Page 66 of The Impossible Princess
“It was decided that the Palace will issue a reminder to the press to respect the privacy of the royal family while they are not actively on the job.”
I give a short nod and she moves on. The official statement will not kill the stories, but I am thankful for even that much shelter as I prepare to navigate a difficult week.
We return to the Summer Palace, and by Monday morning, I’m sick to my stomach. I get up and try to act as though my day will go on as normal, but finally, I drag my laptop onto the bed and watch as jaw-tinglingly sweet morning news anchors sit on a semi-circular sofa dropping coy hints about bombshell news from the Party Princess and a certain uniformed officer.
When the segment airs, a series of photos play in a montage. Oh wow. They dug into the archives, unearthing every family photocall and Christmas card picture. The background music drops into a minor key and a menacing voiceover asks, “But who is she, really, our Princess Clara? Over-exuberant sorority sister? Or calculated relationship wrecker?”
Then a picture of Max—the one with his ex-girlfriend from his mother’s Facebook page—digitally tears in half, leaving Liva off to the side like a fragment of a calving glacier.
My face is hot with embarrassment when Ella bangs into my suite, the door bouncing off the paneling. “What in theflamenhell is going on?” she roars. “I mean, what in the actualflamenhell? Did you see it? Have you seen it?”
I tilt my computer monitor at her, my face set, and she growls low in her throat. “Isn’t there a law about this kind of trash?”
“We live in a free country, Ella. The prime minister—”
“The prime minister can eat his tie. This shouldn’t be allowed.”
The segment is wrapping up with a roundtable discussion as viewers are encouraged to vote in a live poll. Numbers fluctuate between 60-70% on the Relationship Wrecker side of the scale. So that’s great.
The presenter gives a little laugh and tells viewers that new evidence will be presented tomorrow.
“Tune in!” Ella echos. Her voice is chirpy, and she’s making an obscene gesture at the screen as it goes black. “Has the queen seen this? She’ll go through the roof.”
“She knows.”
“Hold up,” Ella says, lapsing into English. I know I’m about to hear some get-a-grip-girlfriend talk. “You knew this was going to drop and you just…didn’t tell your closest sister?”
I blow out a breath and nod, wide eyes unfocused. “Yep.”
“You told Max?”
Same nodding thousand-yard stare. “Yep.”
“Mama ripped into you.”
“Yep.”
She sits down heavily on the bed. “What are you going to do?”
I look at the clock. “The Palace drops a statement within the hour, I go on with my increased duties and ignore this if I can.”
“Poor Max,” she sighs, saying aloud the words that have been cascading through my head all morning. “He must be going crazy. Do you have a game plan? You should introduce yourselves to the slavering public by having a few dates. Maybe a night at the ax-throwing gallery? The public would like to see his biceps. After that, they’ll understand everything…” She trails off when she sees my face. “What?”
“Max and I aren’t seeing each other anymore.” My fingers twist together.
Ella looks to the ceiling and begins to growl. “What in theflamenhell? What in the actualflamenhell?”
I shake my head and pull up a tab on my computer. It’s a website for Gina Dialli. The clothes have simple lines, bold colors, and precision tailoring. Mama likes that when she wears Dialli clothes, she can stand anywhere in a crowded football stadium and be seen and identified instantly by 50,000 subjects.
“I’ll be too busy for a relationship,” I say. “I’ve got the Leukemia Society dinner in a few weeks, an unveiling of a new branch line of the S-Train, as well as several charity events for some blue-collar organizations.”
“Hence the soul-sucking clothes.” Ella’s tone is sour. “Did he break up with you or did Mama break up with him?”
I ignore that dig, feeling the tension in my shoulders tighten. “I told him it was time to bring things to a conclusion.”
“You gave him up to be Mama’s ambassador to the trade unions?”
“Trade unions are important,” I shout. Instantly, I drop my voice to a furious whisper. “It’s work that has to be done.”
