At Your Service (7 page)

Princess Ingrid, age nine:

Ingrid is a cutie. She's on the edge of every picture, staring off to the side, like there's always something there she can't wait to check out. But basically, she's your average little kid.

And then we have Prince Alex. Nothing average here.

Prince Alex, age fourteen:

It's
possible
that Alex's dossier is approximately six inches thicker than Ingrid's and Sophie's, but Paisley and I really didn't think it was fair to be forced to choose between pictures of Alex catching waves on the beach or ones of him playing polo. So basically they all went in. Along with the ones of him shopping in Dubai, riding in the back of a convertible in a parade, and taking flying lessons.

I know people always say royals have blue blood, but someone should really do a study about how blue blood might actually be an attractiveness enhancer. The whole family looks like they could pose for a Gap ad. Except they probably don't even know what Gap is, and I'm sure they
definitely
have never set foot in one.

Faint sirens grow more intense and people start picking invisible fuzz off their uniforms and putting a little extra straight in their posture. I half expect Mr. Whilpers to yell, “Ten hut!” and lead us around the lobby in a march.

I catch Mercy's eye and wink. She grins and winks back, once with each eye. This is kind of our thing because we both know that I can only wink with my right eye. Whenever I try to wink with my left one, the whole side of my mouth scrunches up at the same time. Any day I don't have school, I sneak into the maids' morning meeting, where Mr. Whilpers hands out the boards
^I
and gives his daily cheesy pep talk. I always make it my mission to try to crack Mercy up with my winks without letting the Whilps catch on. I like to think it makes hearing his “Remember, everyone, winners never lose and losers never win!” speech for the gazillionth time a little more bearable.

I'm just gearing up for a left-then-right-then-left-eye wink (which I know from experience will make Mercy's whole body shake while she fights a laugh) when two police motorcycles
screech to a halt just past our front door, leaving space behind for the stretch limousine trailing them to line up its back door with the hotel entrance. Right away a doorman rushes over and yanks the limo door open. A whole army of men in black suits has already formed a perimeter around the sidewalk. The photographers they're blocking have to stretch their cameras way up over their heads to take pictures. I bet they end up with a bunch of shots of the fire hydrant, which makes me giggle.

King Robert is super tall, so he has to sort of fold himself out of the limo. Then he turns back to offer his wife a hand.

“Now that man has the manners of a true king,” our sales manager, Jean, whispers next to me, and I nod without taking my eyes off the action. They're like something straight out of a Disney movie. The queen places one elegant leg onto the street and allows King Robert to guide her out of the limo. Usually, when it's Bill helping me out of the backseat, he just lets me scoot across the bench and out the door, but if he does give me a hand, he kinda yanks on it to pull me out. This looks more like she glides onto the street. Maybe we'll get to be close friends in the next couple of days and I can ask her how she does that.

The two turn and wave at the gathered crowd before Queen Caroline returns her attention to the other passengers.
She steps back and Ingrid slips out and past her. She's pretty tiny for a nine-year-old, and she goes right to her dad's legs and parks herself behind them.

Sophie is next, and she makes the same graceful exit her mother did. She has a perfectly sweet smile on her face as she does that cupped-hand side-to-side wave thing beauty pageant contestants are always doing. Hmm. That kind of perfect could be pretty easy to hate.

Alex is last. Okay, so he is seriously even cuter in person.
^II
How is that possible? I thought famous people were supposed to be shorter and have bad skin in person. Nope. Alex pretty much looks like he was just delivered from a Choose Your Own Perfect Boy catalog. This is going to be . . . interesting.

I mean, of course, it's not like
I
could ever fall for him, because that would be seriously the most unprofessional thing ever, and my reputation is way more important than scoring a date with “the hottest thing ever to land on my doorstep who just happens to be a prince.”

Way more important.

Definitely.

It's kind of chaotic outside with all of the photographers and the crowds, but the St. Michèle lobby is the quiet haven from the hustle and bustle it always is. Even though the entire staff is lined up and waiting, you could hear a pin drop as the royal family spins through the revolving doors. Although I half expect someone to break out in “Be Our Guest” and start dancing around with the feather dusters.

