Romancing the Throne

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  Dad grabs me by my other hand, firmly weaving his way through the throng of photographers and escorting the two of us safely inside.

  The space is gorgeous: the main room is dominated by a massive circular wooden and marble bar underneath a giant crystal chandelier, surrounded by wooden stools with red leather seats and opposite a mirrored display of all the alcohol bottles. The decor has been completely redone for the party. The artwork lining the cream-colored walls has been taken down, instead replaced with giant blown-up images of the app’s landing page, user screen grabs, and DIY details like a bouquet of flowers made from strings of candy and a chandelier made of ribbons. The wooden tables lining the perimeter of the room feature paper inserts depicting beauty-shot screen grabs from the app’s beta users, with giant floral bouquets artfully placed behind the bar and on a few tables.

  Once we’re inside, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale in a puff. “Jesus! How do people deal with that?”

  “You’d better get used to it!” says Bill, coming over from the bar. He engulfs me in a big hug. “Hi, you!” He turns to my parents. “And you must be Charlotte’s mum and dad. I’m Bill!” He pumps their hands enthusiastically, flagging down one of the roving waiters and offering my parents glasses of champagne.

  “So you’re the young man who bet big on our Charlotte,” Dad says, looking him up and down.

  “I believe in taking chances—that’s how I got here. When I see someone with potential, I pounce. Most people have it wrong. You’re not just betting on an idea; you’re betting on a person. And the second my brother, Robert, told me about Charlotte, I knew she was going straight to the top.”

  “Robert?” my mother asks, turning toward me and smiling.

  I blush.

  “I’ve never had so many journalists beg for an invite!” continues Bill. “Selfsy is all people can talk about. I’ve already had calls from prospective investors letting me know they’re paying attention. We’re on track for a million downloads by the end of the month—one million!”

  “Is he always this intense?” Mum whispers to me as Dad and Bill discuss my business plan.

  “Worse. He’s practically comatose right now. But, hey, it works.”

  “Oh, believe me,” Mum says, “I’m not complaining.” Even though we’re only fifteen minutes late—for this, you’d better believe I spent two hours getting ready—the room is already packed. I look around, not recognizing anybody.

  “So, who are all these people?” I ask Bill.

  “Come and find out.” He takes me around the room, introducing me to tech journalists from the Guardian, the Independent, The Times, the Daily Mail, and all the other top papers. Online writers from magazines I wouldn’t expect, like Cosmo, Tatler, and Vogue, are there, too, plus a mixture of tech bloggers, style bloggers, and society writers from places like Grazia and Heat. I spot party fixtures like Spencer Matthews from Made in Chelsea, Marissa Hermer from Ladies of London, Poppy Delevingne, and even Kate Moss, who looks shorter in person than I expected and has her daughter, Lila Grace, in tow. If I could get her to use the app, that would be a huge coup. There are only a few photographers allowed inside—the rest wait outside on the pavement, shouting at each new celebrity who arrives.

  As we glide from reporter to reporter, giving quotes and answering questions about the app, I look around the room, soaking it all up. The longer I’m here, the less overwhelmed I feel.

  I’m in my element. I belong.

  Bill was right. It really does feel like all of London has shown up for the party.

  “Now,” says Bill, taking me to a corner of the room, “I have somebody you’ll want to meet.”

  Sitting on a red leather chair away from the bustle is a blond woman. I look at Bill, confused. Am I supposed to recognize her?

  “This is Tabitha Reynolds,” says Bill. “From the Sun.”

  Now I know who she is.

  “You wrote the piece on me,” I say.

  She stands up, extending an arm. “It’s nice to meet you, Charlotte. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” I look warily back and forth between her and Bill.

  “You two have a lot to talk about,” says Bill. “Come find me when you’re done.”

  Tabitha sips a cup of tea. Next to her saucer sit a reporter’s notebook, pen, and an iPhone.

  “Do you mind if I record this?” she asks.

  “I’d really rather you not.”

  “Okay, then—off the record?”

  “Off the record.”

  “My editor is very interested in you—she loved your story. Ex-girlfriend of Prince Edward, sister to Edward’s new girlfriend, app entrepreneur at the tender age of seventeen, and gorgeous, to boot. It writes itself.”

  “As we all saw,” I say warily.

  “We could create a good working relationship moving forward, you and me. You’re still young; you’re building your reputation. If your sister goes the distance with Edward, you’ll want a friendly reporter on your side. And if she doesn’t—you’ll want to make sure somebody still cares about you. And about the app, of course. Future apps, too.”

  I have a sense of where this is going. I put my hands up. “Let me stop you right there. I don’t want any part of some insider situation. If you want to write about the app again, that would be brilliant. But I’m not trading information about Libby or Edward to get it.”

  She nods. “I thought you’d say that.”

