that’s a violation of—”
“Uh, Tina,” I interrupted, guiltily. “I looked, too. I mean, it was by mistake, and I clicked away as soon as I realized what they were. But Lilly’s exaggerating, as usual.” I glared at her. “They were only from the waist up so you couldn’t really see anything. In fact, they were actually kind of innocent—”
“I can’t believe you!” Tina cried. “You guys are disgusting!”
“How did you click on them by mistake?” Lilly, grinning, kicked me in the leg.
“Shut up.” I kicked her back. “Tina, don’t be mad. I’m telling you, the photos aren’t anything like what people are making them out to be. In fact, they’re kind of sweet, and the lighting’s surprisingly good. Maybe you should look at them, because the more I think about it, the more I wonder if Boris could be telling the truth about them being Photoshopped—at least partly—and if Lilly is right about the bro thing, which I think she is, maybe that girl really is some kind of editing genius who—”
“No!” Tina looked as if she were feeling sick to her stomach. “I’ll never look at them. And I think we should change the subject now. Let’s talk about what you’re going to say to your little sister when you meet her.”
I agreed, but only out of pity for her.
• Have read all the latest semi-erotic boy band fan fiction on something called Wattpad.
• Know how to Snapchat.
• Follow all the haul video stars on YouTube.
• And be up on all the gossip about an actress I’ve never heard of.
I’m dead.
CHAPTER 50
1:25 p.m., Wednesday, May 6
Still on Interstate 295
Rate the Royals Rating: 7
Michael/Mick just texted.
HRH Mia Thermopolis “FtLouie”>
Why are you in New Jersey?
Who says I’m in New Jersey?
Someone just Instagramed a photo of you eating at a place called ‘Lou’s Lucky Deli.’ You’re with two women who look suspiciously like my sister and Tina Hakim Baba along with three men who, unless I’m mistaken, are Lars, Halim, and your grandmother’s chauffeur.
Oh! Ha. Yes. We stopped for sandwiches because we were starving.
That’s a long way to go for deli. What’s wrong with Katz’s?
We’re looking at bridesmaid dresses.
I thought you were sticking with Genovian designers.
They have those in New Jersey.
I know there’s only one reason you’d go to New Jersey these days, Mia, and it isn’t for bridesmaid dresses.
I’m sorry! We’re pulling into her town now. Tell you about it later?
Fine. But this means when I tell you what Boris has planned, you can’t get mad.
Wait . . . what? What does Boris have planned? Michael, seriously, no.
Tina is too fragile right now.
Not for Tina. For me.
Why would Boris have something planned for you?
It’s called a bachelor party. You’ve probably heard of them.
No.
No, you’ve never heard of a bachelor party?
No, you are not having one. Especially given by Boris.
We’ll talk about it, and your trip to New Jersey, when you get home.
No, we won’t, because when I get home we have that benefit for Sudden Cardiac Death Awareness tonight at the W. And anyway, Boris P. is not throwing you a bachelor party. I can’t believe you even WANT one.
Even one where Boris is chartering a private jet to fly me and some of our other closest World of Warcraft friends to Buenos Aires to eat gigantic steaks?
Never mind.
What? You don’t want to come?
Thank you, no. It sounds like a delightful outing, but I’ll pass. Take Lars with you, though. I’m sure he’d enjoy it.
You only want me to take Lars with me so he won’t be with YOU at your bachelorette party at Crazy Ivan’s.
Dammit! Who told you about that?
Tina told Boris, who told me. He says you girls shouldn’t be the only ones who have fun. Something about “dicklickers”?
I’m going to kill her . . .
He replied with an emoji of what I believe to be a house with flames coming out of the windows and the words, “When you get home expect to be severely reprimanded by the fire marshal.”
!
J.P. is completely wrong. Michael is the opposite of cold and analytical.
CHAPTER 51
2:45 p.m., Wednesday, May 6
Limo outside Olivia’s school
Cranbrook, New Jersey
Rate the Royals Rating: 7
Well, that did not go as well as I’d hoped.
When we pulled up outside Olivia’s aunt’s house—which was a lovely split-level—I saw that, along with a perfectly respectable Mercedes minivan, there was a yellow Ferrari parked in the driveway that had a vanity plate that said Hers on it.
“A Ferrari?” I shook my head. “I don’t even have a Ferrari.”
“You never got your license,” Tina pointed out.
“I’m helping to stimulate the economy,” I explained, “by keeping professional drivers employed.”
“There’s another Ferrari that matches that one exactly sitting in the manager’s parking space in front of O’Toole Construction and Home Design,” Lilly said. “Did you guys notice? But it says His on the vanity plate.”
