This isn't about me anymore, and there’s a crushing weight of this realization. There’s also something utterly infuriating about seeing my baby’s sad little line on the graph—an entire human being already judged based on statistics and word clouds.
"Now remember, Your Highness, this is a moment of greatness,” Dylan says, coming around to stand behind me, then crouching very near to my shoulder. “You are standing at the bottom of Mount Everest, about to embark on the climb of your life, and if you can do it, it will be the greatest achievement of any royal ever."
“Any royal ever?” I ask, trying to curb the sarcasm out of my voice. “Even, say, Queen Victoria, whose reign spread throughout the world, ending with one-quarter of the Earth becoming part of her empire? Or Louis XIV, who ended feudalism and modernized France, allowing the arts to flourish?”
Dylan’s smile drops. “Small potatoes compared to what you’re facing.”
Sighing, I ask the one question that fills me with dread. "What do you propose we do about it?"
***
"SHE WANTS ME TO JOINAwful Brooke’s healthy pregnancy foundation,” I say to Arabella, who’s seated at her kitchen table eating dinner while I sit in the living room as far away from the food smells as I can get.
Arabella's mouth hangs open for a millisecond before she catches herself and holds a cloth napkin up in front of her lips while she finishes chewing and swallows her food. "Why would sheeverwant to pair you up with that...hussy?"
“Because apparently, teaming up with the former rival for your husband's affection is the highest form of confidence. She said it would display a true ability to forgive and a unique security in my relationship with Arthur that plays out very nicely with women aged 35 to 44."
"Well, did you tell her that Brooke is the devil and you have absolutely no intention of teaming up with her for anything ever in your entire life?"
"Not exactly. I told her I’d give it careful consideration.”
“Whatever for?”
“To give me time to think of some other way to improve my image. I obviously can’t count on Dylan to do it, but it has to be done—and fast.” I sigh and fiddle with the hem of my sleeve. "I keep thinking of that bloody graph showing me how my constant screw-ups are going to come down on the baby. It's terrifying to think she might have to bear the burden of my clumsiness. I mean, it hardly seems fair for a tiny person who hasn't even had a chance to draw breath yet to already have such a cross to bear.”
“Oh, don’t listen to Dylan. She’s just trying to keep herself employed by thinking up fictitious problems to solve,” Arabella says, getting up from the table and coming to sit with me on the couch.
Shaking my head, I say, “No, I think she’s right. If I can’t get the people to admire me—or at least hate me less—the baby is going to grow up being every bit as disliked as I am.”
"As Gran would say, ‘What a bunch of horseshit.’” Arabella pats my shoulder with one hand and says, "Forget about Dylan and all this ‘rebranding’ business. You—and your baby—will be much loved by the people. They just need time to get to know the real you."
“Time isn’t exactly my friend in this situation. I’m going to have to think of a way to get the people’s approval—and fast.”
