I had to sit down. “Carly, in case no one explained this to you yet, the guy is supposed to ask the girl. Not ask the girl’s boyfriend to ask the girl’s roommate to ask her.”
“Not when you’re a prince, apparently. See, he can’t be turned down.”
“Oh, no?”
“No, literally. He can’t. It’s some protocol thing. So by me asking you, he saves face.” She gave me a big, sunny smile. “So what do you say?”
“I say this is insane. I thought you were going to tell me Danyel was in town.” My shoulders slumped. “I think I’d give anything if he’d ask me out.”
“Don’t tell Rashid he’s the consolation prize. But at the same time, having a prince for second choice isn’t so bad. Look on the bright side. It could be Rory Stapleton.”
In spite of myself, a laugh bubbled out of me. “I wouldn’t go out with that guy if he was the last man standing after the apocalypse.”
“So the prince isn’t so bad?”
“No, he isn’t.” I flipped open the philosophy textbook next to me and closed it again. “The grown-up version is kind of growing on me. In fact, if the memory of him stealing my figs didn’t get in the way, I’d think he was pretty hot.”
“Go buy yourself some figs and get over it. Please say you’ll come. You can still like Danyel, who, may I remind you, hasn’t exactly been pounding down your door. There’s nothing wrong with going out with friends—and Rashid qualifies as an old friend. I think it would be fun.”
“We don’t have to worry about them being able to pick up the tab, that’s for sure.”
She snorted. “Don’t say you like the food. The prince might buy the place and give it to you.”
“Oh, no.” I wagged a finger at her. “He can’t do that. Brett’s family already owns it.”
“They do not. I found that out awhile ago.”
“I can’t believe it. I thought you only ate at places they own.”
“Do they own Starbucks? Huh?” She threw an embroidered pillow at me.
“Not yet. Give them time.” I lobbed it back.
“So you’ll go? I can tell him yes?”
“Yes, yes already, I’ll go. I can’t turn down my best friend.”
Even if she was a stand-in for a guy who was too hot for his own good.
And mine.
Dijon You forgot to give me your cell number in your e-mail last night.
SHanna Oops. 847-555-2112.
Dijon Tx. Glad you liked the video.
SHanna I still think it feels weird to be prayed for.
Dijon I’ll stop if you want:)
SHanna I said weird. Not bad:)
Dijon If you ever get the urge, pray for Lissa’s folks.
SHanna Her, too. Does she talk to you?
Dijon Some stuff. Mostly she talks to Kaz.
SHanna Bet that makes him happy.
Dijon Oh, yeah.
SHanna How can she not know he’s in love with her?
Dijon He wrote Blue Day for her and told me he’d refinish my fav board if I’d sing it.
SHanna That was for HER?
Dijon ::nods::
Dijon Shani?
Dijon OK ’bye.
Chapter 7
HOW MANY GIRLS does it take to get ready for dinner with a prince?
Five.
And you thought I was telling a joke, didn’t you? Let me tell you now—this was no joke.
“Expect the paparazzi,” Mac told Carly and me, her tone as serious as that of a commander sending troops into battle. “Dress as though you’re going to be posted on WhoWhatWear Daily-dot-com, because you are.”
“I am so glad you’re here,” I said with complete sincerity. “I totally did not want to hear that, but you’re right.”
“Of course.” She made herself more comfortable on her bed. Of the five of us, she was the most qualified to be going out with Rashid, what with the title and all. I had no idea what I was doing. If it had been left up to me, I’d have probably pulled on my skinny jeans and a slinky top and done something fun with my hair. But no way did I want to be the Mistake of the Day on the fashion sites. And it wasn’t because of Rashid.
Odds were Danyel would see any pictures, because of course Lissa would oh-so-innocently send them to him and Kaz. Friends shared things, didn’t they? And if we were all going to be just friends, then a picture of me looking fabulous on a prince’s arm was no skin off anyone’s nose, was it?
