Since then, I’ve taken to phoning ahead when I’m on my way home and calling loudly when I’m coming down the stairs. Or up the stairs, or in from the garden, or out to the garden. Really, now, I’m just yelling wherever I go around here to avoid seeing that again.
The living arrangements themselves are less-than-pleasing. I’m not even in my old room. I’m in Finn’s, because my old room is now a scrap booker’s paradise since it had the best light of any of the upstairs bedrooms. Finn’s room is a dark, dreary, tiny place that reminds me of the very back of a cave. I can tell Chester hates it in here, and I don’t blame him. It also smells of sports equipment and weed, even though I scrubbed it top to bottom before I moved in. But who am I to complain? At least I have a roof over my head while I sort out my mess of a life.
Almost all of my things have either been sold or are boxed up in a shed in the back garden, where I’m sure spiders are nesting at this very moment, since I’m sure that is what they do on Thursday mornings in June. They nest and lay eggs in your things while you lie in bed depressed, trying to force yourself to get up and get your arse moving again.
I stay perfectly still with my eyes wide open, listening for signs of life downstairs. Why is it one must open their eyes very wide in order to hear better? Hmm, I should Google that. Maybe I could start a site with all the answers to random questions like that. Oh, wait. That’s Google, isn’t it?
Anyway, it’s very quiet, which means that Dad must be at work and Mum must be out. Or they’re shagging. Ewww!
I throw off the covers and make my way down the hall, calling, “Who’s up for some coffee? Anyone? Good morning!”
I get no reply. Ahhh. Silence.
There’s a note on the kitchen table from Mum.
Tessa,
I’ve gone for my bridge game. Please clean up any crumbs after you make your breakfast, not like the other day when you ate half a loaf of bread with honey.
When I get back, let’s chat about your career. Grace next door said that her niece is making a fortune selling something called Arbonne. You’re definitely prettier than her, and if you learned how to properly apply makeup, you could be a real success!
Lars called earlier to tell you not to look at your royal website. Apparently the comments have gotten worse, not better. Is there some way someone could delete them? Maybe Nikki would know how? I asked Lars to do it, but he said he would need your passcode, and he’s also far too busy.
Anyway, I’ll be back in time for lunch so we can sort out your future then.
Love, Mum
P.S. Please take the beef roast out of the freezer and scrub the potatoes on the counter if I’m not back by three. Noah and the family are coming for dinner. Won’t that be nice?
No. It will not be nice. Worse than losing my flat, my money, and having to find a decent job is the fact that my brothers know that I’m homeless, jobless and broke. And let me tell you, it really only took them about five minutes between them to figure out that I was embellishing my previous earnings. So, no, Mum, having Noah over for dinner tonight does not sound very bloody nice!
I make four slices of honey toast (heavy on the honey) and take it to the TV room where I turn on the television only to see Veronica Platt smiling back at me. My squished face is behind her and across the bottom of the screen read the words “Lawsuit Dropped.”
“What?” I jump up from the couch, letting toast fly off my lap, then stand motionless, listening to Veronica’s smooth voice telling me about my lawsuit. Why does she always manage to scoop me?
“Wellbits, the makers of the Shock Jogger, have dropped their suit against Tessa Sharpe. On their website, it states that a deal has been struck on Ms. Sharpe’s behalf but that they are not able to provide details at this time.”
I grab the phone and dial my lawyer’s office, where I reach her assistant, Rebecca, who puts me right through to Nancy Reagan.
“Tessa, what’s happened? You haven’t been brokering a deal behind my back, have you?” She sounds pissed, even though as far as I know she’s done basically nothing to earn my five thousand so far.
“I don’t have the first clue what happened. I thought you would know.”
“Hmm, very odd. I saw the news earlier and had Rebecca call the court clerk’s office right when they opened. They confirmed that the suit has indeed been dropped and that some sort of settlement has been reached on behalf of the defendant—who is you.”
I roll my eyes. Nancy Reagan seems to think I know nothing about the law, when in actual fact, I was a crime reporter for over a month. Plus, I used to watch Is It Legal every week with my grandad when I was a girl, thank you very much. “Well, that’s amazing news, isn’t it? I mean, we don’t have to go to court or anything.”
“Yes! Of course. You should go out and celebrate our victory.”
Our victory? Really? “Since the case was settled independently of your office, I’m wondering if I could perhaps have my retainer back? I’ve recently hit some hard times, and that money would make a huge—”
“Oh, that’s not really how a retainer works. You pay to book my time, which means it was set aside for you, and therefore cannot be billed to someone else.”
“Even though it is time in the future because you haven’t actually started to work on my case yet? What if you find another client to fill that time?”
“Then they’ll be paying for time further into the future than the time you paid for.” She’s speaking to me now like I’m a four-year-old who doesn’t know how to poo on the toilet yet.
“No, but it would be the same days you were going to spend on my case, instead they’re now freed up for someone else.”
“But those days are already gone,” Nancy says.
“Those days haven’t happened yet.”
“But they will happen, and when they do, they’ll be gone.”
