Thanks for reading, I hope you will like it.
Feel free to review.
Love,
w.
January 25, Hotel room, Switzerland, 6 am
Things are different now that I have managed to dodge the bear attack. I see things way more clearly now. They are much simpler. Who cares if I wear orange on national TV, and that it makes my skin look like my liver is failing? I'm alive! I am not in one bear's stomach, and I live! And, yes, langurs are unfortunately dying out, but it happens. Species become extinct. They have ever since like ever. It is just happening a bit more frequently now that people go to McDonald's to eat burgers with beef from Amazonian rainforests. And, yes, tourists are easy money, and the more of them, the more luxurious vacation mayors can take. Hey, everyone wants time off! Everyone wants to go to Tahiti and snorkel there and, well, sunbath. Yes, it can lead to skin cancer, but we all die one day, right? So some people just choose to die tanned, it's their right. It is not really fair of me to judge, as I don't have to use people to get this exotic getaway paid, as I am royal and a girlfriend of a very wealthy man. But not everyone is as lucky as me, and as a princess, I have to kind and understanding to people who have less than I do.
Everyone just does their best to live as well as they can in this tough economy. Not everyone can develop a robotic surgeon. No, I mean, surgical robot. And, if anyone could, then it wouldn't really make you a lot of money since everyone would have it. Or something. I don't really know much about robots.
Oh. I am just so happy right now.
Because I did a good, good thing.
Well, two.
Since Michael was fully using both his and my ability to sleep, and the new NCIS episode was downloading painfully slowly (well, given it was an illegal download, I guess I can see why), I decided to go get myself a drink while waiting.
I went to the hotel bar, and ordered myself a margarita. I sat down at the counter, next to this guy. Who, as it turned out, knew me.
"You're the presenter, right?" he said.
"Yes, yes, I am," I smiled. "Do you like the show?"
"Yeah, well, it's hard to miss it since pretty much every European country we go to, it's on the TV there," he grinned.
That was when I realized he was one of the skiers Tom coached. Edward from Vermont, he said (he actually did look a bit like Edward, with his tall, somewhat scrawny figure and very pale skin. But I guess that made sense, given he spends so much time in wintry climate. I always thought you can get sunburn from not wearing sunscreen during winter, but apparently I was wrong. Well, I am half-Genovian, so I guess my naiveté of anything snow related – skiing is another example – is completely justified).
Because I have been in love with Vermont ever since Harry took Geoffrey see how maple syrup is produced (Harry is raising his son to be cosmopolitan, so that he can choose where he wants to live when he grows up. Actually, I think it is a way for Harry to have a childhood all over again, this time a more fun one. I've been to enough to shrinks to learn a trick or two), I started babbling about pretty Vermont autumns.
Or maybe it was because I was already half-way through the margarita. Then I remembered I had survived the almost bear attack, which obviously deserved more than just physical celebration, so I ordered myself another one.
Margarita, not sex.
I don't really remember much of what Edward and I were talking about. All I seem to remember is that around three in the morning, Grandmere texted me a picture of the newest baby lamb with the 'Rrrrrommel sniffffed herr, she will bee une championne!' caption, and I remembered how without Grandmere I wouldn't be in gorgeous Switzerland (though Michael maintains it is beautiful, as the word gorgeous is reserved for me), so Edward and I drank a Sidecar in her honor. And then another for the baby lamb (which was really cute, especially covered with a pink blanket Grandmere knitted from wool herself). Edward also paid for chocolate cake, and from the moment he pulled the wallet from his pocket, my memory is a bit clearer.
A piece of paper fell out of the wallet as he opened it. I reached out to hand it back to him, and, well, you know, accidently read what was written on it. Which was a bunch of numbers with euro symbols.
"What is this?" I asked.
"I was just counting how much this season's gonna cost me," he said.
"You're kidding, right?" I laughed. "Why would it cost you anything? I know you athletes people are paid a lot."
