Thanks for reading, hope you'll like it (I do have a vague storyline in mind for this, so we shall see where it leads).
Good vibes only,
w.
January 23, flat
"You look just fine in orange," Lars said as we left the studio. "You're overreacting."
"I am not overreacting!" I insisted. "Orange is just not my color. I don't understand why Sebastiano is suddenly so obsessed with it."
"Well, think of it this way, Princess," Lars said, fumbling for cigarettes in his pockets. He totally took up smoking after this pastry girl here in Genovia said no to his asking her out on a date. Now that I am in Genovia practically all the time, old Lars has decided to settle down as well. For some reason he wants a baker for a wife. Not a chef, a baker. But pretty much everyone around me is weird, so I am not even surprised anymore.
I hope smoking is just his way of coping, and that it will pass once he finds another 'beauty with long legs and flour in her hair like snow'. I don't want to switch bodyguards just because his smoking would be harming my future child (okay, not everything about my life is a fairytale. It is not normal for 22-year-olds to be this obsessed with the state of their uterus, I am telling you. But here's what you get when the future of the throne relies on you. I can't really blame Grandmere for sending both Michael and me to a fertilization specialist, to check if any of us is in any way reproductively challenged (we passed with flying colors). I mean, it doesn't feel right to hold it against her, as that's pretty much the last mean thing she has done. I think the cell reception in Sweden is to blame.). "Would you rather have messed up the text while on camera?"
"I'd get to say it again," I told him.
"Well, Princess, I think you are just not used to being happy," he then said.
"What?" I frowned.
"I mean, you like to whine and complain. Always have, it's not just a hobby for you, in a way it is a necessity. And since you have nothing to complain about right now, you pick on the dress," Lars said. "You don't need a diploma from psychology to figure that out."
I didn't even know where to start.
"Okay, first of all, my life is not PERFECT PERFECT," I argued.
"Not? Well, then tell me what is so wrong with it?"
See? Smoking is totally bad for not only your lungs, but for your brain cells as well.
"I don't know. René keeps interrupting my morning routine?"
"He gets you donuts every morning," Lars dismissed me. "It doesn't count."
"My cat's dead," I pointed out.
"Louie died almost two years ago," was his response, as careless as if we were talking about changing curtains.
Fat Louie died of kidney stones. I think. I didn't ask for the autopsy. Because it doesn't matter, really. He's playing with pigeons in heaven as we speak. I think he can play now that he is not as fat anymore.
Sure, it's been a while since he peacefully passed in his sleep, but it still hurts. Not as much as it did straight after. I might no longer eat nothing but meat for three straight weeks, gaining enough b –oobs, derriere and thighs to have to go on a diet (Sebastiano is always on a diet, so he joined me), but I am still not completely fine.
But of course someone trained in booby traps and dynamite cannot possibly understand this.
"Well, alright. Langurs are still endangered."
He started laughing.
"Face it, Princess, you are happy!"
When I told Michael about the free therapy I got, he wasn't as outraged by it as I was.
"I think you are confirming Lars's words," he smiled at me. Then he embraced me and pulled me even closer to him. Not that I minded, of course.
"Now," he said, "I'm sorry in advance for spoiling your imperfect existence even more, but I was wondering if you might like to go on a little road trip with me?"
"Sure," I shrugged. "When?"
"Well, I was thinking right now."
I moved away from him.
"Now? Why?"
I still don't know what was so funny about my words.
"Well, why not?"
"I have a job?" I reminded him.
"You're not shooting another episode for a week. We'll be back by then. I think we need to get away for a few days."
"Is this about René and his donuts?" I asked him. "Because I can tell him to stop."
I might not want to, because I like fresh donuts for breakfast, but I love Michael more. When a woman says no to chocolate, then she really loves a man.
"No, it's not about René," he said, but I could see he was lying. "You don't want me to whisk you away, is that it?"
"N, of course I want you to," I said, for a second forgetting I was a feminist.
"Well, then, aren't you as a princess required to listen to the wishes of your people? And do as much as you can to make sure they happen?" he teased me.
"Actually, I always thought my people are supposed to do anything to please me," I said.
"Consider it done," he grinned and kissed me.
