Romancing the Throne

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  “Mother! That’s enough! They’ve only been dating for a few months. Stop filling their heads with this rubbish. It’s too much pressure. And nobody’s going to bed with anybody.”

  “Um, Nana?” says Libby. “I have to tell you something.” She and Mum exchange nervous looks.

  But Nana stands up, saying, “Let’s talk later, dears. I need to take a quick nap before dinner.”

  “Okay,” Libby says, looking defeated.

  Nana turns to me. “You haven’t gone to bed with him, have you?”

  “Nana! No! We’re done talking about this!”

  “Good girl.” She downs her brandy-spiked wassail and holds her glass out. “I’ll have a quick refill, thanks.”

  INDIA: How’s home? You surviving?

  ME: Barely. I’m still not speaking to Libby, and my grandmother is like a bull in a china shop

  INDIA: At least you don’t have 4 rowdy brothers yelling over each other around the clock

  ME: My nana versus your brothers: fight to the death

  INDIA: Based on what I’ve heard about your gran, it sounds like an even match

  INDIA: Have you told her?

  ME: No.

  ME: Libby just tried to.

  INDIA: What happened?

  ME: Mum panicked and changed the subject

  INDIA: What’s the worst that can happen?

  ME: My sister steals my ex and drives a permanent wedge between us, and my grandmother finds out and spends years moaning about how we lost a royal wedding, and nobody’s on my side and Wisteria turns into World War Three. Oh . . . wait a minute . . .

  INDIA: Ha. Hang in there. Xxx

  I put my phone on the dining table as I finish setting it. Our dining room just might be my favorite room in the house. The long mahogany table seats up to twenty, and when the lights are turned down and the candles are blazing—like now—the room feels like a medieval banquet hall. The walls are lined with hunting tableaus that my mother bought on Portobello Road, and I’ve done the table decorations based off something I found from my favorite home-decorating app, putting a long red-and-green runner down the table, lining it with pinecones, holly, garlands, and winter squash, and tall candleholders filled with berries and cinnamon twigs. I spent hours yesterday in the woods behind our house gathering the decorations, topped off with this morning’s trip into town for the candleholders, cinnamon, and squash.

  I place a Christmas cracker in front of each place setting and then sigh, looking around the table. Everything looks perfect. Too bad I can’t enjoy it.

  “Dinner!” I call.

  Everybody comes in from the sitting room and the kitchen, sitting down at the ornately decorated table. My father sits at the head, with Nana to his right. She’s changed into a beaded dress and smells heavily of perfume. Her long silver hair is arranged into a beautiful Gibson girl chignon on top of her head.

  “You look like you wandered off the set of Downton Abbey,” Mum says.

  “Is looking smart a crime? I can’t stand this terrible trend of ‘dressing down.’ Everybody appears as if they’ve just come back from the gym,” Nana counters.

  Libby and I catch each other’s eyes and exchange a smile. Damn it. I keep forgetting I’m angry at her. I pick up the Christmas cracker, fiddling with it.

  She clears her throat. “Charlotte? Wassail?” She offers me the jar sitting in front of me.

  “No. Thank you.”

  Mum leaves the kitchen and comes back into the room holding the turkey. Dad stands at the end of the table and brandishes the carving knife with a flourish.

  “Wait!” Mum says. She places the bird on the table and comes back in with a white apron.

  “Oh, not this old thing,” Dad says.

  “Matthew, you must.” Mum cackles as she drapes the tatty apron over his button-down shirt and navy blazer. She stands back and regards him in a mock-pensive pose, as if appraising art. The apron reads “Kiss the Cook” and has a naked torso of a Roman statue printed on the front. It’s shockingly tacky.

  The two of them giggle as Dad pretends to jab Mum with the carving knife. I look over at Nana, who is exasperated. She doesn’t appreciate this sort of display.

  “When you’re quite ready, Matthew,” Nana says frostily. “I was rather hoping to eat this year.”

