At Your Service (8 page)

Ingrid stays in place. “Do you have any Susan B. Anthony dollars?”

Huh? Dad has moved aside and is deep in conversation with Elise, so I guess Ingrid's talking to me. Okay, well this is a good thing. Of all the royals, she's the one I'm least likely to further humiliate myself with.

“Um, I don't think so. Do you like her or something?” I ask.

“No, silly. I collect coins. I try to get one of everything from every country we visit. I even have santimats from Morocco and baht from Thailand.”

“Oh, that's really cool. I can see about getting you a Susan B. Anthony dollar. Hey, if you like money, you know where we should go? The Federal Reserve on Wall Street. It's like a real-life Gringotts
^I
. Did you read any of the Harry Potter books?”

Ingrid nods her head enthusiastically. She's really cute. I glance at Dad and Elise, hoping Dad is noticing how well I'm handling myself now, but they're both bent over some pages spread out on one of the tables. Bummer.

“The one on Wall Street probably isn't guarded by dragons, though,” I say, but when I check to see how my joke went over with Ingrid, she's not there. Like totally gone, as
if she'd never been there to begin with. Weird. I jump up to make sure she isn't at the bottom of the pool. Nope. Only Alex swimming laps. But still, where is she? Um, should we be worried here?

“Uh, Elise?” I call. “I don't see Ingrid.”

She doesn't even glance up. “Don't worry. Ingrid's like a little Houdini with her disappearing acts. She's here somewhere. The bodyguards would let us know if she reached the door.”

Sure enough, when I glance back toward Sophie, there's Ingrid sitting in the chair next to her, like she'd been there the whole time. Had she? Great. Just what I need—the Incredible Invisible Girl.

She better not try to pull any disappearing acts on my watch.

I
. Most people don't know that the Federal Reserve has these vaults eighty feet below the bank that hold twenty-five percent of all the gold bars in the whole world. How cool is that? Dad had a guest once who worked there. I doubt he got to ride in carts with goblins, though.

T
he tramway dangles us in an enclosed glass box halfway across the East River. The Queensboro Bridge is so close beside us, it feels like I could reach out my window and touch it. Ingrid presses her face against the glass and makes an
oh
sound.

“Look how far down the water is,” she says with a happy squeal.

“I know, pretty cool, huh?” I look to Sophie for confirmation, but she just shrugs and says, “It's basically the same thing as the ski lifts in the Alps. Only this one doesn't take us to the top of a beautiful mountain. It just takes us . . . there.” Sophie points to the dingy apartment buildings and the run-down-looking pathways that line either side of the tramway station
on Roosevelt Island. “What do you have planned for us when we arrive anyway?”

I swallow. “Well, nothing really. I mean, I thought we'd just turn around and go back. There's not much on Roosevelt Island. There's an ice cream shop on Main Street, but, uh, I have us down to go to Serendipity Three when we leave here and that's got great desserts, so . . .”

“So we're not going somewhere right now?”

“Well, um, it's more of a ‘the journey is the destination' kind of thing. Because it's kind of neat to ride the tramway, and it has the best views of the skyline and, oh, it was in the Spider-Man movie. That's pretty cool, right, Your Highness?”

Sophie just smiles tightly. Totally fake. Alex is the one who answers. Of course, first he has to flip his hair for the hundredth time. “Ah yes. That scene where he has to rescue Mary Jane from the bridge. I thought this looked rather familiar.”

At least he recognizes it, but his tone doesn't sound overly enthusiastic. Crud. So far, nothing I've come up with has seemed to make anyone other than Ingrid happy, and I have the feeling I could plop her in front of a
Welcome to New York
video at the visitors' center and she'd be plenty content.

I know I'm doing this for work and all, but I usually have
so much fun sharing my city with our guests, and I thought it would be the same with the royals. Except Alex and Sophie definitely have a “been there, done that, bought the souvenir T-shirt” attitude about anything I try to show them. I guess you get jaded pretty quickly when your summer vacations include camel treks into the Sahara and scuba diving along the Great Barrier Reef.