And trust me, I know exactly how A LOT that a lot it. Every time mom reads an article about the money NBA stars get per season, she spends the rest of the day ranting how unfair it is that someone who does nothing but throw a ball to the basket and hopes to score, gets paid so much more than, for example, her husband who has to know not just everything there is to know about math functions and fractions and, well, you know, triangles, but also has to be aware of how to pass his knowledge onto the younger generations, without making them feel they are being preached at. (And as someone who was exposed to both math and basketball in high school, I sort of agree with her remark – math is definitely more difficult, and given how uncoordinated I am, that says a lot, though you have to take into consideration that famous athletes not only entertain the whole nation, but also start trends when it comes to the filters they use on Instagram.)
"Well, it's easier to get money once you are an Olympian," he said. "But it costs to get there."
"Yeah, but what could possibly cost that much? I mean, all you need is a pair of skis, a helmet and, well, the mountain to ski down."
"Yeah, but you need more than just one pair of skis, and the skis you use for racing are just a tiniest littlest bit different than those you see in stores. But most of the equipment comes with sponsors, so that's not the core of the problem. But you have to count in the air fares to get to Europe, driving around Europe, accommodation, food, ski passes for training, entry fees for races, god forbid medical costs, and, yeah, well, of course, the internet in the hotel rooms."
"Aha. But you make money by winning races, right?"
"It's not like in tennis where you get a million for a win. If you get a thousand, it's a good race."
Which, of course, made me think that Grandmere's Princess Lessons weren't really that useful after all. Obviously they thought me nothing about prize money in sports, and given how much time the royals spend with professional athletes, well, I think I should have been better informed. Maybe I would be if Grandmere let my dad teach me from time to time.
(Of course I could make sure I was more sport-friendly myself, but between princess stuff, personal life and Lifetime, it is hard to squeeze in a minute for writing, yet alone watching sports!)
(See? And people say being a princess is easy!)
"Oh. And how much money does it cost you, then, skiing?"
"Right now we're looking at about 18 thousand."
I was about to say that this was the amount I got for some of Grandmere's handbags after she realized she wouldn't need all thousand of them on the farm with Frederik, but luckily I had the decency to not.
"So why do you do it, you know, ski, if it is so expensive?" I asked.
He looked at me like I was crazy. Though I probably did look crazy, as by then I was on my, I think, sixth cocktail.
"Because I love it," he said. "I love it more than anything in the world. Yeah, I might be in debt until I'm eighty, but I am having the time of my life. I am skiing the greatest mountains in the world, with some of the coolest people I know. I am living my dream. I don't see why I should throw it away, just because it could leave me in debt."
Which, you know, I could totally relate to, as I was practically on death bed with pneumonia after saving baby seals in the Antarctic
"When you love something – or someone -, everything else is completely insignificant. Money, people's opinion, the whatever is convenient. Just forget about everything and do what you love. You do it. You can't go wrong."
Which totally sounded better than quite a lot of Britney songs. I swear, it sounded like poetry – not like Bob Dylan poetry Michael adores and I cannot understand, but a lot like something Hayley could sing about.
And it totally gave me two ideas.
"Wait here," I told him, and ran out of the bar, straight to the room. Michael was – what a surprise - sleeping (actually, what could possibly make him so tired? It's couldn't have been just sex; I mean, it's like I tried out any new moves. And he totally didn't take on a bear while we were lost in the wild. He wasn't even worried, and I know that playing games on your phone does not tire you that much), but I didn't wake him just to get his permission. I just took his credit card out of his wallet and grabbed my laptop (new NCIS was still only 65% downloaded. But whatever, it's not like I love the show as much now as I did when there was still a chance of Tiva). Then I returned to the bar, and transferred 9999 dollars from Michael's account to Edward's.
I would have made it a round number, but Michael has this alarm system on that sends a text to his phone every time someone – well, me – spends over ten thousand dollars. He started this after I ordered snails for Genovia's National Environmental Day, as throwing alga-eating snails is its trademark, and whoever was responsible for organization didn't order enough of them (not that Michael was angry; he said he just didn't want this credit card company to interrupt him during important meetings (well, important. As if saving the bay from alga isn't important), telling him some eco-terrorists have gotten a hold of his credit card, in case I forget to tell him ahead that I found a new environmental cause worth pursuing. He maintains this this way he can call THEM before they notify the FBI).
Anyway, I just wanted to tell Michael in person that he was now sponsoring an Olympic prospect.