“Yes, I understand how time works.”
“I don’t think you do. Not legal time, anyway, but don’t feel bad. Few people do. Now, you make sure you celebrate. Maybe go for a nice dinner with friends, or pop over to London to see a play or something.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have all my savings.”
“Well, if you didn’t have any money, you shouldn’t have gotten sued in the first place. I have to run now. I have clients waiting.”
Click.
It takes me about ten minutes before I calm down enough to call Nikki so I can rant into the phone about what just happened. She’s at the salon and has to step outside so she can hear me over the thumping dance music. I go through the entire story, even though she told me she’s got a woman with highlights that are almost through processing.
When we finish deciding that Nancy Reagan is a level one bitch (the lawyer, not the former first lady), we move on to the topic of who is behind the settlement.
“Hang on.” I hear the thumping music, and she shouts, “Tina! Can you rinse out Mrs. MacTaggart’s hair please?” Pause. Thump. Thump. Thump. “No, I’m afraid this can’t wait! Can you just be a team player, Tina? Just this once?”
The music grows faint again. “There. I’m all yours. It’s got to be Arthur. No one else could pull this off.”
“No, can’t be him. There must be some other reason.”
“No, there isn’t. It’s one hundred percent him. No one else we know has that kind of money. Or connections.”
“Yes, but he would never do this for me. Remember all the lying and the using? He’s not one of the good ones.” My tone is dangerously close to sounding like Nancy Reagan talking to me.
“When did you get so skeptical?”
“Oh, I don’t know… maybe when Tommy-the-wanker stole all my money? Or maybe it was right around the time that giant arsehole Barrett dumped me and announced he was getting married to Helena Jones? I really can’t say for sure.” My voice drips with sarcasm.
“Fair enough. You may have a point there, but seriously, Tessa
, you may have to allow for the possibility that he isn’t as bad as he seems. Maybe Prince Arthur wanted to do something nice for you after he read your post?”
“Doubt it.” “Well, who do you think paid them out? Your fairy godmother?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not him.”
I go for a long run, which is my form of celebrating my victory. I’m hoping that with each mile, I’ll come closer to figuring out who came to my rescue. I can’t let myself imagine that it was Arthur, because letting myself hope that he did it will only lead to me hoping we can have a life together. Which we can’t. And I don’t want it, anyway. Because he’s a lying user.
When I get back, I take a long shower, listening to the news as I scrub my face.
“In about an hour’s time, the Prime Minister will be giving a press conference to answer questions about the upcoming referendum…”
“Grrr!” I reach out of the shower and shut off the radio, hoping to never hear about anything to do with Arthur ever again. I scrub my face, putting my full attention to maintaining a youthful, childlike glow. I miss the innocence of childhood. If only I could be ten again, with nothing more to worry about than how I was going to do on my upcoming spelling test. (I’d do very well, by the way. Spelling was my thing.)
My mind wanders to Tabitha’s class tour and how sweet Arthur was with the kids. Oh, now my brain is just torturing me. I think of Tabitha asking about what would happen if the King doesn’t call the election.
And then it hits me all in one fell swoop. I know what the Prime Minister is planning. And I know what I have to do to stop him.
I grab my phone and call Nikki. “I need your help! I have to get to the parliament building right away.”
Thirty-Eight
Latin Faux Pas & Donuts Causing Delays
Arthur
It’s the day before the big vote. I am slumped in an armchair in the gold drawing room with Grandmum, watching the news. Even though it’s just after lunch, I’m already exhausted from the past several weeks of campaigning. The Prime Minister is about to make a speech giving people the many reasons to oust us, and as soon as it’s over, I’ll put my cheesy politician face back on and resume my final twenty-four hours of butt-smooching.
“Have you called her yet?” Grandmum asks, obviously trying to sound casual.
“No. And I’m not going to. She’s made it very clear that she doesn’t want a life with me, so if you don’t mind, I think I’ll salvage what’s left of my pride.”
“She’d change her mind if she knew you were the one to take care of that lawsuit for her.”
“No, she wouldn’t. And I’m not sure that I’d want her to, anyway.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Because they made a faulty product then tried to blame someone else for the fact that it failed.”
Grandmum puts down her tea and gives me the one eyebrow. “Arthur…”
“What?” I turn back to the television where the Prime Meanister is on the steps of the parliament building in front of a podium.
He opens his mealy mouth and speaks. “Good morning. We, the people of Avonia, have reached the eve of a landmark event. For the first time in eight hundred years, we have the power to take back our country from the family who swooped in and stole it so long ago. We no longer have to be beholden to the Langdons, no longer have to pay them reverence with our hard-earned tax money. We can simply say ‘no’…”
“Arthur, you’re an idiot if you’re going to let your pride get in the way of a life with the woman you want.”
“I’m trying to listen to this.” I point to the television.
“Who cares what that wanker has to say? I’m talking about love.”
Sighing, I turn to her. “Listen, it wasn’t love. It was lust, at best. And even if it were love, and even if it turned out that she wasn’t just using me to get a job with…” I point to the television, “that wanker, I’d never want her to spend the rest of her days suffering in this family, with this” I wave my hand around in the air, “… so called life.”
