Meg Cabot - Third Time Lucky

is one dead fashion designer.

Looking at it objectively, I think I can safely say I'd prefer to have been murdered. I mean, I'd be dead and all, which would

be sad - especially since I still haven't written down those instructions for caring for Fat Louie while I'm gone — but at least I wouldn't have to show up for school on Monday. But now, not only do I have to show up for school on Monday, but I have

to show up for school on Monday knowing that every single one of my fellow classmates is going to have seen the supplement that arrived in the Sunday Times: the supplement featuring about twenty photos of ME standing in front of a triple mirror in dresses by Sebastiano, with the words Fashion Fit for a Princess emblazoned all over the place.

Oh, yes. I'm not kidding. Fashion Fit for a Princess. I can't really blame him, I guess. Sebastiano, I mean. I suppose the opportunity was too much for him to resist. He is, after all, a businessman, and having a princess model your clothes . . . well, you can't buy exposure like that.

Because you know all the other papers are going to pick up on the story. You know, Princess of Genovia Makes Modelling Debut. That kind of thing.

So with just one little photo spread, Sebastiano is going to get virtually worldwide coverage of his new clothing line. A clothing line that it looks like I have endorsed. Grandmere doesn't understand why my dad and I are so upset. Well, I think she gets why my dad is upset. You know, the whole 'my daughter is being used' thing. She just doesn't get why I'm so unhappy.

'You look perfectly beautiful,' she keeps saying. Yeah. Like that helps.

Grandmere thinks I am overreacting. But hello, have I ever aspired to tread in Claudia Schiffer's footsteps? I don't think so. Fashion is so not what I'm about. What about the environment? What about the rights of animals? What about the HORSESHOE CRABS??????

People are not going to believe I didn't pose for those photos. People are going to think I am a sellout. People are going to think I am a stuck-up model snob.

I would so rather that they think I am a juvenile delinquent, I can't tell you.

Little did I know when I heard the front door to the Moscovitzes' apartment opening, and I hustled out of Michael's room, that I was about to be greeted by the disastrous news. It was only Lilly's parents, after all, coming home from the gym where they'd met with their personal trainers. Afterwards, they'd stopped to have latte and read the Sunday paper, large sections of which arrive, for reasons no one understands, on Saturday, if you have a subscription. What a surprise they had when they opened

up the paper and saw the Princess of Genovia hawking this hot new fashion designer's spring collection.

What a surprise I had when the Drs Moscovitz congratulated me on my new modelling career, and I was all, 'What are you talking about?'

So, while Lilly and Boris looked on curiously, Dr. Moscovitz opened her paper and showed me:

And there it was, in all of its four-colour-layout glory.

I'm not going to lie and say I looked bad. I looked OK. What they had done was, they had taken all the photos Sebastiano's assistant had snapped of me trying to decide which dress to wear to my introduction to the people of Genovia, and laid them all out on this purple background. I'm not smiling in the pictures or anything. I'm just looking at myself in the mirror, clearly going, in my head, Ew, could I look more like a walking toothpick?

But of course, if you didn't know me and didn't know WHY I was trying on all these dresses, I'd seem like some freak who cares WAY too much about how she looks in a party dress.

Which is exactly the kind of person I've always wanted to be portrayed as.

NOT!!!!!!!

I can't figure out what Sebastiano was thinking. I mean, I have to admit, I am a little hurt. I'd thought, when he'd asked me all those questions about Michael, that he and I had kind of made a connection. But I guess not. Not if he could do something like this.

My dad has already called the Times and demanded that they remove the supplement from all the papers that haven't been delivered yet. He has called the concierge of the Plaza and insisted on Sebastiano being listed as persona non grata, which means the cousin to the Prince of Genovia won't be allowed to set foot on hotel property.

I thought this was a little harsh, but not as harsh as what my dad wanted to do, which was call the NYPD and press charges against Sebastiano for using the likeness of a minor without the authority of her parents. Thank God Grandmere talked him

out of that. She said there'd be enough publicity about this without the added humiliation of a royal arrest.

My dad is still so mad he can't sit still. He is pacing back and forth across the suite. Rommel is watching him very nervously from Grandmere's lap, his head moving back and forth, back and forth, as his eyes follow my dad, as if he were watching the US Open.

I bet if Sebastiano were here, my dad would smash up a lot more than just his mobile phone.

Saturday, December 12, 5 p.m., the Loft

Well.

All I can say is, Grandmere's really done it this time.

I'm serious. I don't think my dad is ever going to speak to her again.

And I know I never will.

OK, she's an old lady and she didn't know what she was doing was wrong, and I should really be more understanding.

But for her to do this — for her not even to take into consideration my feelings - I frankly don't think I will ever be able to forgive her.

What happened was, Sebastiano called right before I was getting ready to leave the hotel. He was completely perplexed

about why my dad is so mad at him. He tried to come upstairs to see us, he said, but Plaza security stopped him.

When my dad, who'd answered the phone, told Sebastiano that the reason Plaza security stopped him was because he'd

been PNG'd, and then explained why, Sebastiano was even more upset. He kept going, 'But I had your permish! I had your permish, Philippe!'

'My permission to use my daughter's image to promote your awful rags?' My father was disgusted. 'You most certainly did not!'

But Sebastiano kept insisting he had.

And little by little, it came out that he had had permission, in a way. Only not from me. And not my dad, either. Guess who, it appears, gave it to him?

Grandmere went, all indignantly, 'I only did it, Philippe, because Amelia, as you know, suffers from a terrible self-image and needed a boost.'

But my dad was so enraged he wouldn't even listen to her.

He just thundered, 'And so to repair her self-image you went behind her back and gave permission for her photos to be used

in an advertisement for women's clothing?'

Grandmere didn't have much to say after that. She just stood there going, 'Uhn . . . uhn . . . uhn . . .' like someone in a horror movie who'd been pinned to a wall with a machete but wasn't quite dead yet (I always close my eyes during parts like this, so

I know exactly what it sounds like). It became clear that even if Grandmere had had a reasonable excuse for her behaviour,

my father wasn't going to listen to it - or let me listen to it, either. He stalked over to me, grabbed my arm and marched me

right out of the suite. I thought we were going to have a bonding moment like fathers and daughters always do on TV, where he'd tell me that Grandmere was a very sick woman and that he was going to send her somewhere where she could take a

nice long rest, but instead all he said was, 'Go home.'

Then he handed me over to Lars - after slamming the door to Grandmere's suite VERY loudly behind him - and stormed off