  “Of course,” he says, back to all-business as he tucks into the bird.

  I love this about my parents. Even though they’re both fairly serious people, they bring out the silly side of each other. They’ve been married for two decades and yet they seem like giddy newlyweds. I hope I can find that for myself someday.

  I remember Edward and Libby kissing and my stomach sinks. I still just don’t understand. How could they?

  Libby is picking at the food on her plate, barely eating. I realize that she’s lost weight. Even though she’s a traitor, I should throw her a bone. It’s Christmas.

  “I like your dress, Libby,” I say.

  Everybody looks at me, and I realize that I must have interrupted my grandmother.

  “No, no,” she says drily. “You go ahead, please.”

  “Sorry, Nana.”

  “Libby’s dress does look very nice. Makes your eyes look special, instead of that boring brown. I do wish you had inherited my blue eyes. Did I pick it out?”

  “You did, Nana,” Libby says. She looks at me gratefully.

  “Quite right. Thought so.” Nana looks pleased as she sips champagne that my mother bought specially for her. “And what about you, Charlotte? We’ve been circling around the topic at hand for hours and I’m tired of ducking it. How is your relationship? How is His Royal Highness?” She relishes these words, letting them roll off her tongue slowly. She’s shimmering with pleasure. I wait a few seconds. Finally, I come out with it:

  “We broke up.”

  “No! What happened?”

  I look at Libby. She looks like a deer caught in headlights.

  I take a sip of the half glass of red wine my parents allow Libby and me to have every Christmas.

  “Well. I don’t really know what to say.”

  “Something must have happened,” Nana says. “You were so excited!”

  “I dumped him.”

  “Oh, Charlotte! Why?”

  “He never had any time for me. And he was spending too much time with other girls,” I say, shooting a passive-aggressive look at Libby.

  Nana frowns. “I see. That won’t do.”

  I look at her in surprise. “You’re not upset?”

  She takes a sip of her champagne, disappointment etched into her face. “I’d hoped for more from him. He’s a prince. But the only person I’m upset for is you, my dear. Maybe you can forgive something like that after you’re married—and only once, mind you!—but this early in your relationship? No. Once a cheater, always a cheater. Prince be damned.”

  “That’s what I said! I don’t know if he was cheating, but he wasn’t treating me well. I didn’t care that he was a prince.”

  She nods, looking satisfied. “That’s my girl. Kick that deadbeat to the curb.”

  Mum’s face registers shock, while Dad looks impressed. Clearly, Nana’s reaction has surprised us all.

  “Besides, there was plenty of other stuff, too,” I say. “We just weren’t the right fit. He’s kind of boring.”

  Libby shuffles in her seat.

  I’m in the kitchen washing dishes while Dad takes out the garbage and Mum and Nana huddle over brandies in the living room.

  “Charlotte?” Libby asks timidly at my back.

  I don’t turn around. “Yeah?”

  “Can we talk?”

  “Go for it,” I say, shrugging.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  She clears her throat. “I just wanted you to know: the night you saw us—it was the first time we kissed.”

  “Congratulations.” I finish wiping a serving platter dry and set it back in the cupboard. I can see her reflection in the window beh
ind the sink. Like me, she’s still wearing her paper crown from the Christmas cracker.

  “We were both really drunk.”

  I don’t say anything.

  She continues, clearing her throat again. “Um . . . after he kissed me, I realized I did have feelings for him, but I’d been pushing them away because of you. I feel awful.”

  “You should. And being drunk is a pretty lame excuse.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Here’s what I want to know,” I say, swiveling around and throwing the tea towel on the counter. “What if I hadn’t caught you? Would you have let it go on for days? Weeks? When were you going to come to me and say, ‘You know how you’ve been paranoid for weeks? Turns out you were right to be’?”

  “Charlotte, I promise you that nothing happened while you two were dating. I didn’t even realize I thought of him like that until the night you saw us kissing. I swear it to you.”

  “How can I believe a single word you say after you were so quick to betray me?”

