I’m particularly excited to see her because Nana is hilarious. She can be exhausting, and the most revolting things occasionally come spilling out of her mouth—but I still love her to bits. Even though I disagree with the majority of what she says, I have a feeling her politically incorrect bombs will distract everybody from the fact that I’m still not speaking to Libby. Catching Libby and Edward in the act was like a dagger through my heart. I’ve turned the moment over and over in my head since last weekend, sleepwalking through my final exams because I was so distracted and confused and hurt. Libby has tried to apologize, but I refuse to hear some half-baked apology. What if I hadn’t caught them? Would they have spent months sneaking around behind my back? I still don’t understand it. How could they?
I would never steal my sister’s boyfriend. And I would never get together with my ex-boyfriend’s brother. I don’t know who to be angrier at.
In my more charitable moments, I remind myself that Edward and I were broken up. Libby and Edward are friends, they got drunk, and Edward couldn’t help kissing her. Libby’s beautiful and kind. What guy wouldn’t be attracted to that? She probably didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did.
But then my heart tightens again, and I think: That’s no excuse. She’s my sister. She should have known better. Edward’s face pops into my head, and I get even angrier: What a piece of shit. Swapping one sister for another? Who does that? Of all the entitled, manipulative, arrogant guys, he takes the cake. Prince Charming, my arse.
On the train back to Midhurst, Libby sat next to me, but I got up and moved to a different seat. We gave each other a wide berth for the rest of the ride home. We’ve managed to ignore each other for almost a week now.
Mum and Dad refuse to take sides, although I suspect my mother agrees with me.
Meanwhile, I feel like a volcano. I’m trying to ignore Libby for my parents’ sake, but if I don’t let off some steam, eventually, I’ll explode.
I decide to take a walk into town and buy some Christmas decorations. Doing things that require concentration always calms me down—and I take my party planning very seriously.
Our house is on the outskirts of town: a good twenty-minute walk from the high street. Although we didn’t move to Midhurst until I was a bit older, I consider it my hometown. Sure, I’m biased—but I think it’s the prettiest town in England.
I turn out of our front gates, walking up Selham Road and then making a right toward town. The Spread Eagle, one of the best hotels in town, is dusted with a light coat of snow, making it look like a gingerbread house. The car park is full, crammed with visiting relatives and families out for a Sunday roast, no doubt.
All the Tudor architecture around Market Square is one of my favorite parts of town. It makes me think of Queen Elizabeth I and King Henry VIII, both visitors to Midhurst back in the 1500s. The fact that Edward is descended from them, however distantly, blows my mind. Will history remember him someday?
Elizabeth I was one of my childhood heroes. She seemed so fierce: fighting her way to the throne, refusing to get married, standing up to the men who were trying to tell her what to do. But even though I’ve turned her into this mythical creature in my head, in reality, she was an actual person born into a very surreal set of circumstances—just like Edward. She probably cried. She used the bathroom. She got hungry. She felt fear. Someday, students like me will be reading history books, and Edward’s name will come up, and he’ll just be a photograph and a bunch of old, irrelevant stories to them. They won’t know how he chews his nails, or has a weird laugh, or has the worst taste in music of all time.
They won’t know that he was real.
As I continue farther up the narrow country lane, passing St. Mary Magdalene & St. Denys Church, my spirits darken again. I try focusing on the shop windows, turning left down Knockhundred Row, but every restaurant, every shop, every brick reminds me of Libby and the thousands of times we’ve walked these streets together.
Is this what happens when you get older? Is it inevitable that your sister stops being your best friend—and, worse, eventually becomes a stranger to you?
The thought makes me want to cry.
I turn right onto the high street, nearly breaking my neck as I slip on a patch of ice. I have to breathe deeply as I stand back up, fighting the urge to burst into overwhelmed tears. The decorations store is just ahead, and I step inside carefully, closing the door tightly behind me to keep the heat in. Inside, the tiny shop smells like cinnamon and holly.