Ha. Lissa is so devious. And she’s on my side. Something else to be glad about.
“Too bad everyone’s already seen the Herrera. It would have been perfect.” Lissa and Mac were going through my closet, item by item. Lissa held up a ruffled yellow Biba silk with cutout shoulders. “What about this?”
“Too fussy.” Mac shook her head. “She needs a statement dress that will photograph well no matter how it’s lit. That one will go transparent. We’ll take some shots with my digital when we decide, just to make sure.”
I never thought about being lit. Or making a statement, or taking pictures while I got dressed. I just bought things because I liked them.
“Wait—what’s that?” Mac dove and came up holding a spill of lime-green jersey. “Is this a Cavalli?” I nodded. “Put it on.”
I’d bought it because I liked the Greek vibe—you know, like a Doric chiton. Now I was glad at least something in my closet had netted Mac’s approval. I slithered into it and glanced at my girls. “Uh, just a sec.” I had a pair of gold Prada high-heeled sandals here…where were they? Aha! I stepped into them and then presented my changed-up self for inspection.
Four pairs of eyes gave me the once-over.
“Gold hoops,” Carly said thoughtfully. “Big ones.”
“And I have a gold necklace I can lend you,” Lissa said.
We all looked at Mac. She narrowed her eyes and fetched the camera. “Pose.”
I vamped in three different directions while she snapped pictures. Then she plugged the camera into her laptop, brought the shots up and considered them, nibbling the inside of her lip. We crowded in behind her, looking at the pictures and waiting. Then she nodded, once. “You’ll do. The Greek look is a nice nod to your past together. Go dramatic on the makeup. And the hair.”
If there was one thing I could do without help, it was that. By the time I had my face on, they’d pooled their resources, and Carly turned slowly in the middle of the room in a drop-dead Sonia Rykiel leather skirt with a discreetly ruffled Miu Miu blouse so fine, you could pull it through the proverbial wedding ring. (And the camera test proved that her cami, at least, wasn’t transparent.) Gillian lent her a pair of diamond earrings that had to be a couple of carats each, and once I’d finished pulling my hair into a quasi-Greek knot, I did hers.
“You have great hair,” I told Carly, pulling it to the crown of her head and rolling the fall of curls around my fingers. “You’re so lucky.”
“I’m lucky to have friends like you guys,” she said quietly. “This is the best part.”
“What, are you saying our night can only go downhill from here?” I was only half joking. At least she had Brett to fall back on. If my half of the date turned out to be a disaster, all I could do was find the nearest cab and head for the hills.
“You know what I’m saying. All of us helping each other. That’s the part I like.”
And then it was time.
Brett called the room phone from the reception hall and we scrambled to finish our hair, then locate bags and wraps. Only fifteen minutes later, while Gillian, Lissa, and Mac ranged along the upper balustrade to watch, we descended the marble staircase like debs being presented at the ball.
I remember Brett sucking in a breath as he looked at Carly. And the scent of the freesia in a big bowl at the bottom of the steps.
But mostly I remember Rashid in a flawlessly cut Savile Row suit and tie, gazing up at me with those dark brown eyes as though I were some Olympian goddess, about to give him a golden apple.
“Yo
u look ravishing.” He picked up my hand and kissed it, and goose bumps tiptoed all the way up my arm to my neck and up the back of my skull.
Whoa. And that was just your hand.
I couldn’t think things like that. I’d blush and go all weird, and he’d wonder what was wrong with me. I had to play it cool. Princes were still guys. I’d treat him like…like the friends we could have been, if we hadn’t lived on opposite sides of the planet.
Except the way he looked at me didn’t feel like “just friends.”
The limo waiting in the sweep of the driveway was so big, I hardly registered the presence of the BGs—Farrouk and Bashir, I mean, though I couldn’t tell who was who. Brett opened a couple of sparkling waters, poured them into glasses, and squeezed fresh lime into them from a dish of ice waiting at his elbow. I could have ridden around all night like this, but it takes longer to park a limo this size than it does to drive to TouTou’s.
