Romancing the Throne

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  He nods. “Yeah.” He changes the subject. “So, how mad are you going to be at me if I didn’t buy you that bracelet you kept hinting about?”

  I’m disappointed—not about the bracelet, which I couldn’t care less about, but about Edward being so tight-lipped with me. Now I feel ten times worse than I did two minutes ago.

  “Whatever you get me will be perfect,” I say, with a brightness I don’t really feel.

  After the barn has filled to capacity, hobbits partying alongside scuba divers alongside samurai, the lights go down. Flossie appears, holding a cake with seventeen flickering candles. Everybody sings “Happy Birthday” to me, and I plaster a smile on my face, blowing out the candles as everybody claps.

  “Thank you for coming—I love you all!” I say. “Now have some cake!”

  “Yum!” Libby says, tucking into her piece. She’s reappeared after her mysterious errand. “Did you make this, Flossie? It’s delicious.”

  She snorts. “Hardly. I ordered it.”

  I turn toward Libby. “Do you remember when you made that strawberry short—” I stop when I see that she and Edward have their heads together, whispering about something. He’s nodding enthusiastically.

  She catches me looking at her and clams up.

  “What’s that?” I ask them suspiciously.

  “Nothing,” Edward says, looking amused.

  I definitely woke up on the wrong side of the bed today, because suddenly the sight of my boyfriend and my sister with their heads together irritates me beyond belief.

  “I’m going to the loo,” I say to nobody in particular, walking away.

  I walk out of the barn and head inside Flossie’s house to the powder room on the first floor. It’s a grand bathroom: the sort self-consciously designed to impress visitors. Inside, I stare at my reflection in the gilt-edged mirror, the low light flickering around the corners of my face.

  Why were Libby and Edward whispering together like that?

  He and I haven’t spent any significant time together in weeks. Meanwhile, he and Libby are now regular study partners. As soon as he started hanging out with her, he stopped hanging out with me. Are they more than friends? Is that why he was confiding in her? Was Flossie right?

  Or am I just being paranoid?

  I fix my wig, use my pinkie fingers to smooth out the eyeliner under my eyes, and blot my T-zone with a piece of tissue before heading back into the barn.

  India is still lounging on a bale of hay, drinking a martini from a real glass, her wig slightly askew. As I start to make my way over, I’m stopped by Robert, the prefect from Stuart Hall.

  “Happy birthday,” he says, stepping forward to give me a hug. We embrace awkwardly, his Sonny Bono wig caught in my lip gloss.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Occupational hazard. I’m a wig killer tonight.” I reach up to straighten his wig. “There. Much better.”

  “Have you had a good birthday so far?”

  “Not bad. How are you doing?”

  “Better now.” He smiles at me, little dimples visible in his cheeks, and then looks around. “Where are all your friends? No crowd of admirers?”

  I frown. Suddenly, I feel like being honest. “I don’t know. I’m having an awful day.”

  He looks genuinely sorry. “Can I help?”

  “You can help me find my bloody sister and my bloody boyfriend. They seem to have snuck off. Again.” Robert raises an eyebrow, and I realize I might be a little tipsy.

  “Again?”

  “I’m probably just imagining it,” I say, shrugging as I look around the crowded barn. One of Grandmother Nana’s mantras is something she claims Elizabeth Taylor said: Never complain, never explain. “Sorry, I’m just in a funk.” A waiter walks by with a tray of wine and I pluck a cup off it, downing it.

  I need to be alone.

  “See you later?” I say to Robert.

  “Absolutely.” He holds up his glass, clinking it with my almost-empty wine cup. “To you. Here’s hoping this year makes all your dreams come true.”

  “You are so sweet,” I say. “I needed that tonight. Thank you.” I stand on my tiptoes, leaning up to give him a kiss on the cheek. He blushes.

  I snake through the throng of laughing students to the fields surrounding Flossie’s house. With each step I take away from the barn and the flickering heat lamps, it gets colder and colder. I’m shivering by the fields, trying to clear my head, when Flossie and Tarquin appear.

