Romancing the Throne

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  “See you tomorrow?” he asks.

  “You know it.”

  We exchange a quick kiss and then Edward leaves, sneaking back down the hallway.

  I pace outside the master’s office, my black heels making little scuff marks on the shiny marble floor. I wonder what’s taking them so long. They’ve been in there for an hour.

  Behind the large oak doors, Libby and my mother are having a meeting with Master Kent, discussing the details of Libby’s transfer from Greene House. It’s been just over a week since Libby called me.

  I figured the meeting with the master would be a quick formality and offered to go along and wait outside. But after pacing the halls of the administration building hundreds of times waiting for them to come out, I’m beginning to regret my decision.

  I slump in an uncomfortable leather-and-wood chair across from the door, pulling my pleated skirt down as I open Viewty on my phone. I scroll through the looks, hearting my favorite nail art and bookmarking a cool braids tutorial I want to try myself later. Once I’ve tapped out the latest looks on my feed, I open Instagram and start scrolling.

  Flossie’s posted a selfie holding her field hockey stick in front of a mirror. I like the photo, hoping she’s not still upset that Edward picked me over her. India’s assured me that she’ll get over it.

  India’s most recent picture aims down at her boots on the grass, her arm bangles and rings visible as she holds a Starbucks iced coffee. I make a mental note of the rings she’s wearing; I’ll have to pick some up like that.

  Georgie rarely posts on Instagram, preferring Snapchat, but I see that she’s posted a photo of Oliver by the Oaks. I wonder what that means. Are they hanging out now?

  I’ve been so preoccupied with Libby’s arrival that it’s been a full day since I’ve posted anything. I scroll through my photo album, looking for an appropriate photo.

  I could post one of me in the dining hall—David grabbed my phone and snapped it as I stuffed my cheeks with bread rolls while the group died with laughter—but I look like I have seven chins. Nope. Everybody knows you post unflattering or self-deprecating photos of yourself only if they’re at least semi-cute.

  I wish I had just one photo of me and Eds. I get his privacy thing, I guess—but I still think he’s being a little paranoid. Obviously I’d never post anything of him, and I sincerely doubt the press is going to be hacking into student phones.

  Still, it’s a good reminder that dating a royal isn’t the same as dating a normal guy. There are actual rules—not just silly made-up ones like Nana believes in.

  I rub my temples, feeling both emotionally and physically exhausted. Mum and Libby arrived on campus at eight a.m., and I’m absolutely shattered. What I wouldn’t give for a venti latte right now.

  The door opens and I look up, startled. Mum and Libby come out, both looking pleased.

  I stand up. “How’d it go?”

  Mum answers. “Good. We’re all sorted. She’s enrolled; we have her dormitory assignment; the master made sure she was in all the right classes. It’s going to be great.”

  “Libby?”

  She nods, a wide grin from ear to ear. “All sorted!”

  “Yay!”

  Mum pats her on the back. “Honey, didn’t you say you needed to use the lavatory? Why don’t Charlotte and I wait for you outside?”

  As Libby walks away, Mum and I watch her go. It’s only when she’s exited through the heavy wooden doors that Mum whips back around.

  “Did you know all that nonsense was going on at Greene House?”

  I blink, surprised by the irritation in Mum’s voice. “Um, yeah . . .”

  “Charlotte, you can’t imagine the nightmare this has been. It’s cost your father and me a lot of money.”

  I frown. “Is that all? Money?”

  “No, of course that’s not all. Money is no object when it comes to you girls. But it infuriates me to think she was heading back to that horrible school and nobody knew. It could have ruined her chances at getting into St. Andrews.”

  We exit under the portico onto the wide green lawn. It’s sunny but cold—a typical early autumn day in Sussex.

  Mum shakes her head. “How did I miss this?”

  “You’ve been busy with Soles, and you’ve been traveling nonstop the past few weeks. Plus, it was summer.” I shrug. “It doesn’t mean you’re a terrible mother or anything. You were distracted.”

  Mum sighs. “You’ll take her under your wing, won’t you? Show her the ropes.”

