Tomorrow, I would be in New York. A thirty-eight-year-old man was about to crash in his friend’s apartment in the West Village. Getting up from the bed, I made my way to the kitchen and searched my refrigerator for anything. Somehow eating cereal for dinner reminded me of the old sitcom Seinfeld.
Did that show have laugh tracks?
Before I poured the milk, I went back in the bedroom for my phone. Surely, laugh tracks were something I could research. Whoever thought they were a good idea was crazy. It was insulting to the audience and equally as bad as the days when people would lift signs telling the live audience when to applaud. If the script and actors didn’t elicit the correct response, the problem wasn’t with the audience.
“Shit.”
There were multiple missed messages from Andrew, along with a line of text messages from my former castmates. I hit the voicemail symbol.
“Oliver, answer your fucking phone. I don’t care when you get this message, call me.”
I couldn’t recall the destination of my agent’s recent trip. Hell, it could be three hours later wherever he was. I was considering waiting until morning to return his call when I saw his latest text message.
“How is your Molavian accent?”
What the hell?
Going back to the kitchen, I returned Andrew’s call. As I poured the milk over my dry cereal, the call connected.
“Molave?” I asked, recalling the scene earlier on television.
The sound of people in the background dimmed. “Don’t hang up, Oliver. This is a serious offer and she contacted me.”
Serious offer.
“That’s what you said about the universe.”
“Yeah, I’m not saying this is a lifelong gig. I’m saying there is significant earning potential.”
“I’d gotten myself psyched up about performing live,” I admitted, or maybe I was hoping if I said it, it would be true.
“This is live.”
“Who requested me?” I asked before shoving a spoonful of cereal into my mouth.
“Her name is Elizabeth Drake.”
“Should I know who she is?”
“From now on, yes,” he replied. “Elizabeth Drake is the chief minister to the Godfreys of Molave.”
“Your timing is uncanny. I just saw the prince and princess on TV today.”
“I’m waiting for my flight back to LAX. Don’t leave for New York. I want you to hear the details of this offer from me—in person. And I hope you’re dressed. Dustin Hargraves will be to your apartment in a half hour.”
I shook my head. “Andrew, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Go to your computer and pull up a photograph of the crown prince of Molave, the Duke of Monovia.”
“I saw him today.”
“Humor me.”
“Shit,” I mumbled as I begrudgingly left the remainder of my cereal to get soggy and stepped into my office. It took me two tries to spell Molave, but finally I got it. “Okay, I’m looking at him.”
“And what do you see?”
“Fuck, a miserable, entitled lunatic who according to this article is not enhancing Molave’s foreign relations.” I clicked the arrow bringing up a picture of the prince with his wife, Princess Lucille. “Damn, she’s something else. I’d say the prince outplayed his coverage.”
“Back to the prince. Don’t you see it?”
“What do you want me to see?”
“He looks like you. You look like him,” Andrew said.
My eyes narrowed as I studied the prince’s face. “I mean, I guess. He’s five years older than I am, and there’s gray in his hair.” Not a lot, but some. I looked at the photo of him in a uniform. “I’d say he also weighs more than me.”
“Fine, you’re not twins separated at birth, but the resemblance is enough that the royal family wants to hire you to take on some of the prince’s obligations. I’ll tell you more when I get to your place.”
“I have a ticket for New York. I’ve spoken with Ricardo.”
“Oliver,” Andrew said. “Listen to me. This is an opportunity of a lifetime. The Firm is offering to pay double what you made for the last movie."
“Double?” I sighed, leaning back in the chair. “For how long?”
“Cancel your ticket to New York.”
I thought about the suitcase. “I’m mostly packed.”
“Good, because you’ll be heading to Molave.”
“I haven’t said yes.”
“You will. And one more thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t tell a soul. This must stay confidential. You don’t want to cross the royal family.”
Lucille
“I am the princess,” I proclaimed with as much authority as I could muster. “I summoned you here to tell me why I haven’t been in contact with the prince. I also want to know more about the reported food shortages in various regions of Molave.”
“Not all reports are accurate.”
“Mrs. Drake, I’m reporting that I’ve barely spoken to my husband in weeks. That is accurate. As for the reports of food shortages, I took a tour of the western province yesterday. The grocer’s shelves were nearly empty.”
Stone-faced with resolve, Molave’s chief minister, Mrs. Drake, stood before me. The only comment that caused a micro-expression was news of my tour. In the hierarchy that existed, I was above her. The unspoken reality was quite different. Mrs. Drake had access that I did not. She held closed-door meetings with King Theodore and Prince Roman.
“That isn’t your concern,” she replied. “It would be better if you didn’t voice those thoughts publicly or in private with the queen or king.”
Yesterday, when I sent an email to Mrs. Drake, I also sent one to the queen. The one sent to the queen hadn’t been returned, and as for the chief minister, she was now here, in the province of Monovia at Annabella Castle.
Perhaps her presence was the answer from both correspondents. Mrs. Drake worked closely with the advisors to the royal family, affectionately referred to by many as ‘the Firm.’
I’d first heard the term during my pre-marriage exercises. It wasn’t my husband-to-be who mentioned it. The nickname came from Roman’s sister, Princess Isabella. While we didn’t exactly become quick friends, over the last few years, Isabella and I had established a rapport of sorts. Perhaps it was more of an understanding; nevertheless, it existed.
Molave had yet to follow other monarchies around the world in recognizing females as equal to males in their birthright. It wouldn’t matter if Molave did. Isabella was five years younger than Roman. Which meant she was five years older than I.
Currently, thirty-eight years of age, Isabella had been married to the Duke of Wilmington since weeks before Roman’s and my first anniversary. I later learned the princess had been forbidden to marry prior to her older brother.
If everything went as planned, one day I would be queen. The only way Isabella could ascend to that title would be in the case of Roman’s passing and that of our children—the ones we don’t yet have—and even then, it would require her husband, the duke, to renounce his duchy of Wilmington, a region outside the Molave state.