“You know, I just realized, you’re either a chauvinist or a coward, but I can’t decide which.”
“What?” I scowl at her.
“You heard me. You either think you are entitled to make her decisions for her, which would make you a chauvinist, or you’re too scared to go to her and put your heart on the line, in which case, you are a coward. Very disappointing, either way.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I jump up off the chair and walk to the window. “She’s the coward. The first sign of trouble, she ran. She’s not strong enough to do this. It would break her, like it did my mother and Arabella. So it’s better that she’s already gone—”
And then the most remarkable thing happens. I hear a familiar voice coming from the telly. “Tessa Sharpe, concerned citizen. Prime Minister Janssen, currently our constitution requires the reigning monarch to call federal elections...”
I rush over to the television, and there she is, looking very nervous and absolutely lovely in a crisp, white dress shirt. She has no microphone, so she has to practically shout to be heard.
“…You’ve made no move to change the constitution, which means that if the people vote to abolish the monarchy, you could legally install yourself as an ipso facto dictator.”
Wince! “Not ispo facto, Tessa. De facto,” I say to the screen.
Titters are heard from around the crowd, and I watch as a young woman with blue and purple hair whispers in her ear. Tessa turns bright pink, then says, “De facto. I meant de facto ruler.”
The Slime Minister does a poor job of hiding his amusement. “I have no intention of installing myself as a dictator, ispo facto or otherwise. Next question.”
Tessa’s voice calls out again. This time her tone says, ‘don’t mess with me.’ “I’m not finished with my question, sir. Why haven’t you put forth a bill to have the proper changes to our election policy go into immediate effect should the monarchy be defeated?”
Jack rolls his eyes, but underneath the irritation, he’s afraid. I can smell it from here. “This is irrelevant and quite frankly, none of us have time for it. Why don’t you go back to reviewing fitness equipment, sweetheart?”
A low ‘ooooh’ murmurs through the crowd.
The camera zooms in on Tessa, who now has her game face on. Shoulders back, chin up, jaw set. Yes! “I’ve seen that look before. He’s in for it now,” I say.
Tessa continues. “Do you recall a conversation you had with me on March twentieth, in which you stated that ‘it’s not right that our rulers are chosen simply by falling out of the right vagina’?”
The camera shift to Jack’s face again. His eyes are dead cold. “Ridiculous. Next question, please.” He looks around and points. “Giles, you’re up. Let’s make it important, please. After all, we are on the eve of a momentous referendum.”
“I’d like you to answer her first question, sir. Why haven’t you put a bill forward that would provide the people with the assurance they need?”
The Prime Weenister scoffs and shakes his head. “This is insanity. Does anyone have something else for me?”
A female reporter speaks up. “I do. Did you really say that comment about choosing our rulers simply by falling out of the right vagina?”
“Of course not. I would never say something so crass and insulting.”
Tessa speaks up again. “But you did, sir. You said it to me at the christening of the ANS Viceroy You then went on to say that ‘if anyone is going to be a ruler until he dies, it should be someone the people elected in the first place.’ Are you intending to install yourself as a de facto ruler? It’s a yes or no question.”
That’s my girl!
“I’m not dignifying that with an answer. Unless anyone has anything else to ask, we’re done here.”
I turn to my grandmother. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got to go.”
Spinning on my heel, I rush over to her, kiss her on the foreh
ead and hurry out of the room. As I’m on my way, I hear her say, “Finally! Go get her, Arthur!”
One of the greatest things about the city of Valcourt is our exceptional traffic flow. Somehow, the city engineers of our nation have found a way to minimize delays, allowing a steady, smooth stream along every motorway. Unless it happens to be opening day of the first ever Krispy Kreme in Avonia. Then, apparently, traffic slows to the pace of an ancient wheelchair-bound poodle.
I tap my fingers on the seat arm as we sit, waiting for people to get their donut fix. “Come on, come on,” I mutter.
Ollie, who is sitting next to me, says, “If I had a shot with the likes of her, I’d be making a run for it.”
I glare for a second, feeling an unexpected surge of Neanderthal anger, but it doesn’t faze Ollie, who says, “Relax. I’m just saying it’s about bloody time.”
I undo my seatbelt and open the door. “Agreed.”
With that, I zig and zag my way through the vehicles, make my way to the sidewalk and sprint up the road that leads to Parliament Hill, my tie flying over my shoulder, the hot wind in my hair, the nerves in my gut tying themselves in knots.
There’s absolutely no logic to what I’m doing, or to the fact that I feel that if I don’t get there before the press conference ends, it’ll somehow be too late. But I do. And I can’t let that happen because if it’s too late with her, I’ll never be happy again a day in my life.
My mind races as fast as my legs. What do I say when I see her? God, I didn’t think this through. You complete me? No. Overused. You’re tough enough to be my queen? Horrid. Shit. What the fuck do I say?
The Royal Treatment: A Crown Jewels Romantic Comedy, Book 1 Page 25