  “Of course I will. You don’t even need to say it.”

  “They’ve put her in your dormitory. She’ll be one floor above you.”

  “Please stop worrying. I have it covered. My friends here are super nice,” I say. “Libby will be with me; I’ll make sure she fits in and makes friends, and everything will be just fine.”

  “Thank you, honey. It’s always been easier for you socially. Poor Libby.” She crosses and uncrosses her arms anxiously. “Speaking of your friends, how is everything going”—she lowers her voice—“with Edward?”

  I brighten up. “Amazing. He’s the best.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. Everything’s going great. I couldn’t be happier. I’m pinching myself daily.”

  “Good. You’ll let me know if you have any problems, won’t you?”

  “Problems? Like what?”

  “I don’t know—maybe he’ll pressure you to do something you’re not quite ready for—”

  I roll my eyes. “Or maybe I’ll pressure him to do something he’s not ready for.”

  Mum sighs. “Sure. That, too.” My mother is progressive enough, as far as parents go, but when certain issues, like sex, come up, I’m reminded of how differently our generations see things. At least she’s light-years ahead of Nana.

  Libby exits the building, walking over to the imposing oak tree Mum and I are standing underneath. “I always found this place gorgeous.”

  “Greene House was pretty, too.”

  “Yeah, but not like this. It’s like a catalog.”

  “What time is your first class?” I ask.

  She pulls a piece of paper out of the blue Sussex Park folder she’s been clutching like a security blanket. “I’ve already missed my first class for today. I have a two-hour free period and then lunch. My next class is this afternoon.”

  “Perfect. You’re coming with me,” I say, tugging on the hem of her floral maxi dress. She follows me up the hill toward Colvin. “We’ll get you into your uniform, have lunch, and then I’ll walk you to class.”

  “What about your classes?” she asks. “Don’t you have things planned for today?”

  “Who cares? My French seminar will survive without me for one day. You’re much more important.”

  “Aww, thanks, Lots.”

  “Her bags?” Mum asks.

  “Right. Where’s the car?”

  Mum points to the car park behind the administration building.

  “How many bags have you got, Libs?”

  “One.”

  “One bag? Of course you do. Well, that makes it easy. Mum, you know where Colvin is, right?”

  “Yep.” She starts walking toward the car at a brisk pace, calling over her shoulder. “Room thirty-eight, right? I’ll meet you girls there in ten minutes!”

  Libby and I turn and walk up the quad. First period is still in session, so campus is quiet, the few students not at class tucked in their dorms studying or sleeping. She looks impressed by the columned brick building as we approach Colvin. “This is where you live?”

  “This is where we live. Pretty, right?”

  Colvin is on the far end of campus, nestled at the edge of a field of lush oaks and perfectly situated for privacy. The ivy-covered brick and wide, columned entryway make it look like a beautiful manor. With the exception of the library and main hall, it’s by far the prettiest building on campus.

  She nods. “It’s gorgeous. Sussex Park is much grander than Green
e House. It’s like a university campus.”

  “You’re going to love it. I know you miss your friends, but everybody here is friendly, I promise.” I hold the front door open for Libby and then lead her left down the hall toward the sterile ground-floor sitting room. “This is the Colvin common room. It’s pretty much open all the time, although you can only watch the telly from five p.m. until ten p.m. Good luck getting a seat on the sofa Friday nights when Gogglebox is on; it’s always packed. Boys are allowed as long as the door stays open and three feet are on the floor at all times.”

  “Three feet?”

  “Two of yours and one of his,” I explain, shrugging. “Or vice versa. It’s one of those dumb rules nobody questions and everybody ignores. And use the microwave at your own risk: it hasn’t been cleaned since the nineties.”

  I lead us out of the common room, back down the hall, and then up the stairs. “Which room are you in again?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “Want to see my room?” We stop on the second floor, where I push my door open. “Voilà.”

  “You leave your door open?” she asks.

  “Yes—and you should, too. People who close their doors all the time are weird.”

  “But what if somebody steals your stuff?”

