“To . . . to be his girlfriend. I told him I’d need to talk to you first.”
My heart sinks.
“Get out.”
“But—”
“The fact that you would even have the nerve to ask me that.”
I don’t think I’d be this upset over Edward dating somebody else—it’s not like I still have real feelings for him. But it’s my sister. It’s Libby.
And of all the people in the world, why did they have to choose each other?
“I haven’t said yes! I told him if you weren’t okay with it, we couldn’t date. I would never choose a guy over you, Charlotte.”
Something in Libby’s voice makes me waver. If this were any other guy, I’d be thrilled for her. Am I being melodramatic? She’s always been so supportive of me—my biggest cheerleader. But then an image of the two of them looking at each other tenderly and kissing flashes through my mind, and I feel betrayed all over again.
“Except clearly you would,” I say. “Look, I don’t care what the two of you do. You don’t need my permission. Date him. Fall in love. Get married, for all I care. But if you think I’m going to hold your hand through it all, you’re deluded.”
She looks miserable. “Lotte, I’m a wreck.”
“Guilt is a funny emotion.”
“I love you. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. But I don’t know what to do—I’ve never felt this way about anybody. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. My stomach hurts. It’s an awful feeling. I hate myself for liking him.”
I pause. If she’s trying to get through to me, it’s working. I don’t want her to suffer.
But I need more time. I can’t let it go this easily. I just can’t. “You two deserve each other.”
She stands up, looking defeated. “I’m so sorry, Lotte.”
Libby walks out the door, and I close it behind her, immediately pulling out my phone to send a group text.
ME: Are you free? Wine in my room. Five minutes.
A few minutes later, India, Flossie, Alice, and Georgie have all piled into my room. I want to deep-dive into the news that Libby and Edward are dating—I need some friend sympathy over being betrayed yet again—but everybody’s too busy yammering on about skiing.
“We’ve started going to Zurs,” Flossie says.
“Not St. Moritz?” Alice asks.
“Daddy says he’s done with St. Moritz. Too many Russians.”
“We only do Gstaad, of course,” says India.
“But the skiing is better in Austria, I think,” Flossie says.
“Really?” India says. “Totally disagree. Switzerland or nothing. Maybe Kitz, but that’s it.”
“You’re all insane,” says Georgie. “Deer Valley smokes all those towns—the snow is like powdered sugar. Besides, Europe is overrated—unless you think skiing on ice is fun.”
“Says the American,” cracks Flossie.
“Says the half American who learned to ski when she was two,” retorts Georgie.
As I silently pour everybody cups of wine, they get into a serious debate about the best ski resorts—whether “Verb” or “Val” has the best après-ski, whether Gryon or Klosters attracts more royals, whether Zermatt or St. Moritz is flashier. I cross my arms, wedging myself into the far corner of my bed near the wall and feeling incredibly left out of this conversation. My family didn’t have enough money to take me skiing when I was a child, and if you don’t learn to ski young, you might as well not even try. The couple of times I’ve tagged along with Sussex Park teammates on ski vacations, they’d be whooshing down the black runs while I struggled on the bunny slope. Sometimes a friend would take pity and ski with me, but they’d never last more than half an hour before coming up with a lame excuse for why they needed to dash. I’d eventually find myself hanging out alone in the chalet, downing cup after cup of hot chocolate while waiting for everybody else to finish their runs. Unlike other tracks I can cover, the fact that I can’t ski well immediately marks me as an outsider in this world. It’s just one more reminder that my family might have money, but unlike everybody else, ours is very new.
“I almost broke my leg on one of the black runs, but luckily the ski instructor called a snowmobile to take me back to the lodge,” says Flossie. “Then he felt so sorry for me that we chatted by the fire for an hour.”
“And . . . ?” Alice asks.
“We didn’t pull, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She looks disappointed. “Damn.”
“It was still exciting. He was twenty-five!”
“Ew. Pass.” Alice wrinkles her nose. “Personally, I think eighteen is the perfect age.”