  She’s quiet for a second. “I understand. But . . .”

  “Oh, there’s a ‘but’?”

  “Never mind.”

  “No. Please share. I’m riveted.”

  “I mean, you two only casually dated for a couple months,” she says in a rush. “You said yourself that you didn’t even like him that much.”

  “Are you serious? That’s your defense?”

  Her cheeks are bright pink.

  “Look, here’s the reality of the situation. You’re a boyfriend stealer. You’re selfish. You’re two-faced and clearly only out for yourself. I would never do this to you.”

  Libby’s back stiffens.

  “You threw me under the bus at the first opportunity to be with him. How low can you get? You betrayed me.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Libby says. “You’re not being fair.”

  “I’m not being fair? How is my sister making out with my boyfriend fair?”

  “Ex-boyfriend.”

  “We’re still quibbling about word choice?”

  “The two of you had nothing in common! You had nothing to talk about! And you broke up almost two months ago!”

  “We had plenty to talk about.”

  “That’s not what he says. He seems to think you were pretty boring, too.” As soon as she says it, she looks ashamed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  I reel back as if I’ve been slapped. “Screw. You. I knew you were trying to steal him from me.”

  “I didn’t steal him! You broke up!”

  Mum comes into the kitchen, her face anguished.

  “Please,” Mum says, putting her hands out. “Stop.”

  “I hate you,” I say to Libby, throwing my paper crown on the floor at her feet.

  I run upstairs, slamming my bedroom door so hard the walls shake.

  Several hours later, I go downstairs to make a cup of tea. There are voices in the sitting room: it’s Mum, Dad, and Nana, all talking in hushed tones.

  I tiptoe down the stairs.

  “I’m confused,” he says. “She’s . . .”

  I can’t quite make out what he’s saying, so I inch down the stairs quietly, poking my head around the corner and trying to hear without being seen.

  “. . . it’s going to derail her studies. She’s only been at Sussex Park for a few months. What happens if he gets bored of her the way he did of Charlotte?”

  “It still doesn’t make any sense to me,” says Nana. “Libby is so focused on her studies. When she’d even find the time for man-snatching is beyond me.”

  “For once, we’re in agreement,” Dad says. “It doesn’t make sense to me, either. Edward was suitable for Charlotte. She cares more about boys and sport than university. At least dating a prince would have forced her to grow up and find some direction. And she’s socially equipped to navigate that world.”

  “You think Libby’s too good for him?” Mum asks.

  “Not exactly. But she’s too ambitious to be stuck on the arm of a prince, waving from a balcony and opening hospitals.”

  “Well,” says Nana. “Thank heavens for small favors. At least he kept it in the family.”

  While my father and I have a decent relationship, I’ve never been as close to him as Libby is. I know he’s proud of my athleticism, but my academic failures always bothered him. Libby’s perfect marks were comforting: something he could set his clock by.

  But still: to hear my father say that Libby’s too good for Edward but that I’d be okay for him—because what else will I do with my life? It’s like a dagger through the heart. It feels like I’m doomed to be second best in the eyes of everybody I admire—always in perfect Libby’s shadow.

  I sneak back up the stairs to my room. I’m no longer in the mood for tea.

  A few minutes later, there’s a soft knock at my door.

  “Charlotte?”

  It’s Libby, tentatively calling my name.

  She knocks again three more times, each time calling my name.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally says through the door. “Please forgive me. I didn’t want it to be like this.”

  “Leave me alone,” I say. “I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to talk to you. Just leave me alone.”

  Screw her. In fact, screw them all.

  sixteen

  Most girls don’t realize that you need to prune your makeup regularly.

  If you don’t do a big cleaning twice a year, mascara grows bacteria, brushes accumulate gunk, and your makeup bag starts to develop a grimy layer of filth. The whole thing is one giant cesspool of gross.

  Generally, I’ll replace two or three items, buying a couple of lipsticks and a new mascara and foundation, and simply dust off the rest.