  “How are you?” Flossie asks. She’s thrown an old jacket over her Poison Ivy costume.

  “Fine,” I say morosely.

  “You don’t seem fine,” Tarquin says, holding a beer as he gives me the once-over. “You should probably drink more.”

  Flossie reaches over and wipes something off my cheek. “Is it Libby and Edward?”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “Look, I know everybody’s drinking tonight—but I just want you to know that I think it’s rude,” Flossie says. “Especially since you’ve done so much for Libby since she arrived. You’ve gone out of your way for her.”

  “What’s rude?”

  I want my suspicions confirmed.

  I want proof that I’m not crazy.

  Flossie and Tarquin look at each other.

  “It may have been my imagination,” Flossie says, verbally backtracking.

  “Is something going on between them?”

  Suddenly, she’s coy.

  “You assume when you see things,” Flossie says, “but maybe that’s all it is. Assumption.”

  I look at Tarquin.

  He shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “Damned if I know.”

  I turn and look back into the barn, where Libby and Edward are now sitting on a bale of hay, their heads together as they talk to each other. Their body language is intimate, unmistakable. Libby seems happier and more confident than I’ve ever seen her.

  “Give me that,” I say, grabbing the cigarette out of Flossie’s hand and taking a long drag. I hand it back to her grimly. “Thanks. Do you mind? I need a moment.”

  “You okay?” Flossie asks.

  “Yeah. Just had a little too much to drink.”

  I’m out there facing the field, my arms crossed around my body as much for warmth as for emotional protection, for what feels like hours. I hear Libby’s voice behind me.

  “It’s freezing out here!”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Wait. Are you okay?”

  I shrug, my back still to her.

  “Charlotte? Are you okay?” It takes me several seconds to turn around.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “What’s going on?” she says, looking concerned. She has a small, wrapped present in her hand. “Can I help?”

  “Yeah, by backing off.”

  Libby steps back. “I . . . I’m confused. You’re not angry with me, are you?”

  “Oh, is it that obvious?”

  She puts her arm around my shoulders, partly as a gesture of affection and partly to stop me from dying of hypothermia. “Come on, Lotte. Let’s go back inside and talk. You’re going to catch a cold. I have a little surprise for you.”

  “I don’t want to go inside, and I don’t want any surprises.” I pause, gathering my courage. Finally, I say it. “I want you to stop talking to Edward.”

  “Huh? I thought you wanted us to be friends.”

  “Yeah—but only friends.”

  “Okay, now I’m seriously confused.”

  “Please. I have eyes.” The wine has definitely gone to my head. I’m sure there must be a more nuanced way to express my frustration and confusion, but it’s not coming out right now.

  “Charlotte, I’m lost.”

  “He’s mine, so you’d better not cross the line.”

  Libby’s eyes widen. “Do you think I’m putting the moves on Edward?”

  “Ten thousand points to the brilliant Libby Weston.”

  “Bug, we really should go inside,” she
says. “You’re not making a ton of sense. I think you’ve had too much to drink, okay? You have the big game tomorrow. I knew it was a mistake for Flossie to throw you a party the night before, but I didn’t want to take the wind out of everybody’s sails.”

  “Stop acting like Mum and leave me alone.” I turn on my heel, heading back into the party.

  I storm inside the barn, making a beeline for the bar. The bartender hands me a cup full of wine and I down it like a dehydrated rugby player. Too much to drink? How dare she?

  Edward’s now standing in a corner of the barn, surrounded by our friends.

  I sidle up to him. “Hi.”

  He puts his arm around me. “Hi!”

  “It was cold outside,” I say. “Thought you might like to warm me up.” I peer at him. Things are starting to become a blur.

  He touches my elbow. “Let’s go sit?”

  I look down and realize I’m swaying slightly. I giggle. “Whoops! A bit tough standing in these heels.”

  I slide my arm through Edward’s. “Psst,” I whisper. “Come with me. I want to tell you something.”