“Heya, Charlotte,” says Mrs. Cooper when I walk inside. This is both the blessing and the curse of growing up in a small town. It’s comforting having everybody know your name—but on days like today, I’d rather be anonymous. I just want to get from point A to point B without having to pretend everything’s okay.
I take a deep breath. “Hi, Mrs. Cooper. How are you?”
“Oh, fine, dear, just fine. I hear you’re back at Sussex Park. I haven’t seen you around town.”
“This is my first time home since school started. Haven’t had a chance to come back for a visit this term.”
“And how is Libby? Greene House is a beautiful school.”
“She’s switched to Sussex Park. She loves it.” I pick up some holly decorated with fairy lights. Libby and I always used to fight over colored lights versus white lights when we were kids. She preferred the elegance and simplicity of the white. I liked the colors. More fun.
“Oh, how wonderful! And Prince Edward goes to school there, too, doesn’t he? That must be terribly exciting. Have you met him?”
“Yeah. A few times.” I put the holly on the counter, changing the subject. “I think I’ll just take these.”
Later that afternoon, I stand at the kitchen sink, tearing off pieces of lettuce for a salad while I stare mindlessly at the falling flakes. It’s been snowing on and off all day, and normally I’d be thrilled, but today I’m just annoyed at the weather for being so pretty and cheerful. I’d rather a thunderous rainstorm to match my mood.
Nana is due to arrive soon from York. Dad is at the train station now picking her up, and Libby volunteered to go with him—presumably to get out of the house and away from me.
Libby spent all morning cooking. Cooking has never been my thing—like my mother, I’m the takeaway queen—but every year I make precisely one dish. It’s walnut and cranberry salad.
I survey the kitchen counter. Libby has made three different types of stuffing, including one with sausage and green apples that the whole family is gaga for. My salad is almost done. And the turkey that Libby spent half an hour butter-basting with herbs is roasting in the oven, scenting the house pleasantly with sage and making my mouth water. She might be a Judas of a sister, but she definitely can cook.
“Charlotte?” Mum calls from upstairs.
“Yeah?”
“Can you come here for a second?”
I lope up the stairs to Mum and Dad’s bedroom. Our stairway is lined with photos in mismatching but complementary frames. Mum saw the design in a photo spread in Hello! when I was a kid and decided to replicate it, immediately replacing all the matching brown wooden frames we had with silver, gold, checkered, and decorated ones. At the top of the stairs is one of my favorite photos: a picture of Libby and me when I was eleven and she was thirteen, the day before she left for Greene House. We have our arms around each other and are standing on our tennis court, sweaty after a heated match. Our faces are so open and happy; our grins are from ear to ear.
It’s been only five years, but it feels like a lifetime ago.
My parents’ bedroom door is open. It’s a huge rectangular room with a sitting room attached. Mum got really into equestrian-themed decor after we moved to Midhurst because of all the polo here—despite never going to matches—so she hired a designer and made the bedroom look like something from a Ralph Lauren catalog. The walls have framed oversized equestrian prints from the late 1800s, and there’s a giant potted plant threatening to take over the far
corner of the sitting room, a vintage telescope, and an old Louis Vuitton steamer trunk at the foot of the bed. The walls were painted red last year, which Mum thought matched the wood furniture and wood paneling nicely, but this year she decided it all looked like a bordello and redid everything in shades of green and cream. The massive wooden sleigh bed is blanketed in outfits.
“Mum?”
“I’m in the closet,” she calls.
I walk into her enormous closet to find Mum sitting cross-legged on the circular sofa in the center, looking panicked. Her shoulder-length brown hair is blown out and her makeup is immaculately applied. If she weren’t wearing only a white satin slip, she could be heading to a dinner party.
“I have literally nothing to wear.” Around her, there are probably one thousand outfits, plus wall-to-wall racks of shoes arranged by color in the shelves she had custom-built.
“I’m not sure you know what the word ‘literally’ means, Mum. You have more clothes than Harrods.”
