Princess on the Brink (The Princess Diaries 8)

She was saying this to a guy in a suit with a little gold nametag that said Robert on it.

Robert looked like he wanted to kill himself.

I sympathized. I know what Grandmère’s like when she’s on a tear.

And this one appeared to be a doozy.

“Daisies?” Grandmère’s voice had dipped to icy registers. “Does your staff really believe daisies are the appropriate flower with which to adorn the rooms of the dowager princess of Genovia?”

“I’m so sorry, madam,” Robert said. I saw him flick a glance over at me, all sprawled out across the kick-ass white couch in front of the flat-panel TV that—yes—appears as if from nowhere when you push a button, just like Joey always wanted on Friends.

You could tell Robert was totally looking for a hand with the Big G.

But there was no way I was letting myself get sucked into this one. I bent over my screenplay, scribbling away very busily. J.P. says when I finish it, he knows a producer who would be very interested in seeing it. Very interested! That practically means it’s sold.

“We put Gerbera daisies in all our rooms,” Robert went on, seeing he was getting no help from me. “No one has ever complained about them before.”

Grandmère looked at him as if he had just said that no one had ever pulled out a knife and committed hari-kari right in front of him before either.

“Have you ever had a PRINCESS stay in this hotel before?” she demanded.

“Actually, the princess of Thailand was here just last week before settling into her dorm room at NYU,” Robert began.

I winced. Wrong answer, Robert! Too bad. Thanks for playing.

“THAILAND?” Grandmère just glared at him. “Have you any idea HOW MANY PRINCESSES OF THAILAND THERE ARE?”

Robert looked panicky. He knew he’d messed up. He just didn’t know how. Poor guy. “Um…no?”

“Dozens. You could even say hundreds. Do you know how many dowager princesses of Genovia there are, young man?”

“Um.” Robert looked like he wanted to jump out the window. I didn’t blame him, really. “One?”

“One. That is correct,” Grandmère said. “Don’t you think that if the ONE DOWAGER PRINCESS OF GENOVIA demands roses in her room—pink and white roses, NOT orange Gerbera daisies, which might be the trendy flower of the moment, but ROSES never go out of styl

e—you ought to SUPPLY THEM FOR HER? Especially considering the fact that her dog happens to be allergic to grassland plants?”

Everyone’s gaze went to Rommel, who, far from looking as if he were suffering from any sort of allergic reaction to anything, was snoring away in his gilt-framed dog bed, twitching a little as he dreamed of whatever it is dogs dream about—in Rommel’s case, no doubt, of running away from his owner.

“As if,” Grandmère added, “it isn’t bad enough you have actual grass GROWING in your lobby.”

Ouch. I’d noticed that as I’d come in. It’s a bit modern, having grass growing in your lobby. I mean, for Grandmère’s taste, anyway. She prefers mints in little crystal bowls.

“I understand, madam,” Robert said, actually giving a little bow. “I’ll—I’ll have pink and white roses sent for immediately. I can’t apologize enough for the oversight—”

“No,” Grandmère said, raising one drawn-on eyebrow. “You cannot. Good-bye.”

Robert, gulping, turned and hurried from the room. Grandmère waited until he was gone before collapsing into one of the black-leather-and-chrome chairs across from my couch.

But, of course, those aren’t the kind of chairs you can actually collapse into all that easily. Because the leather is kind of slippery.

“Amelia!” Grandmère cried, as she slithered around on the seat. “This is unconscionable!”

“I like it,” I said. I do. I think the W is cool. Everything in it is very shiny.

“You’re mad,” Grandmère said. “Do you know I ordered a Sidecar, and they delivered it in a TUMBLER?”

“So? More to enjoy.”