“Okkaayy, shall we continue?” I ask. I pick up my pace a little, hoping they can match it. Without looking back, I make my way across the Grande Hall, distancing myself from the scent of BENGAY. When I reach the entrance to the west wing, I turn and see them all shuffling toward me, some of them furiously pumping with their arms, although it doesn't seem to propel their wobbly legs any faster.
“What's the rush? Have you got a hot date after this?” Tight White Curls asks.
“Get off her back,” Blue Hair says firmly. “She's just new at this.”
“You're right, she's a goddamn nuisance,” Single Guy says.
* * *
It is now 10:34. On the other side of the palace, the meeting has just started, and we've only gotten as far as the library, which is the second room on our tour. Three of the nonagenarians are now napping in armchairs while Red Lipstick makes time with Mr. Popular. Huh, those really must be dentures. They’re unnaturally white.
I stand near the door and tap my foot on the plush carpet, not even caring if I seem impatient at this point.I have got to get out of this, now.I pull my phone out of my pocket and text Tessa as discreetly as possible.You wouldn't happen to have an hour free to finish a tour with some delightful athletic senior citizens, would you?
Tessa:You’re not referring to the Nonagenarian Mall Walkers, are you?
Me:Yes, I am! :-)
Tessa:I got stuck doing that tour last year. If memory serves, it took over four hours and by the time we were done, my ego had been shredded. Nastiest people on the planet. Don't show any signs of weakness.
Me:So, that’s a no, then?
Tessa:It’s a hard no, but please don’t think I don’t love you. I just don’t have time for the PTSD therapy this year.
Bugger. I slide my mobile back into my pocket and stare around at them. “Who wants to see the throne room?”
* * *
By the time the shuttle bus is loaded and all the turquoise track suits are gone, it’s half past noon. I’ve missed the entire meeting, having instead spent the morning being reminded of my aging eggs by a bunch of women who haven’t dropped any since The Beatles were still together. My stomach growls as I make my way to my office, and when I get there, I see that Mrs. Chapman, my assistant, has gone for lunch.
I’m glad, to be honest. She's extremely formal, extremely experienced, and extremely cold. Think Prof. McGonagall from Harry Potter, except without the pointy hat, the ability to perform magic, or any type of soft spot for anyone. Ever. Mrs. Chapman has been my assistant/taskmaster since I was seventeen and I still don't even know her first name.
I open the tall wooden door to my tastefully decorated office, then slump my shoulders as I walk to my two-hundred-year-old white French provincial desk. I kick off my heels and plunk myself into my muted olive velvet chair and stare at the vase overflowing with hydrangeas. They’ve gone with pink hydrangeas this week. Normally, this would make me smile, as would a glance out the large windows to the view of the sun-drenched gardens behind the palace.
But not today. Today, it feels like the walls are slowly sliding toward me. I open the bottom drawer and pull out a bag of Jelly Babies, a treat Tessa got me hooked on. Popping one into my mouth, I spot a note on my desk in Mrs. Chapman’s perfect, tight handwriting.
Princess Arabella,
I’ve gone for a quick bite of lunch. It’s a no to the red dress, obviously, and to the equal rights thing. Your father and the advisers thought it too emotional a cause for you. Also, it will interfere with your ability to meet a man, since you’d be working with women all day. They thought perhaps instead you might like to become the patron of The Avonian Bankers Association. Plenty of eligible men there.
Mrs. C
P.S. Be ready to leave by one o’clock for the fundraiser for hamster wheelchairs.
P.S.S. I’ve ordered you a salad - it’s in the bar fridge. Maybe eat that instead of having another meal of Jelly Babies.
Red Bull Strikes Again…
Will Banks
Valcourt, Avonia
“I really haveto be out of here in under an hour,” I say to Dwight as we hurry down the hall of the Avonian Broadcast Network building to the conference room. “Emma said if I’m not freshly shaved and at her future in-laws’ for cocktails by six, she’ll kill me, cut me up, and use my limbs to beat you until you’re dead.”
“Delightful,” Dwight says. “She’s right about the beard though. I can't even believe you would allow that to grow so close to where you eat. Have you not heard of beard ringworm?”
“First of all, gross. Second, no, I haven't.”
“Google it. It's a thing.”
