thousand had been handed out in the Village at the start of the Games – slurring ‘Hey, hot stuff, wanna fuck?’ at her and Shameeka.
Shameeka had; Lori hadn’t. It was all too public for her. And halfway through, she had met Joachim, and his poise and sophistication, not to mention the fact that he was over a decade older than her, had made her contemporaries seem extremely young and callow.
‘I guess I’ll coach, back home,’ she said. ‘I’d love to work with young people.’
She took a careful sip of her Sea Breeze – she’d learned years ago to pace herself – and so missed the approving look Joachim was directing at her.
‘You like children,’ he commented, sounding very satisfied.
‘Oh yes!’ Lori said ingenuously. ‘Of course!’
Setting down her glass, she missed, too, the smirk that said that Joachim had successfully crossed the last item off his list of essential qualities in a queen-to-be . . .
A short time later, the press tour wrapped up as the ad campaign raced into newspapers, magazines and billboards in order to capitalize on Lori and Shameeka’s bronze medals. It was early October, and the girls were due to return to Miami, back to their routine and training schedule, when Joachim asked Lori to postpone going back home in favour of a visit to his homeland, Herzoslovakia. A small tax haven nestling between several other European countries, all much larger but not necessarily richer, Herzoslovakia had not been included in the press tour, as it had very few permanent residents. Its hordes of passport-holders were domiciled there instead, which allowed them to benefit from its very low tax rate while not having to live in a tiny little country year-round.
‘He’s really serious!’ Shameeka had whooped on hearing about Lori’s invitation. ‘He wants his mom to check you out to see if you’re marriage material! Which you totally are,’ she added fondly. ‘And you know, he’s
ready
.’
Ever since it had been clear how interested Joachim was in Lori, Shameeka had been combing the European gossip magazines and blogs for information about him: he was thirty-seven, an only son, King of Herzoslovakia since his father had died over twenty years ago. And he had a doting mother, the Dowager Queen, who was apparently pushing him hard to marry and produce the next generation of heirs to Herzoslovakia.
‘Whenever you say some guy’s “ready”,’ Lori observed dubiously, ‘you mean that they marry the next girl who comes along once they’ve decided to settle down. I don’t think that’s really romantic—’
‘The next girl they
fall for
, dipshit!’ Shameeka did a pretend-smack to Lori’s head. ‘Look, Joachim went to, like, every Olympic event there was going, and you’re the one he asked out! I asked around the Village and no other chick got even taken on one date by him! So he liked
you –
it wasn’t some weird multiple audition process! Just tell me I can come to the wedding and hook up with Prince Toby. I want a redheaded, freckled, corn-rowed royal baby . . .’
Lori had giggled, pretend-smacked Shameeka back, and made a huge effort to put her friend’s words out of her mind. OK, so Joachim was reaching the age when guys who’d held out up till now found their thoughts turning to marriage and kids: but they’d only met a couple of months ago, and even to entertain the thought was way too soon for a normal person, let alone for a guy who wasn’t just marrying a wife, but choosing a queen to help him govern his country.
No, she wasn’t even going to think about where this courtship might end up. She was going to visit Herzoslovakia, enjoy having Joachim show her around his home country, which sounded like the quaintest, prettiest, most charming little monarchy in the world, and then go home to Miami; the Duplex watch people had been very happy to change the date of her return ticket. She’d tell Shameeka all about the trip, soak up some much needed Florida
Shameeka had; Lori hadn’t. It was all too public for her. And halfway through, she had met Joachim, and his poise and sophistication, not to mention the fact that he was over a decade older than her, had made her contemporaries seem extremely young and callow.
‘I guess I’ll coach, back home,’ she said. ‘I’d love to work with young people.’
She took a careful sip of her Sea Breeze – she’d learned years ago to pace herself – and so missed the approving look Joachim was directing at her.
‘You like children,’ he commented, sounding very satisfied.
‘Oh yes!’ Lori said ingenuously. ‘Of course!’
Setting down her glass, she missed, too, the smirk that said that Joachim had successfully crossed the last item off his list of essential qualities in a queen-to-be . . .
A short time later, the press tour wrapped up as the ad campaign raced into newspapers, magazines and billboards in order to capitalize on Lori and Shameeka’s bronze medals. It was early October, and the girls were due to return to Miami, back to their routine and training schedule, when Joachim asked Lori to postpone going back home in favour of a visit to his homeland, Herzoslovakia. A small tax haven nestling between several other European countries, all much larger but not necessarily richer, Herzoslovakia had not been included in the press tour, as it had very few permanent residents. Its hordes of passport-holders were domiciled there instead, which allowed them to benefit from its very low tax rate while not having to live in a tiny little country year-round.
‘He’s really serious!’ Shameeka had whooped on hearing about Lori’s invitation. ‘He wants his mom to check you out to see if you’re marriage material! Which you totally are,’ she added fondly. ‘And you know, he’s
ready
.’
Ever since it had been clear how interested Joachim was in Lori, Shameeka had been combing the European gossip magazines and blogs for information about him: he was thirty-seven, an only son, King of Herzoslovakia since his father had died over twenty years ago. And he had a doting mother, the Dowager Queen, who was apparently pushing him hard to marry and produce the next generation of heirs to Herzoslovakia.
‘Whenever you say some guy’s “ready”,’ Lori observed dubiously, ‘you mean that they marry the next girl who comes along once they’ve decided to settle down. I don’t think that’s really romantic—’
‘The next girl they
fall for
, dipshit!’ Shameeka did a pretend-smack to Lori’s head. ‘Look, Joachim went to, like, every Olympic event there was going, and you’re the one he asked out! I asked around the Village and no other chick got even taken on one date by him! So he liked
you –
it wasn’t some weird multiple audition process! Just tell me I can come to the wedding and hook up with Prince Toby. I want a redheaded, freckled, corn-rowed royal baby . . .’
Lori had giggled, pretend-smacked Shameeka back, and made a huge effort to put her friend’s words out of her mind. OK, so Joachim was reaching the age when guys who’d held out up till now found their thoughts turning to marriage and kids: but they’d only met a couple of months ago, and even to entertain the thought was way too soon for a normal person, let alone for a guy who wasn’t just marrying a wife, but choosing a queen to help him govern his country.
No, she wasn’t even going to think about where this courtship might end up. She was going to visit Herzoslovakia, enjoy having Joachim show her around his home country, which sounded like the quaintest, prettiest, most charming little monarchy in the world, and then go home to Miami; the Duplex watch people had been very happy to change the date of her return ticket. She’d tell Shameeka all about the trip, soak up some much needed Florida
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