They enter the lobby all smiles. The whole royal family makes their way past my whole hotel family, and everyone curtsies or bows. Guys just have to duck their heads, but women are supposed to do a small curtsy. I've completed Mr. Whilpers's Bow and Curtsy Boot Camp, and I have it down pat: right foot behind the left heel, bend knees slightly.

The king is first through our lineup, but I'm a teensy-tiny bit more focused on Prince Alex as I slide my left foot behind my right heel. When I glance down, I realize my feet are backward. Whoops. I think Alex might have noticed. I think he might be smirking. Or is he smiling? I can't tell, and now my feet are all jumbled and—

Omigosh, I'm falling!

Ever tried to greet a king and accidentally plunged into his arms instead? No? Huh. I can't say the same. Even
though he laughed and helped me upright, you know that expression that's something like how you can't make a first impression twice? That kinda sucks. Because a do-over would be really, really great.

I do NOT think this situation is covered in the Les Clefs d'Or handbook on how to be a world-class concierge.

I
. “The boards” is hotel speak for the list of rooms each maid is assigned to clean that day. It's kind of like a puzzle because every room gets a point value, and bigger rooms are worth more points than smaller ones, so they have to divide it all up so everyone gets the same number of points. If you ask me, picking up someone else's wet towels should count for triple quadruple points.

II
. Like, seriously. He has that kind of messy hair that his mom probably has to sit on her hands not to smooth down all the time, but that everyone else knows looks totally hot. And it's surfer blond. And his eyes are the same navy as the Hudson River just before it storms. And he's tall. And he's got this kind of sideways smile like he knows a secret and he might tell you, but then again he might not. And he's a prince. So there's that.

R
edemption time. Even though Dad's and my next meeting with the royals and their security detail is taking place at the rooftop pool, I have on the black suit I wore to meet them earlier. I can't earn my Les Clefs d'Or golden key pin for excellent concierge service until I've been a concierge for three years and am at least twenty-one, but I figure the apple one Dad gave me last Christmas is a close substitute. I pin it to my lapel. There. Nice and official looking.

Too bad my smooth waves are going to frizz the second I set foot in the indoor pool area. No biggie, it's only a prince I'm meeting. Who needs smooth hair for that?

Whoa, Chloe. Stop thinking of him as a prince. Guest. Just a
guest.
And I have to remember he comes with a set of sisters. I'm pretty sure the itinerary I came up with takes everyone into account, so I just have to remind my brain to do the same.

“Ready, sweets?” Dad asks as we skirt the edge of the pool and I try not to slip on any puddles of water on the tiles. As if falling during a stupid simple curtsy wasn't bad enough.

Dad stops in front of a woman who looks a bit like the grandmother in Little Red Riding Hood. She has her whitish-blond hair piled in a bun on the top of her head and black reading glasses perched on the end of her long, long nose. Her glasses have a fake diamond (OMG—could they be REAL?) chain that loops down on her neck.

“Mr. Turner, lovely to meet you in person. I'm Elise von Guttman, the private secretary of the sovereign.”

“A pleasure, Dame von Guttman. And please, call me Mitchell. This is my daughter, Chloe.”

“If you are going by Mitchell, then please, just Elise. And Chloe, I have heard so much about you from Mr. Buttercup.” She sticks out her hand and I shake it, giving silent thanks that I don't need to curtsy. She seems friendly. Maybe I'm in my head too much about these people being so different just because they have fancy titles. All of a sudden I'm not so scared to meet the actual royals for real (I'm not counting my
tumbling act in the lobby as an official introduction). They're just people, after all. How different can we be?

“I would like to review a bit of protocol before the prince and princesses arrive. Would that be acceptable?” Elise smiles her friendly smile, and now I can breathe in the chlorine-scented air no problem. This is going to be fine.