The driver got out to open the door and I caught Carly’s eye.
Statement, she mouthed silently, and grinned.
Because Mac was right.
I don’t know how they’d got wind of it, but a cloud of paparazzi coalesced out of nowhere. I took a deep breath, put my shoulders back, and slid out of the limo Pradas first, pushing off with my leg muscles instead of getting out head and torso first. That, you’ll remember, is how the paparazzi got that big old cleavage shot of Lady Diana at the Goldsmiths’ Hall back in 1981. My cleavage is my business.
When the prince came out after me and offered me his arm, the evening lit up like a lightning strike with all the flashes going off. Somehow Brett and Carly positioned themselves in front of us in a protective barrier, and the four of us walked as quickly as the crowd would let us into the vestibule of the restaurant.
The doorman closed the door behind us and the BGs took up a fighting stance just inside, in case anyone decided to rush the door for a final shot.
“Wow,” Carly breathed as she let her wrap slide down her shoulders. The diamonds in her ears caught some serious sparkle from the lighting overhead. “That’s gotta be a first for me.”
“Consider it practice for the movie premiere,” I murmured.
Brett stepped up to the glass table where the hostess smiled, waiting. “Loyola, party of four.”
She glanced at the leather book. Just a formality, I was sure. Because of course the whole restaurant had already been reconned by the BGs, and everyone had probably brushed up on their royal protocol once they knew the prince was coming.
The hostess looked up. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid there’s no table for you.”
“There is,” Brett said. “I booked it myself a couple of days ago.”
“Sir, we book at least a month in advance.”
“I was assured we had a reservation. I’m Brett Loyola, from Spencer.” He lowered his voice. “And Prince Rashid of Yasir is in our party. Even if there is some kind of mistake, I’m sure you know about that.”
She looked over at Rashid and me, and her face paled. “One moment, sir.” She vanished into the back, behind a huge vase filled with flowers.
“Is everything all right?” one of the BGs asked Brett. “I did the security check myself, yesterday. You were to have the corner table, between the two windows.”
I leaned over to look into the dining room. “That table’s empty. And there’s even a waiter standing next to it. They seem to be ready for us.”
Brett moved as if to go in, when a man in a suit came around the vase, the hostess right behind him. “Mr. Loyola?”
With a smile, Brett said, “It’s okay. I see our table. We’ll just go in now.”
“Mr. Loyola, wait, please.”
Both Brett and the prince raised an eyebrow. It would have been funny if I hadn’t felt so uncomfortable. There was something in the man’s tone I didn’t like.
“My name is Antonio Edgardo. I’m the manager of TouTou’s. I’m afraid I have some…unfortunate news.”
“Did something happen?” I couldn’t help it. I had to ask.
He glanced at me, then at the prince. “No, miss. But I am afraid we’ll be unable to serve you today.”
All of us stared. The dining room was only three-quarters full, and our table was ready and waiting. Brett found his voice first. “What do you mean? Our table’s right there.”
“That is reserved for another party.”
“But the prince’s security said it was for us.”
The manager nodded toward the BGs, who were both frowning. “I’m sorry. The gentleman is mistaken. We are unable to serve you today.”
“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” Brett said. “What I want to know is, why?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Who’s the other party?” Carly asked suddenly. “At that table, I mean.”
The manager looked relieved, as if here was a question he had an answer to. “That table is reserved for the Talbot party, miss.”
“Talbot,” I repeated. “As in, Vanessa?”
“Yes, miss. Now, may I ask you to leave?”
“You may not.” The BGs’ frowns were nothing to the one Rashid was sporting. “My party cannot be turned away. It is impossible.”
“I apologize, Your Highness.” The manager actually half bowed. “I deeply regret our inability to serve you. I hope you will enjoy yourselves very much at another establishment.”
“I don’t believe this,” Brett breathed.