I had not noticed. We’d gone to the O’Tooles’ place of business first, as planned, only to be told by the wide-eyed receptionist (she’d been reading a copy of OK!, so might have recognized me, as I frequently appear on the cover of OK!) that Mrs. O’Toole was “working from home today,” and Mr. O’Toole was “at a site.”
He’d evidently taken a different car to the “site.”
“Two Ferraris?” I cried. “They have two?”
“Of course it’s entirely possible that Olivia’s uncle’s construction business is doing so well financially that he bought those Ferraris with their own money and not the child support money your father meant for your sister,” Tina said.
It’s amazing how she can see the best in everyone, including her boyfriend (the fact that he may have cheated on her aside).
“I saw their tax returns from the last five years,” Lilly said. “The business is doing well, but not that well.”
I got out of the limo without even waiting for François to open the car door for me, then stalked up to Olivia’s aunt’s front door and rang the bell.
After a moment or two, a nice-looking lady in yoga pants and a cowl neck sweater opened the door and said, “Yes?” expectantly.
It only took a second for her eyes to open very wide as she recognized me and then noticed the limo.
“Oh, my God,” she said, in an entirely different, much less welcoming tone. She’d evidently seen the OK! magazines with me on the cover, too.
“Hi,” I said, putting on my best smile and holding out my right hand. “Are you Catherine? You can call me Mia. I’m here to see your niece, Olivia. Is she at home? Or is she still at school?”
Catherine O’Toole didn’t reach out to shake my hand. Instead, she tried to slam the door in my face.
I, however, had learned a thing or two in my years working on Lilly’s cable access TV show, Lilly Tells It Like It Is (and also volunteering for various political campaigns, both here in the U.S. and back in Genovia), and that is that if you don’t want someone to slam a door on you, you should insert your foot between the jamb and the door they are attempting to swing shut. This makes it impossible for them to close it all the way.
What I had forgotten is that you should only do this if you are wearing combat boots with reinforced toes, not faux-suede platform Mary Janes.
“Ow!” I yelled as Catherine O’Toole slammed her door on my foot.
“Sorry,” Catherine O’Toole cried. “There’s no one here by the name Olivia!”
“Help,” I cried, certain many of my metatarsals were being broken or at least sprained. “Help, help!”
“Oh, my God,” I heard Catherine say again, probably because she’d gotten an eyeful of Lars, who was already hurling himself at us with a considerable amount of speed.
Lars can look intimidatingly large to people who’ve never seen him before, even when he’s a dozen yards away. He is well over six feet tall and weighs two hundred pounds (“most of it muscle,” as he is fond of saying). He can bench press my weight several times over (he claims. I’ve been spared the sight of him doing this, thank the Lord).
But hurtling toward you at close range, with his face contorted in rage, he’s an even more intimidating sight, sort of like a bull charging at an anthill.
The next thing I knew, Lars had crashed through the O’Tooles’ front door and pinned Olivia’s aunt Catherine to one of her living room walls.
“Princess was attacked, but suspect subdued,” I overheard Lars murmur into his headset. I had no idea who he was talking to. Probably Royal Genovian Guard headquarters back at the consulate. “Repeat, pr
incess was attacked, but suspect has been subdued.”
“Lars,” I said, as I hopped around, holding my injured foot in one hand. “I was hardly attacked.”
I couldn’t help thinking, though, that if I’d actually been wearing diamond shoes, my foot would be hurting a lot less.
Meanwhile, Lilly was standing there with a large grin on her face, her camera phone up and on, having filmed the whole thing.
“Don’t worry,” she said, when she saw my disapproving expression. “I’m not going to post it anywhere. This is for my personal collection.”
Oh, God.
“What’s going on?” Tina was crossing the lawn with Halim in tow, both of them looking bewildered. “Mia, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said, even though my right foot was throbbing with pain. “There was just a little misunderstanding.”
“There was no misunderstanding,” Lars said firmly.
“No.” Lilly continued to film. “There was definitely no misunderstanding.”
“Please.” Catherine O’Toole’s voice was muffled. This was because Lars was still pressing her against the ornately plastered wall. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Olivia does live here. Please just tell this . . . man to let me go.”
I felt sorry for her, even though I was pretty sure she had broken or at least sprained my foot.
“Lars, this is ridiculous. Please release her.”
Lars released her, and Catherine O’Toole came away from the wall and adjusted the neckline of her fancy sweater, then one of her fake eyelashes that had come loose when her face had been pressed up against the Venetian plaster. Then she said, “Excuse me, Your Royal Highness, what I meant to say was, won’t you please come in? May I offer you and your friends some refreshment?”