“Disagree,” Flossie says, stretching her arms over her head. Her tanned tummy peeks out. “If anything, twenty-five is too young for you. Everybody knows men remain boys until they’re at least forty.”
Now this conversation I can contribute to. “Forty? Gross. That’s my dad’s age.”
“I’m not saying you should date a forty-year-old. I’m saying age doesn’t equal maturity. And I’m sure your father is totally older than forty. Speaking of family—how are things going with Libby after she snogged Edward? I haven’t seen either of them since we’ve been back.” She looks around the room, as if she’s just recognizing my sister’s absence. “Where is she, anyway?”
Finally.
“You guys aren’t going to believe it, but . . .” I pause for maximum dramatic effect. “It wasn’t just one snog. Libby and Edward are dating—like, for real.”
They exchange looks.
“Um, yeah,” Flossie says. “Obvs.”
“Wait, you knew? How?”
Alice shifts uncomfortably on the floor. “More wine, anybody?”
“I tried to warn you,” says Flossie. “I’ve been telling you for months.”
I narrow my eyes. “So he was cheating on me with her.”
“Obviously,” says Flossie.
“No,” India says, frowning at her. “He was not cheating on Charlotte.”
I feel hot. “I’m so stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” says India. “I suspected, but I didn’t know for certain. They must be trying to hide it.”
“Whatever. Let them date. Let them get bloody married for all I care. They deserve each other.”
Alice walks on her knees over to me, refilling my mug. “Here. You need this.”
India sighs. “I don’t like the way the whole thing went down. You’re right to be upset, of course. But he and Libby are quite well matched.”
I stare at her.
“I know that’s hard to hear, but it’s true,” says India. “Besides—and I say this with all respect for her, Charlotte—but your sister is totally boring.”
Even though I’m angry with Libby, I feel a knee-jerk desire to defend her.
“And . . . boring is good?”
“For Edward? Boring is great. I don’t think he’d say that. He’s still deluded enough to think that he has choices. But he needs to be the star, and he needs a steady girl who won’t compete with him. His family couldn’t have it any other way.”
“You’re acting like they’ll get married,” I say, thinking about my grandmother’s prediction.
India shrugs. “You never know. Like I said, he thinks he has choices. But he doesn’t, really. His life is totally mapped out.”
“So won’t his family choose for him?” Discussing the marital prospects of your seventeen-year-old ex-boyfriend is beyond surreal.
“Never,” she says, frowning. “He’d die. He needs to have some say in the matter. He’ll meet a new crop of girls at university.”
“Fresher meat. Bigger boobs. Smaller brains,” cracks Georgie. I shoot her an exasperated look.
“But he’ll always return to the inner circle. We’re the girls who knew him when. There are only a few people to choose from, really. Mummy says it was the same with his father, and his father before him. They never learn.”
“Damn,” says Georgie. “It’s all written
like a book, huh?”
Flossie nods. “It’s comforting, in a way.”
Only Alice looks depressed. “Comforting? It makes our world sound so small. So fated.”
“It is fated. And if you think our world is large,” says India, “then you haven’t been paying attention.”
“Well,” I say, feeling wounded, “out with the old.” I reach over to my desk and hold up the Polaroid photos. “Edward gave me these. One last parting souvenir from our time together, I guess.” I open a drawer, jumbled with DIY accessories and loose-leaf papers, and toss the photos inside. “Souvenirs for my children’s children to marvel at someday—Good-Time Granny and her princely conquest.”
“That’s the spirit,” Flossie says. “You’ll find a nice boy who’s more your speed—I know it.”
“Don’t be glum,” India says. “Boys are disposable. Even Edward.”
I don’t know what I was expecting from Libby after she came to see me. A public rejection of Edward out of loyalty to me? I’m not sure—but I’m surprised that she stops trying.
Maybe I just needed her to ask my forgiveness one last time.
Now it’s like I can’t escape the sight of them.
There they are, giggling at each other over a stack of history textbooks and Russian novels in a remote corner of the library during study period.