January 24, a diner somewhere in Italy
Well, Michael must seriously be in need of an R & R. We have room reservations in Venice, starting tomorrow. But I am being princessy, so I didn't say anything, such as that I do not really like Venice due to their mass tourism policy. If you really think about it, Venice is everything my father's political opponents are trying to turn Genovia into. Thank god dad is reasonable enough to care more about Genovia's ecosystems and infrastructure than millions of tourists. Or, more specifically, thank god he has a daughter that's more than eager to worry about our tourism policies while he worries about taxes, education and health care.
But I didn't tell Michael that, of course. You'd think he'd realize it himself, but I guess it's just one more proof of how badly he needs vacation.
Lars is not coming with us. I just hope he won't use this short break for something stupid, such as trying to change that pastry girl's mind. She has threatened him with calling the police the last time. Even if he quits smoking, I will so not be allowed to have a bodyguard that has a restraining order. Trust me, I went to the Genovian Royal Library and read laws about that (okay, Michael went with me and read it for me, as I don't really understand the court language). Anyone who works close with the member of a royal family has to have a clean record. When I sat down with Lars and explain this to him, Michael also pinched in, saying he couldn't hack into the system and erase the complaint, as if it is filed in Genovia, people will probably know right away.
I know Lars has promised to behave better, but he is not always trustworthy. Like last year, when we were filming Seals Saving Princess and my period was a week late, he totally mentioned it to Sebastiano when the latter called to ask Lars about his measurements for the wedding suit. And then Sebastiano, who of course doesn't understand English well enough to know that in sentences such as 'princess might be preggo', MIGHT is the essential word, went a bit nuts from the baby fever, and made a special 'I hope it's twins' T-shirt for Michael. Without telling me first, he then gave it to Michael, with whom I hadn't had the chance to discuss my hormonal imbalance yet. Rational as he is, Michael just figured the peroxide finally got to Sebastiano's brain (Sebastiano was blond at the time), so he didn't kick a fuss about it. Still, showing me that T-shirt when I came from the boat prematurely, with my hormones by then already balancing out and sick with pneumonia, didn't really speed up my recovery.
Therefore, I called René before Michael and I took off, asking him to keep an eye on my temporarily troubled bodyguard.
"Sure, BC!" he screamed. He always spends the night after a successfully filmed episode celebrating, and by the sound of things, last night was no exception. "We'll eat donuts together!"
Of course it wasn't until we were already an hour from Genovia that Michel pointed out that René was a former smoker. Sure, he stopped smoking almost five years ago (he called it a gift for my 18th birthday), but once you are addicted to something, you never truly shake the addiction. Just look at that poor guy from Glee!
"Calm down, Mia," Michael said before I could even start freaking out. This is why we stopped at this diner. For me to get some chocolate to calm down. Though I think this situation requires meat.
January 24, by the road somewhere in Italy
Of course Michael didn't let me eat anything with meat in. You'd think he wouldn't mind my b-oobs' elevated growth resulting in my buying a new stash of bras, but no. All I got was a hot chocolate and a chocolate cake. And two more slices of chocolate cake to go.
I'm sure there's some deeper meaning to all this that only genius people like Michael can comprehend. We, simple-minded people, just see it as a violation of basic human needs. I mean, I would understand if it had lots of onion in, thus giving me a bad breath, but he ate a horse burger and his breath was more than fine afterward.
I can't believe I am calling 50 Shades of Grey unfeminist. I really can't.
But whatever. I am not blaming my meat ban for what happened later.
Once we were back in the car, I didn't waste any time. I started another piece of the cake right away. Chocolate makes everything better. Even realization that your boyfriend prefers you skinny to bootylicious. He was never really into Beyoncé for some reason.
I still had some cake left Michael turned down the music (new, currently still unreleased Lana CD.)
"Listen, Mia, I wasn't completely honest with you," he said.
"Oh?" I said after swallowing. "About what?"
"This trip," he said.
I think my not thinking he was going to dump me is a clear sign I am not 14 anymore. Back in the day, I'd think he was about to use my current sans-bodyguard status to kill me and fake his own death. He could totally pull it off. I mean, 'How To Get Away With Murder' is the only Shonda Rhimes production he actually watches with me (I think he is jealous of Patrick Dempsey's hair).
"Oh," I said, "Are we not going to Venice?"
"It's not that," he shook his head. "Mia, I thought it would be smart for us to get away from Genovia for a few days to talk about our future."