And Edward started arguing that it was too much, I told him to shut up, otherwise I'd call Harry and demand that he added the money still needed for Edward to have his season funded entirely.
And you know what? As good as it feels to save, you know, the sea and the animals, it is an entirely different thing to help people. Because, yeah, most animals I financially support are cute and cuddly, but they don't really know that I choose to buy them food instead of new Gucci high heel boots (not that it matters, as René gets them for me for my birthday AND Christmas). People, on the other hand, know and can appreciate what you do for them. And I think I have just done enough good to last for the entire year (I hope this will ensure that Grandmere won't fight with Frederik. Because if she does, she will come to Genovia, like every time those two fight, and will order the staff in the palace to catch all the pigeons I set free).
I was of course so excited about it – oh, and the other idea -, I couldn't wait to tell Michael. and I swear it wasn't because of all the cocktails. I went back to the room, but he was still out. So, like every resourceful girl, I sat down on the futon and called his phone. Because Michael always answers his phone – well, with the exception of one activity -, and seems to always hear it, no matter at which level of sleep he is.
Probably because he knows how likely it is that the Genovian Royal hospital is calling him that his girlfriend broke her ankle while trying to save a cat off the tree.
But not that it happened. The broken ankle, I mean. It was just sprained.
"Hello?" he sleepily said into the phone.
"Come to the living room. At once," I ordered him and hang up.
I can't exactly say he looked happy to see me. But I totally compensated, being happy for the both of us.
"What is so important that you had to wake me up at five in the morning, on our vacation?" he groaned. Then he noticed the laptop by my feet. "And please don't tell me the new NCIS episode is taking forever to load. I told you I cannot do anything about it."
"It is," I said, "but it doesn't matter. I mean, it does matter, because I really wanna know what Sergei is up to, but, I mean, that's not what I woke you up for."
He sat down next to me.
"Okay. Then, let me guess, you want me to hack into Shonda's computers to read the scripts for the rest of the season."
"No, that's not either – but could you do that?"
"No."
Seriously, what's the point of having a computer genius for a boyfriend, if he uses his knowledge solely to make emoji?
"Well, okay, then. Do you remember how you always say you fell in love with me because I am always so eager to help everyone?"
"That's one of the reasons, "he corrected me. "I don't mean to sound shallow, but you are gorgeous."
Not that it had much to do with my ideas, but every girl likes to hear it. Even the girl that has been named the hottest royal for the fourth straight year.
Actually, especially that girl.
"Yeah, well, let's stick to the first reason," I said. "Because I just helped someone."
"Okay. And I take it my credit card played the main role?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Please don't tell me you decided to fund Switzerland's cosmic adventures?"
"No. I gave Edward – one of the skiers Tom coaches – ten thousand dollars to fund his season."
I figured one cent wouldn't make such a big difference.
He actually looked relieved.
"Okay. You actually had me worried there for a second."
"I know that on a day you sell a CardioArm – which is every day – you make that much money just by rolling around in bed, but I will pay you back when I get the advance for the next season of My Man Can."
"Actually, you are right about my finances, so just use that money to save something critically endangered in Cambodia. Now will you let me double that amount by making love to you?"
"No," I said, because there was that other thing I needed to tell him.
He frowned.
And I realized how frigid I sounded.
"Well, no, I mean, yes, just … I have something else to tell you."
"You want to fund the season for every guy Tom coaches?"
Which, you have to admit, sounded like a completely great idea, worth considering, but it wasn't it.
"No," I said and took a deep breath before I continued. I felt like I would explode from all the pride I was feeling. I mean, I wasn't this happy about an idea ever since I bought Grandmere a Baby Names book for Christmas, so that she could stop limiting her lambs' names to Army Generals from Second World War.
"Michael, let's do it," I said.
He looked at me funny, and then started laughing.
I totally didn't get what was so funny. I mean, he just said he wanted it just yesterday.
And I know that things are different know what we weren't eaten by a bear, but still. They are not THAT different.
"I just suggested that, gorgeous," he said, already reaching out for me.
"No, not sex," I exclaimed. "Let's get married."
To Be Continued.
Broughttoyouby:::winter.