Free His Royal Secret by C. T. Sloan Page A

assignments. It appears that three of us will be assigned exclusively to the needs of the Prince. Oh please, let me off the hook. I don’t want to deal with this guest.
     
    “I want a 24-hour dedicated concierge for the Prince. Robert, you have the night shift 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. Mira, you take the 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. shift.” I exhale deeply. Two positions are assigned and my name hasn’t been mentioned yet. There are still four of us left. That leaves me with a 25% chance to escape the “Royal Assignment.” The manager looks at the four of us and then he says, “Amy, you will be assigned to Prince Julian from 3:00-11:00 p.m.”
     
    Oh great. Lucky me. I mentally begin to list places where I will have to send my resume after I am fired. The manager pulls the “lucky” three of us aside and begin to lay down the law. “Alright. Here are the ground rules. Do not look the Prince in the eye. Only address him when he addresses you. You never, ever tell the Prince that you can not fulfill his demands. And most importantly, you are not to divulge anything about the Prince’s activities to the media. Now, I know some employees feed celebrity gossip to the media for extra cash. If I find out any of you have done that, I will not only fire you, I will personally make sure you never get another hotel job in LA.”
     
    Boy, that’s a really fun way to end a meeting. I go back to my desk and continue my duties as usual. As the clock ticks towards 3:00 p.m., I feel my heart pounding against my chest. It’s almost like I am awaiting my execution.
     
    When 2:00 p.m. rolls around, a full-fledged panic attack sweeps over me. Part of me just wants to flee the hotel. I just know that I am going to be fired by the end of the day. The front desk phone rings. I pick it up.
     
    “Beverly Hills Hotel. How may I help you?” I say.
     
    “The Prince is en route from LAX. He will be at the hotel in 20 minutes,” the voice on the other end of the line announces.
     
    I panic. The Prince is 45 minutes early. Are the rooms ready?! Is the staff prepared?! While the inside of my body is exploding in a panic, I maintain a calm, professional voice and respond to the caller, “Very good. Is there anything His Royal Highness requires upon his arrival?”
     
    “The Prince would like to have a bottle of 1998 Petrus Pomerol chilled and waiting for him.”
     
    “Very good. Consider it done.”
     
    “Excellent,” the voice says as he hangs up.
     
    Oh fuck! Oh fuck! I start making panic stricken calls to house-keeping, the valets, the hotel restaurants and the manager. I inform all of them that the Prince will be 45 minutes early. Then I call our in-house wine sommelier.
     
    “Hello Jacob. Prince Julian will be arriving in 15 minutes and he would like a bottle of 1998 Petrus Pomerol in his room.”
     
    “We don’t have a 1998 bottle of Petrus Pomerol.”
     
    “Oh no,” I say softly.
     
    “That’s about the hardest bottle of merlot to find. There are perhaps less than five bottles of 1998 Petrus in the entire city.”
     
    “Then I am going to find all five of them!” I scream as I slam down the phone.
     
    I immediately call the Ivy, The Grill, Spago, Sparetta. Heck, I call Trader Vics for good measure. After five minutes of pure panic, I get a hit.
     
    “We have a bottle of ‘98 Petrus Pomerol.”
     
    “Get it over here now!” I slam the phone down and begin to coordinate the Hotel for the Prince’s arrival. Everyone is buzzing around the place as though it were an air raid. The scariest thing is, I am pretty much in charge and I have only been with the hotel for less than a year!
     
    The Prince should be here in five minutes and I still don’t see the bottle of Merlot. This is not good. I call the guy who promised that he was bringing the bottle over. “I’m three blocks away and I’m stuck in traffic,” he tells me.
     
    “Run the red lights! We’ll take care of the tickets and traffic court!” I