  “Good.”

  “I respect it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But you can’t blame a reporter for trying.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Will you tell Edward that my offer stands? He knows how it works: he needs a friend to help get his messages across. Now that he’s eighteen, he’s fair game—he’ll have to pick a reporter at some point, and I’d like it to be me.”

  “I don’t think he’ll be interested.”

  “You’d be surprised,” she says, standing up. “Look at his mum. The Daily Mail wasn’t getting all those exclusives by accident, you know.”

  “Are you saying the Queen was feeding stories to the press? To the Daily Mail, of all places? I find that a little hard to believe.”

  A smile plays on her lips. “You’ve entered a strange world. It’s all hard to believe.” She reaches out her hand, shaking mine. “I wish you much luck. You’re a clever one. I admire that.”

  She starts to walk away, heading back toward the party.

  “Wait!” I say.

  She turns. “Yes?”

  “We’re still off the record, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get those photos of me? And the article. Who talked?” I’m curious to hear her side of it. As far as I know, Flossie and Tarquin fled campus immediately following their final exams, and nobody’s seen or heard from them since. Alice and Flossie were so close for so long—I’m sure I could text her to find out the latest, but I can’t help but remember how everybody but India was so quick to disbelieve me. I’m not Edward—I’m not going to cut people out willy-nilly.

  But I won’t forget, either.

  “You know I can’t tell you that. A reporter never reveals her sources.”

  “Oh.”

  “But based on my intel, you know exactly who it was. She’s back in Denmark. Now that she’s fallen out of royal favor, I don’t expect we’ll be seeing her on these shores anytime soon.”

  “Wait, how do you know that I know?”

  A little smile plays at her lips. “Welcome to public life, Charlotte.”

  Back downstairs, I mingle with guests, sipping a celebratory glass of champagne and doing my best to remember every single moment. Time flies, but at some point, India shows up with Clemmie Dubonnet in tow.

  “You made it!” I say, giving her a hug. I look at Clemmie expectantly, waiting to be officially introduced.

  “Um, Charlotte, this is Clemmie,” India says, sounding nervous. She flips her long blond hair ba
ck and forth.

  “Hiya!” Clemmie says, leaning in to give me a single cheek kiss. “Congrats! This is major.” She looks around the room. “Oh, Poppy’s here! Be right back.”

  India and I look at each other. She’s totally blushing.

  “So?” I ask.

  She clears her throat. “I . . . uh . . . that is . . .”

  “Are you dating now? Like, for real?”

  India blushes again. “Maybe. I think so. I’m not sure.”

  I can’t help myself. “I’m never seen you like this!”

  She shrugs, laughing a little.

  “Even the great India Fraser is human, it seems,” I say teasingly.

  “Sadly,” she responds.

  “I’m proud of you. It’s kind of a big deal, coming here with Clemmie. All the photographers and everything.” Even though India hasn’t been in the closet per se, magazines like Tatler—who are obviously obsessed with her—have never gotten wind of her sexual orientation. Knowing the press, I expect all the society blogs will be abuzz tomorrow with photos of India and Clemmie hand in hand.

  “I know,” India says, nodding. “Believe me.”

  “But who cares what other people think, right?” I say, raising my chin in defiance. “Isn’t that the big lesson?”

  “Wise words,” she says, smiling.

  “Speaking of caring what everybody thinks, have you talked to Flossie or Tarquin? I want the dirt.”

  India rolls her eyes. “Last time I saw Flossie was when she came to my room and yelled at me. Or she tried to—I slammed the door in her face. Oliver told Georgie that Tarquin didn’t even sit for his last exam—he just slunk away like a thief in the night.”

  “Will he still graduate? Or will his daddy fix it for him, as always?”

  India shrugs. “Who cares? Good riddance to them both.”

  “Charlotte? Excuse me, do you have a minute?”

  It’s another reporter. I look at India apologetically and she waves me off, going to find Clemmie.

  An hour later, after I think my hand is going to fall off from getting pumped so many times and my voice is going to go hoarse from all the interviews, there’s a commotion at the door. Photographers are shouting over one another. There are so many flashes it looks like a lightning storm outside.

  “What on earth . . . ?” the reporter I’m talking to says, turning her head. She gasps. “Oh my God.”

  Libby and Edward walk into the room hand in hand. Libby looks around until she spots me, her face lighting up. The crowd parts, and Libby and Edward make their way to me, every eye in the room on the three of us. Through the window, the photographers jostle one another, faces and lenses pressed up against the glass.

  “I can’t believe you guys actually came,” I say, allowing them both to hug me.

  “Are you mad? I’d never miss this,” says Libby. “We wanted to support you.”

  “But all the reporters. They’re going to be on you like vultures.”