There they are, sitting dead center at our usual table in the dining hall, laughing with Flossie and Alice at David’s lunchtime antics.
There they are, walking through the quad during the daily three p.m. break, hands clasped, arms swinging, sun shining bright and hard into their smiling faces.
After a week of awkward run-ins, stilted chapels, and pained silent breakfasts—I refuse to back down and she’s stopped apologizing—we’ve silently settled on a joint-custody arrangement of our friends. I’m taking athletics this term and am always starving after practice, so I have India and Co. for breakfast. Lunches are theirs: while Libby and Edward hold court, I sneak into the dining hall like a thief, loading up my tray with food on paper plates, and then either taking it outside to eat by myself on the lawn or back to my room to stare blankly at my textbooks.
Dinner is the only minefield. India has become a begrudging Switzerland, fielding texts from each of us asking if it’s safe to come and whether the other offending parties have left. (“You’re all bloody exhausting,” she complains one night over wine in her room, a rare moment of the mask falling. “I’m not your minder, and I wish you’d all buck up and be friends for the sake of the group. I feel like a child again, before my mother and father called off the divorce and came to their senses.”)
We fall into a pattern of them eating on the earlier side, before eventually going back to Edward’s room or Libby’s room or wherever the hell the two of them go to giggle and paw at each other. I halfheartedly do homework in the common room or library until about seven p.m., when starvation takes over and I show up at the dining hall for my dinner. Only a few times have we tidily crossed paths: Edward and Libby walking out hand in hand at the exact moment I’m entering. When recognition dawns, their eyes slide to the floor, to the ceiling—anywhere but full-on to meet mine.
To be honest, I don’t miss Edward at all. Now that we’re broken up, it’s become clearer than ever that the two of us didn’t do much talking. Most of the time was spent either hanging with our friends, watching TV, or making out. And now that the word is out I’m single again, boys have been flirting with me. Just yesterday, Robert walked me back from chapel after I slipped in late (mostly to avoid sitting with my friends).
But the distance from Libby is hard. Every single time I pull out my phone to text somebody, I think of her. Even though I spent years at school without her by my side, we’d be texting daily—now, there’s nothing, and it’s lonely. India’s doing a good job trying to fill the void, but it’s not the same. We pass each other on the stairs of our dormitory or run into each other in the common room, and she’ll give me a hopeful look. Sometimes, she says hi, and sometimes she looks grumpy and ignores me right back, which only serves to make me more irritated.
I miss her—but I can’t bring myself to forgive her.
One night in late January, while I’m watching Britain’s Got Talent alone in the Colvin common room, one of the contestants makes me think of my aunt Kat. For reasons I’ve never been able to pin down, Mum and Kat haven’t spoken in over ten years. My mother used to tear up whenever Kat’s name was mentioned—usually by Nana after a few too many brandies during the holidays—but these past few years, she’s been stoic, not rising to the bait and eventually changing the subject altogether.
When I walk upstairs after the episode is over, feeling sorry for myself, I find a little stuffed E.T. sitting outside my room. There’s a note attached to his pointer finger, and inside, written in Libby’s loopy scrawl, are four words:
I’m sorry. Sisters forever.
The combination of the thoughtful gift and the reminder of my mother’s falling out with Aunt Kat makes my chest tighten. I suddenly see their feud through new eyes.
I don’t want to lose my sister.
I walk back down the hall, staring at the stuffed alien and smiling a little to myself as I climb the stairs. Libby’s room is at the end of the hall, but when I get there, the door is closed. I’m about to knock when I hear voices.
My heart stops, and I press my ear to the door.
Edward’s in there with Libby. She’s snuck him into her room.
I should just knock on the door. I’m sure she’d be happy to let me in. I’m sure Edward would leave. I’m sure we could bring this whole thing to a close here and now and put it behind us, and laugh about it someday like the whole thing wasn’t totally twisted. Like: “Pass the peas. Hey, remember that crazy time we boyfriend-swapped?!”
But hearing Edward’s voice, plus the realization that Libby has changed enough to be sneaking boys into her room, snaps me right back into that awful, confused, hurt place where I’ve been living for the past few weeks.