“First of all, should you have the opportunity to speak with the king and queen, you should address them by their formal title, Your Majesty. If you are introducing them to others, it is His Majesty the King Robert and Her Majesty the Queen Caroline of Somerstein. You should only shake their hands if they offer one first, and you should never initiate conversation with the king or queen unless he or she addresses you first.”

Oh great. How am I supposed to ask the queen about that exiting-a-limousine trick now?

Elise continues. “You will likely not have much occasion to interact with His and Her Majesty, so I shall skip ahead to the children. When introducing them, it is Her Royal Highness the Princess of Somerstein and His Royal Highness the Prince of Somerstein. To address them directly, it is Your Royal Highness. Are you able to follow?”

Dad and I both nod. What was I just saying about being all relaxed and thinking they were like me?

“You need only address them this way in your first exchange. Thereafter, please feel free to use ‘sir' or ‘madam' or Prince Alex, Princess Sophie, et cetera.”

Wait, so I'm supposed to call a nine-year-old “madam”? Weird. I guess getting “the Royal Treatment” is a real, actual thing. And something I better get used to giving pretty fast, because just then three kids appear in the pool area dressed only in bathing suits and fluffy robes. Immediately two bodyguards take up a post outside the doors. Looks like the pool just became a private party.

Without a glance in our direction, Alex (
make that
Prince
Alex, Prince Alex, don't forget the “Prince,” Chloe
) tosses his stuff over a lounge chair and does a sideways, legs-together fall into the deep end. Ingrid follows with a cannonball. Sophie carefully removes her robe and folds it neatly before placing it dead center in the middle of the chaise. She drapes a towel over the back of the chair and lines up her flip-flops underneath it. Only then does she move—or really she sashays—to the steps and enters the pool one dainty toe at a time.

A shrill whistle cuts the air. I whip my head around in time to see Elise remove two fingers from her mouth. Ingrid and Sophie exit the pool immediately and line up at attention. It's kind of creepy, like something out of
The Sound of Music
.
Alex does the backstroke over to the pool edge closest to us, flips right-side up, and hooks his elbows over the edge.

His hair is slicked back by the water. I know he's a boy in a bathing suit, so it makes total sense that he wouldn't have a shirt on, but it makes me kind of squirmy.

“Hello, Lisey,” he says.

With a way cute accent. He and Elise sound mostly British, but with a hint of something else I can't place.

Elise places both hands on her hips and stares him down until he swings his leg over the edge and uses his arms to hoist himself out. He shakes the water out of his hair like he's starring in a music video. Warning bells go off in my head. Uh-oh. Egotistical much?

Still, the grin he gives Elise makes my belly do this weird flipping thing, like it's trying out a cannonball too.

Elise pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“Children, you can get right back to your swim, but first I'd like you to meet Mr. and Miss Turner. They've put together a very thoughtful and educational itinerary for your visit.”

Dad bows his head. “A pleasure to meet you, Your Royal Highnesses. And actually the itinerary is all my daughter Chloe's doing. She's looking forward to showing off her hometown.”

Sophie inclines her head down slightly in acknowledgment, like she's the pope and Dad just asked to kiss her ring or something. Sheesh. Ingrid does a funny curtsy kind of thing that makes Alex tussle her hair. He smirks at me, and it seems like he's waiting for me to say something. Anything.

What I try to say is, “Pleased to meet you, Your Highness.” What I actually say is something more along the lines of, “Whfflsflshthakzc.”

Ingrid giggles. Sophie places a hand delicately over her mouth to hide her smile. Alex isn't so polite.

“Gesundheit,” he says with that cocky grin.

My face turns the color of the heat lamp in the sauna. Great. Just great. Apparently I'm an epic fail at meeting royals of any kind. I might as well just look for a concierge job at a roadside motel.

Elise steps in and rescues me, while Dad squeezes my shoulder. “You three may go back to your swim,” she says.

Alex gives a little salute and drops back into the water. Sophie nods politely and heads for her chair instead, where she stretches out with a book. Probably
Miss Manners' Book of Perfect Etiquette for All Occasions
.