“Your grandmother will be here in fifteen minutes. I can’t have her seeing me like this.”
“You’re still freaking out over what Nana thinks of you?”
She regards me with a sour look on her face, her eyebrow arched. “I know, it must be a novel concept for you: worrying about what your mother thinks.”
“Ooh. Burn.” I walk in the closet, running my fingers through the clothes. Mum loves silky blouses, the more expensive the better. I think she’s always trying to make up for wearing hand-me-downs from Aunt Kat as a kid. The blouses feel like butter slipping through my fingers. “What about this one?” I pull out a long-sleeved purple silk blouse with a bow at the collar. “You look adorable in this.”
“I don’t want to look adorable, I want to look Christmas-appropriate.”
“You could always wear an ugly jumper.”
She shoots me another look. “Charlotte. Be serious.”
I laugh.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because this conversation is silly. I feel like I’m your mum right now.”
“I don’t appreciate that,” she pouts. “You and Libby were very lucky to grow up with a mother like me. You have no idea what a nightmare it was with her.”
I frown at the mention of my sister’s name but let it go.
“I have an idea, all right. You do know I’ve met my grandmother before?” I pull out another blouse—a red-and-green paisley print—and Mum shakes her head.
She sighs. “I still don’t know what to tell her about Edward. She’s been pumping the well dry for months. This latest development . . . oof.”
I thrust a white blouse at her. “Just tell her that Libby stole him from me. I’m sure she’ll be fine with it. Who cares which sister, right?”
Mum groans. “Can you two please try to keep it civil?”
“I’m not the one you need to worry about,” I say. “I play by the rules. Apparently, Libby doesn’t.”
“Charlotte, I wish you’d give your sister a chance to apologize to you properly. She’s beside herself about it.”
“Good. She should be.” I grab another blouse to distract her. “What about this one? The cream looks elegant. And wasn’t this a gift from Nana?”
“It was—personally, I think it’s hideous, but that doesn’t matter. She’ll be thrilled I’m wearing it. Or, at least, she won’t criticize me quite as much as normal. Well done, Charlotte.”
I beam.
“Now what about you?”
“What about me?”
“What are you going to wear?”
“Mum. Please. I have it covered.”
“Thank goodness I never have to worry about you,” she says, putting the blouse on over her slip. She opens a drawer and pulls out a pair of opaque stockings, sitting back down and carefully rolling them up her slender legs. “You always know just what to do.”
“Hardly,” I say. “But thanks, Mum. I’d better go change before they get back from the train station. Love you.”
An hour later, I’ve showered, blown out my hair, and painstakingly applied sparkly holiday makeup. I debate about which dress to wear, but finally settle on a printed wrap that Nana bought me for Christmas two years ago.
Back in the kitchen, I pull some homemade nonalcoholic wassail from the fridge. It’s full of spices like cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger, and Libby makes it every year. Both Nana and I are addicted to it—although Nana takes hers with booze.
I’m peering through the glass oven door at the turkey, wondering if I’m supposed to do something to it, when I hear a hubbub in the hallway. Dad and Libby are back from the train station. I dry my hands on a tea towel before plastering a smile on my face and walking into the foyer. Mum is already waiting, looking as picture perfect as a Vogue fashion spread.
“Nana!” We hug. She smells like amber and mint, a combination I remember from my childhood.
“Let me look at you, dear,” she says, holding me firmly at arm’s length. She looks me up and down, her eyes narrowed, as if searching for something—anything—to criticize. Finally, after several seconds of scanning, her face relaxes. “You look wonderful. School is treating you well.” She pulls me in again for a hug, this time patting me on the back crisply. Libby stands awkwardly behind her, watching the two of us.
She turns toward Mum. “Jane, my darling. Have you been watching your figure? You look well.”
“Hi, Mum. Thank you. I’m so busy recently with Soles,” Mum says, looking flustered. “But I do Pilates when I can.”
