Page 239 of Naughty Nelle

He thinks I’m going to the ball? He’s the delusional one.

“You’re quite the shopper; I placed your bags over there.” The Emperor gestures to a corner. I’m relieved to see Calla’s gift among them.

“Later, dahling.” He sashays over to hug a buxom, regal woman with short white spiky hair, a small gold crown, and a crimson heart-shaped dress that pushes her barrel-sized chest up to her chin. She looks and sounds strangely familiar to me.

“Armando, dear, how’s my ball gown coming along?” she asks in a deep, booming voice.

“It’s to die for!” gushes The Emperor. He takes her by the arm and whisks her away.

Where’s Marcella? To be dead honest, I don’t really care. The wall-to-wall mirrors are still making me dizzy. Not moving from the couch, I close my eyes and banish them from my sight. Before I know it, I drift off…straight into my dream from the other night.

Wearing an ethereal ivory tulle gown, I’m floating like a feather, high in the sky. Birds flutter around me. Suddenly, the mysterious man with the black mask leaps out from behind a cloud. I float toward him, right into his arms. He swirls me around our heavenly dance floor, our bodies moving in perfect harmony. Like we’ve danced this way forever. “Who are you?” I ask, my heart pounding. Silence. And then an earth-shattering scream hurls me back to reality.

“AAAAARGGGH!” shrieks The Emperor. “What are you doing?”

My eyes flit to Marcella. She’s recklessly yanking down the dangling gowns with both hands.

“You know, mister, I could use some customer service around here,” the PIW grumbles.

Armando frantically gathers up the gowns scattered on the marble floor, crumpled up as if they’ve swooned.

“Do you know who I am?” Marcella huffs. “I am the future wife of Prince Gallant, and my ball’s the only reason you’re still in business.”

The Emperor doesn’t care who she is. Doesn’t she know how much these gowns cost? (Thousands!) How much time it takes him to make them? (Years!) How each one is a work of art? (They should be hanging in museums!)

“Whatever,” replies Marcella. She demands to try them on.

Practically in tears, The Emperor escorts her to the fitting room, located on the third level. Marcella looks down from the spiral staircase and snaps at me. “This is no time to be resting!”

Jumping to her beckon call, I exchange a rescue-me look with the distraught Emperor.

Dressing and undressing Marcella is a nightmare. As if the complexity of the gowns isn’t enough, I’ve got to contend with the cannonballs on her chest. Plus, she’s a total slob. Hasn’t she ever heard of hanging things up neatly after trying them on? I’m on major damage control, terrified that she’ll ruin one of The Emperor’s magnificent creations.

The Marcella fashion show is no less challenging. The PIW parades before the mirrored walls in one gown after another. She hates everything. No matter how stunning the dress, there’s something wrong with it. From being too frou-frou (“Who the hell wants to look like Bo Peep?”) to being too blue (“Ugh! It’s so Cinderella.”). I have to swallow my tongue when she complains that the last one makes her look flat-chested. Trust me, an army of giants could trample over her without flattening out those cannonballs.

The Emperor’s beside himself, and I’m exhausted. After trying on a dozen more unacceptable dresses, Marcella lights up with an idea. She wants Armando to custom design her dress.

Armando rushes off to get his sketchpad, then sketches one incredible gown after another. Not one of them works for Her Royal Skankiness.

Finally, a dozen sketchpads later, Marcella has a vision. She can see it now. A dress, the reddest of reds—the color of blood—body-clinging with a halter neckline and a detachable twenty-foot long train. Size 6. Armando madly sketches away.

When the PIW sees the finished sketch, she bubbles. “Look at what it does to my cleavage! The Prince will love it. And I’ll be the envy of every princess at the ball.”

The Emperor breathes a sigh of relief. And so do I.

She scowls. “One last thing.”

The Emperor pales.

“It had better be ready for the ball.” She eyes me with the contempt that’s reserved only for a servant. “I’ll send my new assistant to pick it up.”

“How will you be paying for it?” asks The Emperor, clearly relieved.

God knows how much this custom creation will cost.

“Send the bill to The Prince.” She smiles smugly and dashes off.

“Chop! Chop!” she shouts out to me. “We need to get new shoes.”

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