“Um, here, why don't you guys squeeze together so I can get your picture?” I say.

I like to give my guests a little printed photo book when they check out, so they can remember all the fun they had in Manhattan. It's part of the patented Concierge Chloe package. While Ingrid's smile is genuine, Sophie's is plastic, and Alex's is all “I'm cute and I know it.”

At least I'm the only one snapping photos. None of the newspaper photographers who showed up to cover the initial arrival have made an appearance today, which I'm guessing means they're more interested in the king and queen than their kids.

So I don't get it. Except for Ingrid, why on earth do they look so bored?

At least Paisley is meeting us at Serendipity, and she gets along with everyone on earth, so maybe she can help
break the ice. We make the round-trip and get off the tram on the East Side, where the two matching bodyguards hop off first to clear a path through the nonexistent crowd. Oh, and when I say matching, I really do mean matching. Hans and Frans are identical twins and, in their coordinating black suits, you really couldn't pay me to tell you who is who. One of them (Frans?) crashes down the stairs and keeps anyone from ascending to the tramway platform while we file down the metal steps. Hans brings up the rear. He keeps looking around like ninja assassins are going to come swinging down from the rafters at any second. Guess no one told him New York actually has a super-low crime rate.
^I

Bill has the limo door open for us by the time we reach street level.

I'm still getting a little tongue-tied when I try to talk directly to Alex, so I look at Sophie as I say, “Your Majesties, if you'd like to ride, please feel free, though we're only going about half a block up Sixtieth.”

Ingrid grabs on to my hand and squeezes. Ha! At least someone likes me.

“We'll walk,” says Sophie. Then she takes off at a glide
ahead of me. Alex saunters along behind her like he owns the street (of course, back home, I think maybe he actually
does
own the roadways). I yank Ingrid along as we catch up and overtake them. I'm certain my weird speed walk looks nothing like Sophie's graceful swishing, but I'm too annoyed to care. Hans and Frans trail us at a respectful distance.

Ugh. This could be a long day.

I
. It's true. Really. Google it.

W
hen we reach Serendipity, Paisley is leaning against the iron-scroll fence next to the entrance. I'm super thrilled to see her, although, whereas I am dressed in another black business suit and short, patent-leather heels, Pay has on a pink Yankees hoodie, jeans, and canvas sneakers. Ergh. Does she not realize this is
royalty
we're spending the day with?

I motion Sophie and Ingrid to stop in front of Pay and wait for Alex to finish his casual stroll. Seriously. It's like he has a
MAKE WAY FOR A PRINCE
sign on his chest. I half expect the elephant parade Prince Ali Ababwa had to announce his arrival in
Aladdin
. Pay, to her credit, does not actually drool, though a helicopter could land in her open mouth. I step on her foot with my heel.

“Ow!” she yelps, and grabs her toes, hopping a little.

Ignoring her, I say, “Paisley, may I present His Royal Highness the Prince and Her Royal Highnesses the Princesses of Somerstein.”

Pay places her foot back on the ground and sticks out a hand. “Hey. I'm Paisley.”

I want to slap her forehead.
Hey? Really, Pay? Hey?

“Hello there. I'm Alex.” Alex pumps Pay's arm. “That's Sophie and Ingrid.” Both wave and smile genuine smiles.

Huh.

Well, whatever.

“There's a gazillion-year wait, like there is every Saturday,” Paisley says next.

“Not for us, there isn't,” I reply. I slide past the clusters of tourists jamming into the tiny front part of the restaurant, where they sell souvenirs and little gift-type stuff. In less than three minutes' time, the manager is setting up a prime table underneath the giant red Pegasus that hangs on the wall. I even take the liberty of ordering us each one of their signature frozen hot chocolates. Mission accomplished. I toss my suit jacket over a chair, then return to the sidewalk.

“All set.”

For once, Alex looks awkward. “Oh, not necessary. We can certainly wait our turn like everyone else.”

I raise both eyebrows. “But our table is ready. It's no problem.”

