Royally Knocked Up by Pamela DuMond
Chapter 10
One hand flew to my chest. I coughed, fearing I’d hacked up another bean. “That’s not true.” I caught Zola’s disappointed look out of the corner of my eye. “Cristoph is not in love with me.”
“He was at one point,” Joan said.
“Well he’s not anymore. He’s moved on.”
“Tell that to the press. They’re about to have a field day when they discover you’ve husband hopped in the royal family,” Esmeralda said.
“I have not husband hopped. That’s a despicable term. It makes me sound like a 1970s suburban swinger who’s bored in her marriage. I am not bored! In fact I crave marital monotony. I long to be legally wed, to the same guy might I add, and I want it to stay that way for the rest of my life.” I poured myself another shot, didn’t bother to light it on fire, and tossed it back. No need to torch the alcohol because between the shrimp covered in garlic butter, the potatoes sprinkled with cayenne pepper, and the embarrassment digging a hole through my gut, I possessed enough flames to burn down the world.
“Disco Inferno” by The Trammps played in the background and the song’s catchy lyrics bounced into our alcove along with the heavy funk bass and the infectious beat of the drums.
Joan pushed back her chair. “The club’s opening. Let’s go dance!”
“After we discuss my plan for the Three Kings Festa,” Esmeralda said, glancing around. “I’m a little concerned about my source. He hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Or maybe he has.” Prince Alexander waggled his eyebrows, and pushed back his chair.
“You’re Prometheus?”
“I thought you knew. Let’s talk shop in the disco.”
“I suspected,” Captain Sam said.
“All’s well that ends swell,” I said. “You go forth to the disco and party. I’ll call a Lyft, go back to my attic, and catch some sweet shuteye. Just tell me the plan, ’K? I hope we don’t have to go undercover like we did when we pretended to be the replacement band for Diana Ross and The Supremes cover band in Monaco.” I slurred my words and suddenly wondered if all the coffee beans had gone to my head.
“Joanie, pay the bill, and meet us at our table in the club,” Esmeralda said. She grabbed my hand and pulled me to standing. I swayed. “Come on Lucy. Let’s hit the dance floor. Disco diva Gloria Gaynor sang that at the beginning she was petrified— but insists that she survived. If Gloria can, you will too.”
* * *
Iattempted one dance but elbowed someone in the ribs with one of my wilder moves. The chick was a nasty sort, and countered my actions by stepping squarely on my foot. Now our party lounged around on a red leather banquette tucked into a corner. Strobe lights played off the disco ball that hung from the ceiling. Fedora-wearing couples danced to classics by Donna Summer, Thelma Houston, and A Taste of Honey. I leaned my head against Joan’s shoulder, kicked off my shoes, stretched one foot out across Esmeralda’s lap, and wiggled my toes. “That mean chick bruised me. Be a pal and give me a foot rub?”
“No.” She pushed my foot off her leg. “I’ll catch up with the low budget bitch later. Thanks to Captain Sam and Prometheus’s connections, we’re going to be on the ninth float in the Three Kings processional that starts tomorrow at noon. Messina’s Piano Players had an unfortunate incident and had to withdraw from the parade at the last minute.”
“Oh my God,” Joan said. “Did you do something, Esmeralda? I suspected you were behind the food poisoning of the Supremes cover band that we filled in for at the last minute in Monaco after Lucy’s second wedding debacle.”
“You and the conspiracy theories.” Esmeralda smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Perhaps fortune simply smiled on us and provided an opportunity.”
“Fortune my ass,” Joan said. “What happened? Did the piano fall off the ramp and kill someone when they tried to load it onto the float? I will not be party to violence!”
Esmeralda whipped out her silk fan and waved it in front of her face. “That’s funny. I recall shopping with you during the 90 percent off sale at Franklin’s Department Store. Security was called after you ripped the blouse from that woman’s hands.”
“I saw the lace top first,” Joan said. “My fingers were on the hanger when she tore it from my grasp. That was the rare exception to my anti-violence rule.”
“No people were injured.” Esmeralda tipped back her fedora. “The instrument was stolen.”
“That’s impossible,” Joan said. “How does one steal a piano?”
“With movers, a truck, and a dolly,” Captain Sam said. “We’ll return it tomorrow, freshly tuned.”
