Thanksgiving

Cordelia sat in the back of the car and flicked listlessly through her mom's copy of this month's Vanity Fair. It was all such a gyp - being forced to spend her Thanksgiving this way. But it happened every year. Daddy's company would donate a turkey and all the trimmings to the local homeless shelter and then her mom and dad would hotfoot it down there on the day for the photo op. PR was a huge deal apparently. It wasn't too bad, she supposed, a couple of quick photos with some hopeless types and then they would leave and they could all go home. But still … sitting in the back of the car, waiting, on Thanksgiving… she couldn't help but maybe wish that daddy cared about PR just a little bit less.

Not that Cordelia was opposed to helping people out. Not at all. She absolutely aspired to help her fellow man … just as long as he wasn't ugly or smelly or something else gross. But when she pictured herself in the future - a beaming philanthropist handing out largess, her benevolence being met with adoring and grateful smiles … the people she imagined helping were well dressed and had a good sense of personal hygiene. This place though, this wasn't the place for her. Her charity was definitely going to start somewhere a bit more upmarket.

She checked her watch, sighed with impatience and turned the page of her magazine and began to read. It was a double page spread about the recent marriage of some Danish Prince. Cordy raised an eyebrow, she didn't even know Denmark had royalty - she thought they were mostly a pastry based nation. The bride - now Princess Alexandra - was pictured smiling and waving in her big poofy dress and long veil.

Cordelia leaned back against the headrest. Royalty. Now that would be a way she could help her fellow man and still get to look good whilst doing it. And be protected from the stinkiest of the hopeless types. Unfortunately, this wedding meant there was one less prince on the market for her to ensnare but… If Denmark had royalty she didn't even know about maybe other European countries would have too? Or Canada. Maybe Canada had royalty?

There were the princes in England - she knew about them, of course, her middle name was Diana after their mom, after all. The oldest one couldn't be that much younger than her, she figured, and he would one day be King of England. A slow, and self satisfied smile spread across her face as she imagined herself as the Queen of England. Queen Cordelia. The real Queen C. Oh yeah. And she probably wouldn't even have to learn a second language to do it. They could speak American in England, right?

She closed her eyes and let herself imagine what her wedding would be like. She'd have at least ten bridesmaids, and a big poofy dress that put Princess Alexandra's to shame. And she'd wear a tiara with real diamonds in it. And there would be doves released when they said their vows, and an ice sculpture and a twenty tier wedding cake with yellow and pink frosting and a perfect, miniature Cordelia standing at the top. They'd get married at that big church Diana got married in, and the whole world would tune in to watch on their televisions and magazines like Vanity Fair and - more importantly - Vogue would do big double page features on her dress. And once the service was over they would go on a real, honest to goodness carriage ride in a big golden coach, waving to the humble and adoring masses … and then back to the palace for a huge party with loads of celebrities as her guests. Oh yeah.

Though maybe an actual, real life Prince wasn't strictly necessary. The one in England was a bit horsey looking - and not like her handsome palomino, horsey in a bad way. And he probably had bad teeth - they all did in England, everyone knew that. Maybe she could just settle for a billionaire. Like Jackie O had done. She wasn't even being shallow thinking about all this - just think of all the poor people she could help with her money!

The sound of voices passing her car pulled her from her reverie and made her open her eyes. She recognised one of the voices - though by the time her eyes opened, they had walked past and Cordelia could only see her back. It was her computer science teacher. She was with another woman - shorter and with huge, curly hair. 'This was just such a big part of my life with Francis, you know?' the woman she didn't know was saying, as they walked further away and headed for the homeless shelter. 'It feels weird to be here, doing this without him.'

'We don't have to stay if you'd rather not,' Miss Calendar said.

'No no - helping people is important. It's part of my life, that shouldn't change just because Francis did.'

They disappeared inside the shelter and Cordelia snorted to herself. Well, "Francis" sounded like a total loser and a complete dweeb. His name alone did that. Curly haired lady was probably much better off without him - though she was probably a bit of a dweeb too if she spent her Thanksgiving in a homeless shelter - with no cameras from the local paper around to capture the moment and give her props. What was even the point?

Shaking her head slightly, she looked back down at her magazine and went back to imagining her marriage to her own foreign King of some far off, distant land, living with him in his castle and having fantabulous jewels and forgot all about the two women and Francis.