Alex kicks at a stick on the sidewalk. “No, really. We don't require any special treatment.”

I just stare at him. What's the deal? I thought he'd be impressed at how competent I am at my job and how well I'm taking care of him and his sisters. But he just puts both hands in the pockets of his khakis and rocks back on his heels. The self-satisfied smile creeps back as he examines me.

This time my stomach only feels like it has a stray jumping bean or two in it, instead of a bunch of kangaroos hopping around. It's amazing how someone can get less cute the more you get to know his personality. Granted, we're still pretty far from talking “ugly,” but if he keeps it up with the arrogant grins . . .

I wipe all traces of sarcasm from my voice to say, “Well, I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but the staff has cleared space for us and, besides, if we don't eat now, we won't have time for everything on the itinerary.”

Alex doesn't say anything; he just ducks through the
doorway. Our group pushes past the waiting crowd and settles into our seats.

Once we're sitting down with our frozen hot chocolates in front of us, Sophie spreads her napkin delicately across her lap. I can't imagine why she's bothering. It's not like
she
could possibly ever spill anything.

Immediately Pay begins harassing the three kids with all kinds of questions about their castle back home.

“Really, Pay, I don't think they want to talk about that,” I say. As much as I wanted her here—and even Dad thought adding another kid to the mix could make it more fun for the royals—I'm starting to wonder if inviting her was the best idea. She's not exactly treating them like the royalty they are.

“Why ever not?” asks Alex, leaning back in his seat and sticking his long legs off to the side. “Quid pro quo,
Pay
.”

“Quid pro what?” asks Paisley.

“Do you not have to take Latin in school, then? Shame that. It means I shall tell you something if you tell me something back.”

“Oh, cool,” she says. “Okay, first question. What does your bedroom look like?”

My jaw drops. Alex purses his lips together to keep from laughing, and Pay punches him on the leg for it.

Actually punches the Crown Prince of Somerstein.

I am
so
dead.

“I want to know if you have posters on the walls and dirty clothes all over the floor or if you have one of those, like, canopy-bed things that close off with velvet curtains.”

I can't
believe
she's talking about dirty clothes to ROYALTY, but Alex just laughs. “You watch far too many movies. I do not have anything on the floor, but only because I have a personal valet who picks up my socks wherever I drop them. It's a bang-up perk.”

I think of the housekeeping staff at the St. Michèle. Yeah, I have to agree with him there.

“And I have framed football jerseys on my wall. Or soccer, as you insist upon calling it here,” Alex says.

“Cool. Any from Manchester United?” asks Pay.

Alex leans forward and rests his elbows on the table right next to her. “
You
know Man U?”

Okay, so I mean, I'm definitely not jealous because:

A. Even though he has surfer hair and navy-like-a-night-sky eyes and an accent that could melt butter, he's also totally arrogant and annoying, so it's not like I'm even interested.

B. If I
were
interested, I would still not be interested, because ruining my reputation as the city's top (okay, well, maybe only—but I
would
be top if I had actual competition) junior concierge over a guy who seems totally conceited would never be worth it. Even if he is a prince.

C. I really need to find a C one of these days.

I decide to distract myself with someone other than the Prince of Ego, but when I look around, my frozen hot chocolate turns to paste in my mouth.

“Hey, where's Princess Ingrid?”

A
lex and Sophie barely look up from their chocolaty goodness, and even Pay blinks a few times, as if she forgot she was sitting at a wrought-iron table in Midtown. Frans and Hans point in unison under the table. Oh. Phew. When I duck my head under, I find Ingrid there, cross-legged and taking items out of her backpack.

“What're you doing under here?” I ask in my sweetest “I'm not at all annoyed” voice.

“Was rather bored.”

I kind of love the way they all speak so formally. I'll bet they have an actual governess to tutor them. Ingrid has a few Barbies spread out on top of a slew of leaflets advertising
Wicked
on Broadway and double-decker-bus tours, along with maps of the city and subway. I recognize them all from the brochure case in the lobby of the St. Michèle. She's using them to form a runway for the dolls.