  “Nobody’s going to steal your stuff!”

  “Yeah, but how do you know?”

  “Oh my God, I just do, okay?”

  I look around my room, feeling proud. I might not be able to cook to save my life, but I pride myself on my eye for design. Libby thinks it’s ironic that I’m into do-it-yourself design, since my tastes are way more expensive than hers, but I love the feeling of taking chaos and clutter and creating something beautiful. I’ve downloaded a few new DIY apps recently and got inspiration for both a lampshade and a photo collage that I want to make soon.

  “It looks fantastic! You’re so talented, Charlotte.” Libby keeps trying to push me into doing design professionally, but I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I still have years to worry about things like a career.

  I put my hand on Libby’s back and gently usher her up another flight of stairs and down the hall toward her room. The inside of Colvin is just as majestic as the outside—wide hallways, vaulted ceilings, a marble floor covered with an expensive though ancient navy carpet—but the cluttered walls make it clear that teenagers live here. They’re covered in tacked-up notices, drawings, sport flyers, wrinkled sheets of paper with emergency phone numbers and email addresses, and lists of rules and regulations long ago faded yellow. Room thirty-eight is the last one at the end of the hall: it’s cold and empty. I wonder who used to live here and then remember: it was Indira Bhatti, the Bollywood teen pop star. She left school unexpectedly in the first week because of a TV show in Mumbai. Rumor is she’s being homeschooled.

  There’s a stripped single bed, empty shelves, and a view of the quad in the distance.

  “It needs a little bit of love,” I say. The bed lets out a loud squeak when I sit on it.

  She settles next to me on the bed. We sit in silence for a few moments, and I realize that Libby is doing that thing where she retreats inside herself. It’s been her way of coping with stress since we were little. She starts chewing on her cuticle, and I reach over and gently swat her hand away from her mouth.

  “You’re going to do great, Libs,” I say, knocking her foot gently with my own. “I’ve got your back.”

  “Thanks, Lotte. Do you think this was a mistake?”

  “It was not a mistake,” I say firmly. “I know it’s scary, but it’s a good change. We’re together the way we always should have been.”

  She smiles, leaning her head on my shoulder. “I agree. Thank God you didn’t follow me to Greene House, otherwise we’d both be up the river.”

  “See?” I joke. “You should always just do exactly what I do.”

  My phone vibrates: it’s a text from Edward. I hold the phone up so Libby can see it. “I still can’t get over it,” I confess to her. “Me and Prince Edward. Beyond, right?”

  “Completely beyond. How are things going with him?”

  “Good. He lives across campus, in one of the senior boy dorms. Stuart Hall.”

  “No complaints so far?”

  “Mmm, not really.”

  “Not really, or none?”

  “I mean, maybe just one. He’s private. Like, really private.”

  Libby looks at me blankly, as if she’s waiting for me to continue. When I don’t, she says, “That’s all?”

  “Yeah . . . why?”

  “What were you expecting, Lotte?” she asks, laughing. “Did you think he’d start Snapchatting your dates?”

  “Ha.”

  “Instagramming your meals? Live-tweeting your jokes during Strictly Come Dancing?”

  “You’re hilarious. Keep it up.”

  “Okay, so other than the famously private guy you’re dating not taking out a full-page ad in the Guardian about the two of you, how is everything else going?”

  “Well, Ms. Smart-Arse, I’ll have you know we eat all our meals together every day, and he comes over after dinner every night. Last night, he was here until almost one in the morning.”

  Libby’s eyebrows widen. “One in the morning?”

  “Yup.”

  “Are boys allowed in the rooms? And don’t you have bed check?”

  “We’re supposed to, but our head of residence is about ninety years old and has been here for decades. She did one official bed check the first day of school, but that’s it. She hasn’t seen the inside of my room once. And no, boys aren’t allowed in.”

  “What about the head of house?”

  “Arabella? She doesn’t care. She only took the job to get a better room.”

  “That’s surprising. My residence head at Greene House knocks on each door one by one every night and talks to every girl.”

  “Kind of pointless, when you consider that it’s an all-girls school—and no more talking about Greene House!”