“Well done. You should keep it up,” she says, nodding.
Nana’s been here for five seconds, and she’s already off to the races. Libby and I exchange an exasperated look before I remember I’m angry at her.
My dad comes in the house, weighed down with Nana’s luggage.
She waves her hand in the general direction of the bedrooms. “Just put them upstairs, Matthew,” Nana says without looking at him.
Mum looks at my dad, a pleading expression on her face, and he sighs, carrying Nana’s trunks up the stairs wordlessly. He glances down at me as he turns the stairs toward one of the guest bedrooms. I roll my eyes at him, smiling in solidarity, and he nods in agreement.
Despite coming from a working-class background, my grandmother married way above her station. My grandfather was a banker in Leeds but fell in love with my grandmother the day he laid eyes on her behind the till at the local grocer’s. She spent the rest of her life trying to get my grandfather to make as much money as possible, insisting every decade or two that they upgrade their house and upgrade their life.
As a result, my mother was born into nice, comfortable, middle-class surroundings. Her childhood in Leeds wasn’t remotely what you could describe as entitled, but she never wanted for the basics, and they lived in a respectable town in a small but cute house.
The same striving that caused Nana to put years of pressure on my grandfather also led to pressure on my mum. When Mum met Dad, rather than being excited about her choice in mate, my grandmother was disappointed that he wasn’t grander. And so my father—from a well-off family in Berkshire, educated at St. Andrews, with a decent-paying job at BP—found himself in the strange position of forever having to defend his station to my grandmother, who was born above a fishmonger and didn’t finish secondary school.
There’s no love lost between Dad and Nana.
But my grandmother loves Libby and me fiercely, even if she’s too critical of my parents. I think she simply can’t help herself.
As Dad busies himself upstairs—he doesn’t come back down after finishing with my grandmother’s bags—we girls head into the kitchen with Nana.
“Do you want some tea, Mum?” my mother asks.
“Or how about something stronger?” I say, wiggling my eyebrows up and down. “Brandy?”
“That’s my girl,” she says, holding her hand out. A designer gold bracelet shimmers against the translucent skin on her bony wrist; I saw the same one last week in
a magazine.
“Nana!” I gasp. “This is beautiful! When did you get this?”
“Oh, this?” she says, looking kittenish as she pulls it to her chest and looks at it lovingly. “My boyfriend surprised me with it yesterday. Isn’t he a dish?”
My mother looks suspicious. “He surprised you with it, or you nagged him until he bought it for you?”
Nana looks wounded.
My mother turns away, and I see another flash of frustration across her face.
Nana continues, “I may have suggested it to him, but Gary makes up his own mind.”
I shoot Mum a look that says, Be nice.
“Well,” says Mum, clearing her throat, “it’s a beautiful piece of jewelry. Gary sounds very lovely.”
Nana smiles. “Thank you, darling. Now, Charlotte, how is school treating you? Your mother says you’re running with quite a smart crowd now. Of course, I’d expected you would be. I told her from day one that sending you to Sussex Park was the right move. A girl like you—so beautiful, so outgoing, so sunny—you were bound to align yourself with the right people.”
“Thanks, Nana.”
“And Prince Edward! What a coup! My friends are dying to know everything. Cousin Betsy—you remember her, the tall one who never married? She insists I’m making it up. It’s remarkably insulting. I told her if she kept it up she wouldn’t be invited to the wedding.”
“Nana! We’re not getting married!” Now I wish Mum had already told Nana the news.
“No? Why on earth not?”
Libby opens her mouth to speak, but Mum cuts her off.
“They’re only seventeen, Mother. It’s just puppy love. In any case, I think you should know something—”
“Listen to me, my dears. If you play your cards right and always keep him guessing, you’ll see it through. Just don’t go to bed with him. Men won’t buy the cow if the milk is free.”
I can feel Libby’s eyes on me. I take another sip of wassail and avoid looking at her. Why should I be feeling awkward? She’s the one who should worry what Nana will say.
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