I walk back to my room, still clutching the stuffed alien.
Mum and I talk each Sunday, and every week she asks if Libby and I have made up yet.
Week after week, the answer is the same: no.
seventeen
“Valentine’s Day is the best holiday when you’re in a relationship, and the absolute bloody worst when you’re single,” says India.
We’re sitting on a bench outside the student center waiting for Flossie to meet us.
Valentine’s Day decorations have taken over campus—paper hearts on the walls, little stuffed Cupids decorating the dessert station in the dining hall, the annual Cutest Couple list in the student center. (Big shocker: Libby and Edward win. Vomit.)
“Cosign,” I say. “They’re all so smug. Even Georgie and Oliver are insufferable—I wish they would quit it with all those goo-goo eyes. I’ve had it up to here with everybody being so . . . cute.” I say the word like it smells awful.
At the far end of the quad, Libby and Edward are walking hand in hand. Edward doesn’t look in our direction—he’s probably pretending he doesn’t see us—but Libby gives me a pained, awkward look.
“I can’t stand them,” I say.
India nods. “I get it.”
“They don’t even try to make peace anymore,” I say. “Libby was apologizing to me twenty-four seven for weeks, and now—nothing. Glad she was willing to throw her sister under the bus at the first sign of a guy showing interest in her.”
India sighs. “Didn’t she leave that stuffed animal thing outside your door? You never said thank you. Libby’s nice, but she’s not Mother Teresa.”
“It was a stuffed alien.”
“Look, you’re all my friends. I don’t want to pick sides.”
“Okay, but forget the peace offering for a second. Don’t you agree that them dating is a little bit shitty?”
She puts her arm around me. “Yes. It is shitty.”
“Thank you
,” I say, feeling gratified. “That’s all.”
“You’re handling it well. Better than I would be.”
“Better than you? I can’t imagine you giving two flying figs if your girlfriend suddenly took up with one of your brothers. You’d just shrug and be like, ‘Such is life,’ and then order a glass of champagne and light a cigarette or something.”
India bursts into laughter. “So, basically, what you’re saying is that I’m a cliché from a foreign film?”
I laugh. “Sorry.”
“Let’s get the hell out of Dodge,” she says. “I need off this bloody campus.”
I give her a sidelong look. “What’s up with you?”
She sighs. “I don’t want to bore you with the details.”
“Girl trouble? Family stuff? Failing classes? I’m all ears. Misery loves company!”
“Classes?” She pulls a face. “Definitely not.”
“Okay, well, I’m here if you want to talk.”
“Thanks,” she says, glancing at her wrist as her Apple watch lights up. “Do you want to go into London this weekend? We could spend the night at my parents’ flat and get away from all these bloody lovestruck twits.”
“That sounds perfect.” It’ll be a good distraction: the thought of seeing Edward and Libby mooning at each other around campus makes me want to throw myself off a building.
I groan looking at the price tag: nine hundred pounds.
“India, I can’t. My parents will throw a fit.” We’re in Harvey Nichols, just off Brompton Road in London.
First we hit up Bond Street—India buying a new pair of shoes, three jackets, and a pair of cream-colored trousers—before walking several blocks to Harvey Nicks, as everybody calls it.
India frowns into a mirror, staring at her reflection as she tries on a pair of gold sunglasses. “Why?” she asks, swapping out the pair resting on her thin nose for black aviators.
I clutch the blue dress. “They hate it when I shop too much with their credit card.”
She sets the sunglasses down on a display case. “But your parents aren’t here now.”
“It’s too much.” Sometimes I think India, Flossie, and the rest think my family has more money than we do. We’re not poor anymore, but we don’t have generational money the way they do; India’s great-grandkids, for example, will never have to work a day in their lives. We have a nice house, go on expensive trips around Europe, and Soles is actually so successful that Mum and Dad are talking IPO. But when you’ve grown up worrying about money, it’s hard to shake that deep-seated financial insecurity.
Romancing the Throne Page 19