I gripped the prince’s arm and tugged. “Come on. We’re out of here. I’m not going to give Vanessa Talbot the satisfaction of seeing pictures of us getting kicked out. Who’s for Lori’s Diner?”
“Me!” Carly said with a bright smile. “I’d kill for one of her burgers.”
Rashid looked as though he was about to declare World War III. “I am not leaving. I wish to speak to the owner.”
I looked him in the eye. “We’ve been set up, Rashid. Vanessa did this to embarrass us. To embarrass you. She probably called the tabs and told them to be here, too.”
Carly stepped closer, eyes snapping. “We’re going to act as if we just came for a soda, and we’re going to climb into that limo looking like we’re having the time of our lives. Total jealousy-making pictures will result. She’s not going to win this one.” She glanced at the manager, and the snap in her eyes turned to withering scorn. “Everyone knows they serve alcohol to minors here because of her, anyway.”
Before Brett and Rashid could say another word, the BGs flung the doors open. I pulled Rashid out beside me and pasted on an “I’m living the high life and don’t you hate me for it?” smile. We trooped out onto the sidewalk, laughing and talking while the flashes popped and somebody gabbled descriptions of our dresses into a handheld recorder.
When the doors shut behind us and the limo pulled out into traffic, I drew a deep breath and sank back onto the leather cushions. “And the Oscar goes to…”
“I have never been so humiliated in my life.” Rashid’s tone held deadly calm. The kind that comes before the storm. “If it had not been for you, I would have ordered the owner to explain himself to me—and then serve me himself. On his knees.”
“It’s not their fault, Rashid. Vanessa obviously has some serious clout there. This might be your only visit, but she’s there constantly. They’d probably go out of business without her.”
Rashid turned to Carly. “What was that you said back there? About alcohol?”
She shrugged and glanced at Brett, then back at Rashid. “They serve alcohol to minors. I’ve been there when they’ve done it. That’s why Vanessa always has her meetings and things in the upstairs room. So no one sees.”
His eyes narrowed. “So this is illegal, then?”
“Very much so.”
“Ah.” He sat back and didn’t say another word until we arrived at the diner.
We may have been insanely overdressed for it, but in San Francisco, a woman—or a man—can go to McDonald’s in sequins and a feather boa
and no one looks twice. The BGs requested a separate table and settled in with glasses of iced tea a few seats away. We ordered up our burgers and when they came, I felt relieved when Rashid made no moves at all on my ketchup.
In fact, he behaved like a normal guy—if normal means perfect manners and interesting conversation. Okay, so he’s messing up the bell curve. I still appreciated it, even if all we were talking about was school.
“So what concentration are you working on?” he asked me. “If Carly’s is history and Brett’s is math?”
I lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Technically, it’s an individual concentration, but what that works out to is economics. They’ve let me build my own out of math, political science, and history.”
“In order to do what?” Carly asked. “Sounds brutal.”
I nodded. “It is, but it’s interesting. My dad runs this massive petroleum company. I haven’t really talked it over with him, but I figure once I bag my M.B.A. at Northwestern or Harvard Business School or Stanford, I can go to work for him.”
“You’re really looking out there into the future.” Brett bit into his kosher pickle. “I figure I’m doing good knowing when midterms are.”
“Yeah, I worry about those, too. What about you, Rashid? What do you want to do?” The second the words were out, I wanted to kick myself. What else was he going to do but run a country?
He smiled at me in a way that made me feel as if my question wasn’t so stupid. “A ruler must know many things. Politics, economics, languages. I am here for two reasons. One is to take a term of computer science, with tutoring every week from experts in Silicon Valley. I plan on a doctorate from Oxford in political science, even though my father would rather I went into the military.”
“I’d stick with Oxford,” Brett said.
“We are in agreement.”
“What’s the second reason?” I asked.
Rashid smiled at me. “To see my childhood friend again, of course. I am glad to see we share an interest in politics and economics. I do not doubt you will be running your father’s company when I am running my father’s kingdom.”
Who Made You a Princess? Page 6