  We walk arm in arm onto the makeshift dance floor, and I notice Libby looking at me from the other side of the room. She looks concerned. Screw her and her concerned looks. I shoot her back a See? You were wrong look.

  “Everything all right?” Edward asks.

  “I just missed you, that’s all.” I throw my other arm around his neck, pulling his face close to mine. We make out.

  The room is spinning. I’m feeling dizzy.

  He squeezes me tightly, looking at me with concern. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, honestly,” I say. “Just a little dizzy.” I clap my hand over my mouth to block an escaping hiccup, but I’m too late. “I might have had a little too much to drink.”

  “I think it’s time to get you to bed.”

  “No, I don’t want to go to bed! I’m having too much fun here.”

  “I know, I know,” he says. “But I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t take care of you.”

  Edward beckons Libby over to help as I stumble.

  “What can I do, Lotte? Are you okay? Can I bring you something?” she asks.

  “I don’t feel well, Libs. I want to go to bed. Edward is going to take me upstairs.”

  “That sounds like a perfect plan. Let’s go. Here, put your arm around me.”

  Libby and Edward hoist me up, and together the three of us make our way through the crowd and out of the barn toward the house.

  I focus on my breath, trying to keep it together until we make it back inside the house and upstairs. Libby and Edward are talking about me, but I don’t care anymore. I have a singular goal: bed.

  We’re almost at the room when a wave of nausea overtakes me and I throw up in a crystal vase.

  After that, everything goes black.

  I wake up with a start. Where the hell am I?

  There are framed herb prints on the wall and gold curtains with too much light streaming through.

  I’m at Flossie’s country house.

  Last night’s events come flooding back: flirting with Robert; Flossie confiding her concerns about Libby and Edward; fighting with Libby on the back lawn; downing glass after glass of wine and drunkenly slobbering all over Edward.

  I try to remember how I got upstairs and have a vague memory of kneeling outside my room puking in a vase while Libby held my hair back. Was Edward there?

  He was. I can’t believe he saw the whole thing.

  I find a note next to my bed on top of a wrapped box. I think it must be the same box from last night.

  Hope you’re feeling better, Lots. Sorry about last night, and sorry I didn’t have a chance to give this to you then. It was meant to be a surprise. Edward and I both chipped in and bought it together.

  There’s water and paracetamol on the table. Come find me in the kitchen when you’re ready. I’m making a fry-up.

  Love you. L

  The clock says eight fifteen a.m. Libby no doubt bounced out of bed at dawn feeling like a new woman and decided to go for a five-mile run. No hangovers for the perfect sister.

  I open the box: it’s the bracelet I’ve been coveting.

  Well, now I feel like a total jerk.

  I scrape myself out of bed and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My brown eyes are bloodshot and I have mascara and eyeliner smeared all the way down to my cheeks. My pillowcase is caked with foundation and eye makeup. I cringe. I must have been plastered.

  The game is at three p.m. I have plenty of time to sober up and get my head on straight. I pull my hair into a bun on top of my head and make my way downstairs. The smell of sizzling bacon and onions makes my empty stomach grumble.

  Flossie’s farmhouse kitchen is small and cozy—half the size of my own kitchen at home. Behind the stove, Libby stands, wearing an apron and wielding a pair of tongs. Everybody else sits at the table, wearing T-shirts and blearily holding mugs of coffee and cups of tea. India is wearing oversized black sunglasses.

  “Morning!” Libby chirps. She turns and pours me a fresh cup of coffee, handing it to me as if she’s been waiting all morning for this very moment. “Two sugars, just the way you like.”

  “Thanks,” I say, looking around warily.

  Edward sits on the far side of the table. He holds open his arms for a hug.

  “How are you feeling?” he murmurs. “You went pretty hard last night.”

  “I feel like a bag of rubbish,” I say, looking at everybody. Only Flossie and Libby look clear-eyed. India looks like she might be asleep behind her glasses. Georgie and Oliver are leaning on each other in the corner, looking like zombies. Tarquin and David are too busy shoveling food into their mouths to notice me.