"Our future?" I frowned. "What about it?"
I am so busy living in the present I don't even think about next week. I mean, with Sebastiano taking care of my clothes, I don't really have to. Future is such an ambiguous concept for me, probably because I already know what I'll be for the rest of my life. A princess. I mean, it's not like I can afford having a mid-life crisis and change my profession.
"Look, Mia, I know you're just 22, but I do think there are certain things we need to discuss," Michael said.
"If this is about kids," I said, "we don't have a choice. We have to have them. Two, at least."
"Yes, I am aware of that and I am looking forward to it," Michael beamed. "But don't you think we have to get married first?"
The chocolaty bite I was about to take landed on my lap. Sebastiano won't like his jeans covered with chocolate. But I couldn't care less.
"Michael, are you proposing?" I gasped.
For some reason, he laughed. I totally thought he would say something like how he didn't see my perceptiveness coming. Well, clearly.
"No," he said instead. "Don't you think I could do a bit better than this, you smudged with chocolate, me behind the wheel, us on the way to Venice?"
"Are you taking me to Venice to propose?"
"No," he replied. "I told you, I want us to talk about the wedding first."
"Well, it's the same as with kids," I told him. "We have to get married eventually."
"I know. But I've been thinking about it a lot lately, with your mother having another baby, with Harry getting a son, and with your father getting married. And especially around Clarisse's wedding. I keep wishing we would join them. And I know that you are just 22, but I love you, and I know that will never change. So in a way, this is as perfect time to talk about this as ever."
"Okay. Why do I sense there is a but coming after all this?"
"Because it is. You were there for both weddings. You know what they were like."
It was crazy, to put it lightly. All hotels in Genovia, and in a two-hundred-mile radius, were filled. So many Genovians took a day off for the wedding that we decided to just call a day before, the day and the day after work-free days, dedicating to celebrating the Royal Family (we are one of those countries that could afford it. Plus, with all tourists flocking here, and the memorabilia sells, we more than compensated. Not to mention ruined the environment). Everyone in the palace was so touched my Genovians' love that we hired extra kitchen staff and as a wedding gift, every Genovian got special 'Royally Approved' muffins (this and the twelve-course dinner at the reception left Pierre so exhausted he took a three-week long vacation in Bora Bora – paid by my dad, of course).
And this was all thanks to the excitement in Genovia. My dad and Grandmere aren't that popular worldwide. Not as much as Michael and I – we are world's favorite couple. When we get hitched, the whole world will stop rotating for a while. It will be even crazier, with more people coming, more reporters writing about us. The Genovian Association of Bus Drivers has already made plans how they will organize transport from all major cities around Genovia, even from as far as Milan. There's even a special website on which Genovians are putting empty beds in their house for rent, and Francois, whose mother is also listed on the site, tells me most beds are already booked, even though Michael and I aren't even engaged yet.
"Ours will be even worse," Michael read my thoughts out loud.
"And you don't want that," I said.
"Well, I want to marry you, not the celebrity. I know royal weddings are a very public event, I've known it since get-go, but more and more I wish we could get married without cameras."
And this comes from the half of the couple which isn't likely to trip on the way to the altar, with a whole world – okay, half of the world – watching. This tells everything about how I feel about the situation.
"I'm sure Grandmere or Vigo will hire people to get us ready," I assured him.
"People will teach me how to marry the girl I love," Michael snorted. "Is it just me, or is there something wrong with this sentence?"
"Well," I tried to find words to, you know, console him, since neither of us can do anything about our wedding, really. In a way, we will be just actors once the day comes. Only, the act will permanently change our documents, but whatever. "With two weddings in the past two years, we don't have to rush."
"I know," Michael smiled at me, "but the thing, Mia, whether we get married tomorrow or in ten years, it doesn't change the situation. We need to find a way to make it work for both us and the world."
And that was when our car broke down. Which, you have to admit, pretty much shows how much control either of us has over our own wedding.
And now I am sitting by the road – the heating in the car stopped working, so inside it is pretty much as cold as outside. So I chose to enjoy the fresh air – while Michael is trying to figure out what's wrong with the car. Apparently cars are not much like surgical robots.
Maybe if he watched Pimp My Ride as a teenager, instead of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, he might know what to do.
Ha.
?
Broughttoyouby:::winter.