Royal Wedding (The Princess Diaries 11)

“Well,” Olivia explained, when we got inside and I looked at her questioningly, “I want to remember this.”

I don’t think she quite realizes that this isn’t all going to vanish tomorrow. It’s going to go on and on, forever. Of course she wants to remember it . . .

. . . unlike me, who’d give anything to forget it. In fact, I’d be drinking right now to numb the pain (and my memory), except that my foot hurts too much to get up and go to the liquor cabinet, and I’m certainly not going to ask J.P. to get me a drink, even though he’s asked three times if he can “get me anything.”

Yes, you can, J.P. You can get away from me.

I haven’t had the nerve to tell Michael that J.P. is here (Michael texted to say he’s on his way. His HELV is stuck in all the traffic outside, and the RGG won’t allow him to get out and walk due to “safety” concerns).

J.P. has never been one of Michael’s favorite people. Michael even threatened to punch him once, but managed to restrain himself. I don’t know if he’ll have that kind of self-control now, seeing as how J.P. has grown a mustache (though not as nice as the one my dad used to have) and wears skinny jeans.

Shudder.

Of course there’s one part of all this I do want to remember, and that’s the look on Grandmère’s face when she first opened the door to her condo and saw her only other grandchild (besides me).

I could tell she was touched, though she was trying hard not to show it. Her mouth was squeezed into a tiny frown (some of the muscles in her face are permanently frozen from all the Botox she’s had shot into them, but she’s still able to move most of her mouth to varying degrees).

“So this is she?” Grandmère asked grammatically correctly, if not exactly warmly.

“This is she, Grandmère,” I said, poking Olivia in the back. I’d coached her in the car on what to do and say when she met her grandmother, and she pulled it off perfectly . . . almost.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Grandmoth—is that a miniature poodle?”

Olivia’s curtsy wasn’t very graceful to begin with, but she practically fell over herself when she saw the little white powder puff peeking around Grandmère’s still shapely ankle (Grandmère is inordinately proud of the fact that her legs haven’t gone).

“I love poodles!” Olivia cried. “They’re the most intelligent breed of dog. And they’re also very excellent swimmers.”

I hadn’t coached her to say that.

The tiny frown on Grandmère’s face curled ever so slightly into a smile.

“Yes,” she said, trying but failing to sound cold. It’s very difficult to speak coldly to a child expounding on the virtues of your favorite breed of dog. “Poodles are very intelligent, aren’t they?”

Then the two of them stood there going on about poodles. I’m not even kidding. It was like watching a couple of announcers at the Westminster Kennel Dog show, only one was a nine-hundred-year-old dowager princess from the Riviera, and the other was a twelve-year-old from New Jersey.

“My other granddaughter only likes cats,” Grandmère said, finally remembering I was standing there, and giving me the evil eye.

“I don’t only like cats,” I protested. “I’ve only ever had a cat. Grandmère, could we come in now? I hurt my foot earlier and it’s very uncomfortable and I’d really like to sit down—”

Grandmère opened the door to her condo to allow Olivia to enter, which she did, hurrying after the dog, who had evidently taken a liking to her since it turned around and began to romp alongside her, its tongue lolling out excitedly . . . not surprising, since its only other companions were my grandmother, who doesn’t do much romping, and of course Rommel, who only humps, not romps.

“Well?” I asked Grandmère as I hobbled past. “Does she pass muster?” Like I even needed to ask. The two of them were clearly madly in love.

“She has a certain gamine charm,” Grandmère said, pretending not to care. “Your hair was much worse at her age. It still is. I suppose you inherited it from your father. He’s lucky his all fell out. Perhaps yours will, too. Then you could simply start wearing wigs.”

“Thank you so much. Speaking of Dad, is he here?”

“Yes, he’s in the—”

She was cut off by a scream. Olivia’s scream, to be exact.

But not because the girl had injured herself on any of the admittedly odd collectibles Grandmère keeps around her New York apartment, such as a complete fifteenth-century suit of armor and a mounted narwhal tusk.

It turned out to be because she’d found Dad standing in the library and recognized him instantly (apparently she’d done a little research on Tina’s phone, since he’d never sent her any photos during the course of their written correspondence). Not a shy child, she’d shrieked and thrown herself into his arms. By the time Grandmère and I got there to see what was going on, they were hugging as if they never wanted to let each other go.

I don’t think it was just a trick of the non-energy-saving lightbulbs Grandmère insists on using that there was a glimmer of tears in all of our eyes.

Now Dad and Olivia and Grandmère are chatting in the library—they appear to have ordered everything on the evening room-service menu, since it’s spread in front of them on the coffee table—while J.P.’s uncle and Dad’s lawyers are in the study making calls to see what they can do to win full custody.