  “Sorry,” Edward says, patting me on the back. “Libby made a delicious breakfast. It should make you feel better.”

  Libby putters around the kitchen, turning sizzling bacon and sausages, frying bread, chopping tomatoes, and opening a can of baked beans.

  “You’re a brilliant cook, Libby,” David says, stuffing his mouth with omelets. “This is better than our cook at home.”

  “It really is tremendously good,” says Flossie.

  She blushes. “Thanks. I like cooking. It’s relaxing.”

  “The only thing I make are reservations,” I say, wincing as everybody’s laughter triggers my headache. I look at Flossie. “How are you not hungover?”

  “I only had two beers,” she says. “I didn’t want to be wrecked before the game today.”

  Libby’s face tightens, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “I pounded some ginseng before bed,” Alice says. “Although you know what also works? Beetroot juice.”

  “Beetlejuice?” Tarquin says, laughing.

  Libby piles a huge stack of pancakes in front of me. “I made them just for you: with strawberries and blueberries mixed in with the batter. I hope it makes you feel better.” She learned how to make pancakes from an American cooking show when we were home on break a couple of years ago. They’ve been one of my favorite things in the world ever since.

  “Thanks.” I spear a huge stack and am about to take a giant bite when I remember that Edward is watching me. I take a smaller, socially acceptable bite. “God, these are delicious. What time did you wake up?”

  She must have four things sizzling on different burners, but she looks as calm and composed as if she were a professional chef. “Probably six thirty. You know it’s hard for me to sleep in.” Libby has struggled with insomnia since we were kids.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a lie-in,” I yawn, rubbing my eyes. “I hate waking up early for field hockey. After I graduate university, I’m never waking up before noon again.”

  Edward laughs. “Noon? That’s a bit excessive, even for me.”

  “Okay, then, ten a.m. But that’s the earliest I’ll do it.”

  “Let’s hope your kids get the memo,” says Flossie, standing up to pour more coffee. L
ibby reaches over and refills her mug.

  I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not sure if I want children. Ask me in fifteen years.”

  “Fifteen years!” Libby exclaims, putting down her spatula and looking shocked. “Does Mum know that you don’t want kids?”

  I’m so hungry that I finish all the pancakes on my plate in about five seconds flat. I’m too hungover to care anymore about table etiquette. “Probably not. She and I don’t exactly spend time talking about my future children. I’ve only been seventeen for about eight hours.”

  “I know it’s kind of cheesy, but I want two—a girl and a boy,” Libby says.

  “You want kids?” Edward asks her. “That surprises me.”

  “Really? Why?” She wipes her hands on a tea towel.

  “You’re so smart. And feminist. I guess I figured you’d go that career-gal path.”

  “Career gal?” Libby snorts. She crumples up the tea towel and throws it at his face. “You sound like my grandmother. Let me know when you’ve time traveled back from the 1930s. These days, women can have kids and a career.”

  He laughs good-naturedly, tossing the tea towel back to Libby. It slides off her head and lands on the floor.

  “I don’t know,” Flossie says, looking doubtfully at my sister. “Libby’s literally barefoot in my kitchen cooking right now. I’d say she’s pretty maternal.”

  “Maternal, a great chef, and smart: she saved my arse in history,” David says, shoveling eggs into his mouth. “You’re the perfect woman, Libs.”

  She turns away, busying herself cracking more eggs, but not before I see the pleased expression on her face.

  “What, so the perfect woman needs to cook? And be a mum? That’s pretty sexist,” I say, thoroughly annoyed. “Should she greet her husband with a foot rub every night after work, too?”

  “Hear, hear,” Libby says, sliding more food onto my plate. “Feminism is all about choices.”

  “Well,” I say, “I choose more coffee. And seconds of those pancakes.”

  twelve

  I bite my tongue as my shoulder slams into the ground, a metallic taste filling my mouth. I curl into a ball to protect my body.

  The crowd gasps at my tumble. Above me, the player from Norfolk who bodychecked me laughs and runs down the field.