“We put Gerbera daisies in all our rooms,” Robert went on, seeing he was getting no help from me. “No one has ever complained about them before.”
Grandmère looked at him as if he had just said that no one had ever pulled out a knife and committed hari-kari right in front of him before either.
“Have you ever had a PRINCESS stay in this hotel before?” she demanded.
“Actually, the princess of Thailand was here just last week before settling into her dorm room at NYU,” Robert began.
I winced. Wrong answer, Robert! Too bad. Thanks for playing.
“THAILAND?” Grandmère just glared at him. “Have you any idea HOW MANY PRINCESSES OF THAILAND THERE ARE?”
Robert looked panicky. He knew he’d messed up. He just didn’t know how. Poor guy. “Um…no?”
“Dozens. You could even say hundreds. Do you know how many dowager princesses of Genovia there are, young man?”
“Um.” Robert looked like he wanted to jump out the window. I didn’t blame him, really. “One?”
“One. That is correct,” Grandmère said. “Don’t you think that if the ONE DOWAGER PRINCESS OF GENOVIA demands roses in her room—pink and white roses, NOT orange Gerbera daisies, which might be the trendy flower of the moment, but ROSES never go out of style—you ought to SUPPLY THEM FOR HER? Especially considering the fact that her dog happens to be allergic tograssland plants ?”
Everyone’s gaze went to Rommel, who, far from looking as if he were suffering from any sort of allergic reaction to anything, was snoring away in his gilt-framed dog bed, twitching a little as he dreamed of whatever it is dogs dream about—in Rommel’s case, no doubt, of running away from his owner.
“As if,” Grandmère added, “it isn’t bad enough you have actual grass GROWING in your lobby.”
Ouch. I’d noticed that as I’d come in. It’s a bitmodern , having grass growing in your lobby. I mean, for Grandmère’s taste, anyway. She prefers mints in little crystal bowls.
“I understand, madam,” Robert said, actually giving a little bow. “I’ll—I’ll have pink and white roses sent for immediately. I can’t apologize enough for the oversight—”
“No,” Grandmère said, raising one drawn-on eyebrow. “You cannot. Good-bye.”
Robert, gulping, turned and hurried from the room. Grandmère waited until he was gone before collapsing into one of the black-leather-and-chrome chairs across from my couch.
But, of course, those aren’t the kind of chairs you can actually collapse into all that easily. Because the leather is kind of slippery.
“Amelia!” Grandmère cried, as she slithered around on the seat. “This is unconscionable!”
“I like it,” I said. I do. I think the W is cool. Everything in it is very shiny.
“You’re mad,” Grandmère said. “Do you know I ordered a Sidecar, and they delivered it in a TUMBLER?”
“So? More to enjoy.”
“Sidecars are never served in a TUMBLER, Amelia. WATER is served in a tumbler. A Sidecar is ALWAYS served in a stemmed cocktail glass. MY GOD, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR HAIR???”
Grandmère was suddenly sitting up very straight in her slippery black leather chair.
“Calm down,” I said. “I just got a little trim—”
“A LITTLE TRIM??? You look like a cotton swab.”
“It’ll grow back,” I said lamely. Because the truth is, I’m not planning on growing it back. I really like having short hair. You don’t have to do ANYTHING to it. And when you look in the mirror, your head always looks the same. There’s something comforting about that. I mean, it’s TIRING seeing some new disaster erupting on your scalp every time you happen to glance at your reflection.
“How do you intend to keep your tiaras on with nothing for the combs to dig into?” Grandmère wanted to know.
Which is actually a good point. And certainly not one anyone had thought to bring up at Astor Place Hairstylists, least of all my mom, who’d said my new short hair reminded her of Demi Moore’s inG.I. Jane which, at the time, I’d taken to be a compliment.
“Velcro?” I asked carefully.
But Grandmère didn’t think my joke was all that funny.
“There’s not even any point in summoning Paolo,” she said, “because it’s not as if there’s even anything left for him to work with.”
“It’s not THAT short,” I said, lifting a hand to my head and feeling spikes. Well, on second thought, maybe it is. Oh, well. “Whatever. It’s just HAIR. It will grow back. Don’t we have more important things to worry about, Grandmère? I mean, in Iran, fundamentalist religious courts still routinely sentence women to death by being buried up to their necks in sand and then stoned, for crimes like adultery. Now! Things like this are happening RIGHT NOW!!!! And you’re worried about my HAIR???”
Grandmère just shook her head. You never can distract her with current events. If it doesn’t have to do with royalty, she just doesn’t care.
“This could not have come at a worse time,” she went on, like I hadn’t said anything. “Voguejust contacted the royal publicist, wanting an interview and photo shoot for their winter getaway issue. The article would bring Genovia to the attention of hundreds of women looking to schedule their winter vacations somewhere warm. Not to mention the fact that your father is in town for the general assembly meeting at the UN.”
“Good!” I yelled. “Maybe he can bring up the Iran thing at it! Do you know they’ve outlawed western music there, too? And, while claiming their only interest in nuclear development is for civilian energy, and not military use, actually hid atomic research that proves otherwise from the International Atomic Energy Agency for twenty years? Who cares about winter getaways when we could all be blown up at any moment?”
“I suppose we could have you fitted for a wig,” Grandmère said. “Though how we’ll ever find one identical to your old haircut, I don’t know. They don’t make wigs shaped like sailboats. Perhaps we could find a longer wig, and then have Paolo cut it….”
“Are you even listening to me?”I wanted to know. “There are more important things to worry about right now than my hair. Do you know how much trouble we’ll all be in if Iran gets a nuclear weapon? They BURY WOMEN UP TO THEIR NECKS AND STONE THEM FOR SLEEPING WITH GUYS THEY AREN’T MARRIED TO. How discriminating do you think they’re going to be about who deserves to have a bomb dropped on them?”
“Maybe,” Grandmère said thoughtfully, “we should turn you into a redhead. Oh, no, that will never work. With that haircut, you look exactly like that boy from the cover of thoseMad comic books your father used to read all the time when he was your age.”
Seriously. It’s useless even to talk to her. Did I really think a woman with so unreasonable a prejudice against Gerbera daisies was going to listen to me?
Sometimes I feel like burying HER up to her neck in sand and throwing rocks at her head.
Tuesday, September 7, 7 p.m., the loft
Michael is here!!!!! To take me to Number One Noodle Son for dinner. Right now he’s chatting with Mom and Mr. G while I’m “getting ready.” He hasn’t seen me yet.
Or my haircut.
I know I’m being a complete baby about it. I know it looks fine. Mom keeps telling me it looks fine. Even Mr. G, when I asked him, said he doesn’t think I look like Peter Pan OR Anakin Skywalker.
Still. What if Michael hates it? InSixteen magazine they’re always going on about how boys like girls with long hair. At least, whenever they do those “guy on the street” interviews. They show pictures of Keira Knightley with short hair and Keira Knightley with long hair to random high school boys standing around outside of convenience marts or whatever, and ask them which they prefer.