“Based on the schedule you included in our packet, there are fifty floats,” Zola said. “The positioning seems on point.”
“Do I still wear the fedora?” I massaged my own instep.
“No,” Prince Alex said. “I called in my favorite makeover expert. My parents hired him when I lost the baby fat in my late teens. Nothing fit, and I had no idea what to wear. He’s re-worked my image multiple times.”
“Should we order more appetizers?” Zola asked.
“Prices double once we’re inside the club,” Joan said. “I don’t believe we’re properly budgeted for a makeover expert.”
“He works for me on retainer,” Alex said. “Consider it my contribution to the L.S.A.’s inaugural mission.”
“That’s nice of you.” I flashed him my best smile. “Hey, maybe you’d give me a foot rub?”
“No.”
A man was making his way across the dance floor. He looked awfully familiar. I couldn’t catch his face in the sea of fedora-wearing dancers, but his suit was impeccable. He paused, stared at his watch, and peered around in the midst of the undulating crowd. His face became clear because he was the only person not wearing a hat. “Mr. Philips!” I hollered, waving my hands overhead. “We’re over here!”
“Get out, Prometheus,” Esmeralda said. “Mr. Philip Philips is your makeover expert?”
A meaty bouncer stepped into Mr. Philips’ path and pointed to his head. Mr. Philips extended his hands, palms up, in the universal symbol for ‘I didn’t know.’
“I’ll handle this.” Captain Sam strode toward them.
“I told you, Esmeralda, that the fedora thing would get confusing,” I said.
* * *
Between my nearly sleepless 48 hours, the hearty Sambuca shots, and the lack of decent foot rubs, I didn’t remember the return trip to Zia Valentina’s crumbling castle, nor did I recall how I made my way up to the attic room.
I woke up the next day to sun streaming through the lace curtains, and the musical stylings of a marching band practicing the perennial Christmas favorite, “We Three Kings” on the street below my window. The fedora lay upside down on top of my clothes that I’d apparently ripped off before I dove into bed.
I clamped my hands over my ears, pulled the sheet up over my head, and turned over, burying my face in the pillow. There was a harsh ‘Rap-Rap-Rap’ on the door.
“Go away!”
The door squeaked open and light, precise footsteps clicked across the wooden floor. “Rise and shine, Duchess. The world awaits your majestic, sparkling, princess-like presence.”
I peeked out from the covers. Mr. Philips hung a garment bag in my tiny closet under the eaves. “Unless you’ve brought strong coffee, you need to leave.”
“Good tidings!” Raul said, carrying a silver tray with a coffee service into the room. The hearty smell of java permeated the air.
“You mean, good morning,” Mr. Philips said.
“Sì.” Raul placed the dish on a side table, poured two cups, and dropped a sugar cube in one.
“Thank you.”
“We’ll practice the English later, yes?”
“Yes, Raul. I’m not called the ‘Makeover Queen’ for nothing, you know.”
Esmeralda’s minion shut the door with a squeak on his way out.
“I noticed the peacock blue feather that adorned your fedora last night Lucy, and thought that would be the perfect color for your parade outfit.” Mr. Philips rifled through a garment bag in the closet, and pulled out a floor-length blue silk gown. He fluffed its full skirt.
“I thought we were going to a parade. That looks like I’ll be in the throne room at the palace seated next to my husband while we have a photo op with the President of China and his lovely wife.”
“Close.” He opened a large, rectangular, black jewelry box. “You’ll be sitting on a I Heart Fredonia float surrounded by your Ladies-in-Waiting, throwing candy at the crowds while you smile prettily for the cameras. And you’ll be wearing this.” He pointed to a sparkly diamond and sapphire tiara in the jewelry case.
“That’s very pretty, but I thought I was supposed to stay away from the press. They suspect something’s up but nothing’s been confirmed.”
“Plans have changed, Lucy.” He handed me a newspaper from the coffee tray. The headline read, “Lucy Trabbicio: Royal Husband Hopper!”
“Damn!” I said. “Can it get any worse?”
“Yes.” He flipped open the paper rag revealing the second page.
A fuzzy, pixelated photo taken through the gap between the curtains in Cristoph’s townhouse showed the crown prince of Fredonia staring at me, mesmerized. I was wearing his bathrobe, and flashed him my rack.
“Fuck.”
“As far as I know the paparazzi didn’t actually get a picture of that.”