Email from Dylan Sinclair
To: Phillip Crawford, Imogen Arbuckle, Princess Arabella
Subject: RE: RE: Wedding Costs
Mr. Crawford et al.,
We at ANN have a signed contract that stipulates the amount the network is willing to put forward for this event (a very generous $10 million). We are unable (and unwilling) to go above that amount, especially given that the reason for the cost increase is solely due to the wishes of the bride and groom. They can eat the tab on this.
Regards,
Dylan Sinclair
VP Programming, Avonian Nature Network
Email from Princess Arabella
To: Phillip Crawford, Imogen Arbuckle, Dylan Sinclair
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Wedding Costs
Hello,
Chiming in here before we wind up in an all-out war. I have enough to cover the overage in my Bainbridge Trust. I shall have Mrs. Chapman withdraw the amount and send it to your team immediately.
Best,
Arabella
I stare at the email for a minute before I press send, utterly pissed that I am now shelling money out of my own pocket for an enormous wedding I don’t actually want. And yes, I get that most people pay for their own weddings, I do. But you have to consider that a) I don’t want it, b) it’s 2.4 million dollars for something I don’t want, and c) it’s not like I’m allowed to earn money, so I have to be careful not to spend my trust fund all on one day.
Fuck it. Send.
"So, when will this air?" I ask Dylan as the sound tech fastens the microphone to my blouse.
We are about to film the pre-wedding special giving ANN viewers an exclusive inside look at life at the palace. The first bit of filming we’re doing is in my office, followed by a quick stop at the solarium before making our way to my apartment for a voyeuristic look at my private life. No matter, it'll all be worth it in a few weeks. Unless I’m a disaster, which is definitely possible. Truth be told, everything’s been going so well with the wedding plans so far that I’m a little nervous about this. I’m not great in interviews at the best of times, and there’s a weirdly superstitious part of me (that I won’t ever admit to) that believes that when things go too well for too long, something dreadful is about to happen. I’m just praying it doesn’t happen on national television. Taking a deep breath, I tell myself to relax. Exude confidence, warmth, and grace, no matter what. That shouldn’t be too much to ask, should it?
"I’m giving this a primetime slot this Sunday," she says with a wide smile. “It’sthe besttime slot there is. And with the marketing push already started, we’re expecting 50 million viewers that night. And at least that when Will’s special airs.” She balls up her fist and pulls her arm back in a sort of victory pump thing that athletes tend to do.
“50 million?” I ask, blinking repeatedly as my stomach is flooded by a swarm of butterflies. Idetestgiving on-screen interviews, even small ones when I know only about one hundred thousand people will be watching. But 50 million? That’s too many millions.
There’s always the chance of a slip of the tongue, of giving TMI, of being too emotional. (That last one forever plagues me since I tend to wear my heart on theoutsideof my clothing.) The pressure on me to be graceful, warm, calm, and confident is…well, it’s massive, really. And I never quite manage it. I always find it difficult to contain my emotions when I’m upset or irritated or overly emotional about whatever the topic is. Like the time I teared up on camera over the plight of the introverts in the Avonian Introverts Society when a reporter asked me what I thought it must be like to go through life being so very shy.
And now the stakes are much, much higher than they’ve ever been because I’ve spent the last year garnering a level of respectability I’ve never previously enjoyed. People take me seriously now, which I quite like, and the shit part is that it can all be yanked away with one wrong word today. I take a deep breath and tell myself I’ll be fine.Just stick to the topic at hand. Be bold and detached."Can we be sure to mention my foundations?"
"Absolutely."
"When can we get started?" I ask.Oooh, good one. Very ‘in charge.’
Dylan glances at her watch. "As soon as our host gets here. He's running a few minutes late," she says with a nod before turning and sweeping across the room to bark orders at the camera crew.
I stand and walk over to the window, staring out at the meadow in the distance, wishing I could be out there alone instead of in here.
The door to my office opens, and one of the world's nastiest human beings walks in — Nigel Wood, Avonia’s top fashion critic and cohost of ABN’s Entertainment Weekly. That's who they picked for the host? Well, this is just perfect. I stiffen reflexively and force a bright smile as he crosses the room to me.
"Princess Arabella," he says, giving me the world's phoniest air kisses. "Delightful to see you again."
"Same to you, Mr. Wood." I offer him a gracious nod while, on the inside, I'm imagining kneeing him in what I'm assuming is a rather minuscule set of jewels for all of the nasty things he’s said about Tessa over the years.