  “Ugh, sorry, bad habit. What was Edward doing here at one in the morning?”

  “What do you think? We weren’t talking.”

  “Charlotte! Are you sleeping with him?”

  “No, no, no. Nothing like that. I mean, something like that, but . . . we just snog. Fool around a little bit. He’s barely seen me with my shirt off.”

  “Are you going to sleep with him?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “How old is he?” she asks.

  “Seventeen. Eighteen in the spring. His birthday’s the week before yours, actually.” Unlike most students in her year, Libby is already eighteen. My dad was transferred by BP to Germany for a year when I was two and Libby was four. When we returned, my parents decided to hold her back a year in school.

  She nods. “Be careful. We had three pregnancies at Greene House last year.”

  “At Greene House? Who were they sleeping with?”

  “Campbell Hall was down the road. All boys. Maybe you should go on the pill,” she says. “Or an IUD—just in case.”

  “In case I’m so overwhelmed by princely passion that I simply can’t bear it, throw him to the ground, and spontaneously have my way with him?”

  She giggles. “Something like that. Plus it’ll help regulate your periods. Win-win.”

  “Maybe you’re right. I can get some at the infirmary here.”

  “Would they have to call Mum and Dad?” she asks, looking alarmed.

  “Shit. I didn’t think of that. I don’t know. I’ll have to ask around.” I pause. “But wouldn’t that be crazy? To lose my virginity to Prince Edward? Do you think there’s a big fanfare when he has an orgasm? Duh-duh-duhhh! Presenting . . . the royal load!”

  She clasps her hands over her mouth, pulling a disgusted face even as she laughs. “Too much! You’re so gross!”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be the big sister?”

  We giggle.

  After a few seconds, she says, “Just don�
��t sleep with him only because he’s a prince, okay? And definitely don’t sleep with him without protection.”

  “Libby, come on. Cut me a little bit of slack. I’m not an idiot.”

  Of course I’ve wondered what it would be like to lose my virginity to Edward, but I’m not ready yet. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, but I imagine I’ll know it when I feel it.

  Mum pushes the door open. “Here we go!” She rolls Libby’s suitcase into the room. “Isn’t this cozy! You’ll be able to decorate this room nicely, Libby.”

  Libby and I shoot each other panicked looks. Judging by Mum’s cheery manner, she didn’t hear us talking about sex. Now that would be awkward.

  “Thanks, Mum,” I say, standing up and giving her a hug. “We’ll call you later tonight. Have a great drive home, okay?”

  Her face falls, but she quickly smiles. “I guess I should leave you be.”

  Libby stands up, giving Mum a bear hug. They embrace for several seconds. I pull my phone out of my bag, glancing at the time. We have at least two hours before lunch—plenty of time for me to work some magic on my sister.

  Finally, Mum pulls away. She’s still clutching the sleeve of Libby’s favorite olive-green army jacket—she’s had it for so long, I’m half expecting the damn thing to grow legs and start walking around on its own. “Call me, day or night—if either of you needs me, okay?”

  “We’ll be fine, Mummy! Love you!”

  “Love you, Mum,” Libby says.

  After a few more pained glances, Mum leaves, her heels making muffled clicks on the hardwood floor as she walks down the hallway.

  Libby plops back down on the bed. “What’s next?”

  I’m already unzipping Libby’s suitcase, throwing clothes onto the bed next to her.

  “You’re going to wrinkle everything!”

  “You really care if this gets wrinkled?” I ask, holding up a frayed flannel shirt. “No offense, Libby, but most of your clothes are a disaster.” Her face falls, which makes me feel horrible. “I mean, you look super cute right now, of course,” I say, rushing to soothe any hurt feelings.

  The girls at Greene House didn’t have to wear uniforms. Libby’s always been more relaxed and bohemian in her clothing choices: she wears lots of long, flowy dresses and pairs her oversized army jacket and combat boots with just about everything. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in a pair of high heels. She’s kind of like an absentminded professor—too focused on her studies to worry about silly stuff like fashion.