  Not this year. Back at school after Christmas, I decide to throw away the whole lot, dumping my entire bag into the bathroom rubbish bin and heading to the Boots in town to rebuild from scratch.

  I need a fresh start.

  Libby and I didn’t speak to each other the rest of Christmas break, which made for a super-awkward week. Even though I told her to leave me alone, I’m surprised that she’s stopped trying. It’s not that I wanted her to keep groveling for forgiveness, but . . . okay, yeah, I wanted her to keep groveling for forgiveness.

  Now that we’ve been back on campus for twenty-four hours, both she and Edward seem to be going out of their way to avoid me. They’re never at the dining hall, and I could have sworn she pulled an about-face and ducked behind a building when she saw me walking toward her yesterday. I don’t know what any of this means. Are they hooking up now? Are they dating?

  They would never. That would be a bridge too far, even for them.

  The day after break is over, I’m in the Colvin bathroom on my floor, brushing my teeth after dinner. Edward and Libby weren’t in the dining hall, and none of my friends seemed to notice that I had little to contribute to the conversation—I was too busy mulling over things.

  The door opens and Libby walks in holding a shower caddy and carrying a towel. She stops when she sees me.

  I give her a dirty look before turning back toward the mirror.

  “Hi, Lotte,” she says. She looks awkward, like she doesn’t know what to do.

  “Hi.”

  “I was just about to take a shower. Maintenance is fixing the ones on my floor—there’s no hot water.”

  I shrug. “Okay.”

  She walks across the linoleum floor in her flip-flops, entering one of the shower cubicles and closing the plastic curtain. I debate saying something to her, but she turns the water on so I finish brushing my teeth and go back to my room.

  Twenty minutes later, however, there’s a knock on the open door. Libby stands there, wet hair braided, wearing her pajamas.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I come in?”

  I’m feeling charitable. Maybe we can get things started back on the right foot this year. “Fine.”

  Libby steps through the doorwa
y, holding a box of chocolates. “Want one? I saved all the white choc for you.”

  “Okay,” I say, plucking a piece from the box. I take a bite, staring at her as I chew. She looks hopeful, which makes me feel hopeful—I think she’s here to apologize one more time. It’ll take some time to forgive her properly, but I know Libby—she’d never hurt me on purpose. I’ve just got to dig deep and find the strength to forgive. “Thanks,” I say.

  “So, uh . . . can I sit?”

  I point to my desk chair. “Okay.”

  She sits and we stare at each other.

  Finally, she talks. “I miss you, Lots.”

  I don’t say anything, my mind racing. It’s been two weeks since I caught them kissing; two weeks since my life felt like it turned upside down. We’ve never gone this long without speaking, not even with the two of us at different schools.

  I do miss Libby—a lot. I can’t count the number of times over the past couple of weeks I’ve wanted to tell her a joke or ask for her advice. But I still feel so hurt.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “I, uh, wanted to talk to you,” she says, sounding nervous.

  “Okay, we’re talking. What’s up?”

  “Yes. Right. So . . .” She swallows, looking like she’s about to pass out. “I need to ask you something.”

  “Okay . . .” I don’t know where this is going, but suddenly I don’t have a good feeling about it.

  “I know things have been horrible the past couple of weeks.”

  “Right.”

  “The last thing I want to do is hurt you, Charlotte.”

  “Not wanting to hurt me and not actually hurting me are two different things.”

  She looks miserable. “True.”

  “So? What do you want to ask me?” I say, swallowing nervously.

  “Um. Well . . . how would you feel . . . I mean, that is to say . . . would you be okay if . . . ugh.” She groans. “If Edward and me . . . um . . .”

  My eyes narrow. “Yes?”

  She exhales sharply, all in a puff, as if gathering courage. “He’s asked me if there’s a chance for us.”

  “A chance for what?”

  “Um. You know.”

  “A chance for winning the lottery? A chance for getting struck by lightning? A chance for what?”