I should never have come here. But I’d had all those depressing dates and coffees and bad sex in studio apartments with bicycles hanging over the bed, and I was starting to CGI myself into Callum’s Porsche ad, sitting beside him as he steered along an Italian cliffside at dusk, wearing shades and perforated kidskin racing gloves as a saxophone wailed, which was when I noticed that Callum’s gaze encompassed not just me but, for a split second, the yoga-honed ass of a nearby waiter, who was acting as if he was mildly annoyed while scribbling his cell number on our bill. Which was when my phone went off and a full-color photo of Buckingham Palace filled the screen.

“Who is that?” asked Callum, his spell broken as I held up my phone so he could see the red-uniformed guards, with their tall bearskin hats, stationed outside the wrought iron palace gates.

“Um, I think it’s Prince Edgar.”

CHAPTER 6

It wasn’t Prince Edgar, not exactly, but James, his indispensable minder, and he informed me that he’d tracked down my contact information through Eventfully Yours and that His Royal Highness would like to have dinner with me the next evening at an exclusive downtown restaurant that I could never afford; James relayed this request in a tone that was both commanding and woefully disappointed, as if he was acting against his better judgment.

“Um, sure,” I said, which brings me to tonight, when I’m presenting my hair and my outfit and my chin zit to Louise and Adam for a pre-date inspection.

“Why are you doing this?” asked Louise. “It’s like going out with a statue of Queen Victoria, and I bet he’s not going to tip. You’re buying into the last remnants of an imperialist power structure that thinks it still matters. On the other hand, after tonight you can probably sell your intimate story to a tabloid or TMZ and make a bundle.”

“I told you this was going to happen!” crowed Adam. “This is the beginning of an incredible love story, like Pretty Woman if you were a beautiful sex worker or When Harry Met Sally if Harry had a private jet. And I think you look great, although if I were you, I would shape my eyebrows just a touch.”

“No!” I barked, because I’d once allowed Adam to practice threading and plucking on me, and I’d ended up like a Sharpie sketch of a frightened 1930s Hollywood starlet. Luckily, my brows had grown back; men who mess with their eyebrows are like men with bad nose jobs or beret-like hairpieces, since these alterations become all anyone can focus on.

“Carter,” said Louise, taking me by the shoulders just before I left, “I want you to remember that you always have options. You can scream ‘Kill the Royal Puppet People’ and throw red paint on Edgar.”