  He and Libby exchange a glance, some sort of telepathic conversation seemingly transmitting back and forth between the two of them. Edward nods. “Now that I’m eighteen, I plan to embrace public life, not run away from it. But on my terms.”

  Libby squeezes his hand.

  “Besides,” he says, “it was the least we could do for you.”

  “This is major. The party is guaranteed to be front-page news now.”

  “That’s the idea,” he says firmly. “I’ll go get us some drinks. You two catch up.”

  “We’ll be in the corner,” says Libby.

  “Even better, we can go upstairs,” I say, pointing to the stairwell that leads to the members-only club. We walk up to the dimly lit room, settling in on a sofa so we can talk in private.

  “So,” I say. “I want to hear the latest details. Tell me everything.”

  Her eyes fill with happy tears. “He said he loves me.”

  “Yay!” I clap my hands together. “What did you say?”

  “That I love him, too, of course,” she laughs. “I’ve been wanting to say it for ages. But I didn’t want to say it first.”

  “Of course. Nana would have a coronary. Were all her lessons for nothing?” I joke.

  “Well, I broke the cow rule,” Libby says. “And yet, magically, mysteriously, we’re still a couple.” We giggle.

  “More importantly, we laid down some ground rules.”

  “Such as?”

  “Family comes first—which means you, Mum, and Dad. I don’t have to hold his hand at every bloody event. I can tell you whatever I want. He has to come to my events, not just me to his. And I’m applying to the photography program in Florence for my gap year.”

  “Was that an issue?”

  “He wanted me to go to Chile with him—but I’m not that into it. If we’re going to work, everything can’t be on his terms. We have to be equal partners, which means what I want is just as important.”

  “Good for you!”

  “We talked a lot about how much pressure it is, and how I don’t have anybody to confide in. And I promised him that you would be a vault and that you could be the one person I’d tell things to, and he said he would never doubt you again.”

  “Atta boy. It’s baby steps, but it’s something.”

  “Agreed—I think it’s going to make us so much stronger. We’re setting a real foundation to go the distance.”

  “I’m so happy for you, Libs. And I’m proud of you for sticking up for yourself.” Libby’s sweet, but when push comes to shove, she’s made of steel. I have no doubt she has what it takes to navigate the choppy waters of being Edward’s girlfriend publicly.

  She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and looks at me steadily. “I’m hoping it can be a new leaf for you and me, too. All our conversations this year have been about Edward. And then we spent half the year barely speaking to each other. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, this year has been pretty Edward-centric.”

  “We would never pass the Bechdel test.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a movie thing. Anyhow, next year will be different. I’ll be home this summer before going on my gap year, and we’ll spend loads of time together. I’ll even let you beat me at tennis.”

  “Oh, please,” I say. “You wish.”

  “I need to do a better job being there for you. Sisters before misters, right?”

  “You did not just say that,” I groan. “You and Edward are perfect for each other. The two of you are so cheesy.” We giggle. “But yes,” I say, hugging her. “We both need to do a better job of making sure nobody comes between us ever again. Not boyfriends, not husbands, not kids—nobody.”

  I have a special place in my heart for the cheesy music my parents listen to: old singer-songwriter stuff like Bruce Springsteen and Sting. Whenever I hear that song “Glory Days,” or the Bryan Adams song “Summer of ’69,” I think about how right now is supposed to be the prime of my life. I try to stop and take a mental snapshot of the moment, filing it away for when I’m old and gray as a reminder that you only live once and I really did try to make the most of every minute.

  Libby is off for her gap year soon, and then she’ll leave England for university in Scotland. I still have another full year of school, and somehow need to juggle schoolwork and university applications and Selfsy simultaneously. Next up is my gap year, then university—and then the great unknown. I can’t imagine what the next year—hell, the next five years—have in store for us. But whatever comes our way, I believe with every fiber of my being that we’ll look back on this time in our lives and we’ll cherish it.

  “Sisters forever,” she says.

  “Sisters forever,” I agree.

  We clasp hands and head back downstairs.

  “Did you see?” I say, pointing with my free hand to the middle of the room. “Kate Moss is here!”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Come on! You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  She laughs. “Of course
I am. Jeez, Charlotte—I’m not that out of it.”

  Edward brings us each a drink, and then Mum and Dad join, the five of us talking about summer plans. Edward promises he’ll make several trips to Wisteria, and I don’t know who looks more elated—Libby or my father.

  Right around when the party reaches max capacity—there’s actually a line outside the door—I feel a little tap on my shoulder.

  “Congratulations, Charlotte.” It’s Robert, looking edible. He’s wearing a navy blazer over a white button-down shirt and fitted jeans. It’s the perfect combination of smart and casual.

  “Robert! You’re here!”

  “I got here a while ago,” he says, “but you were so busy that I didn’t want to bother you. Bill made me promise I wouldn’t monopolize your time.”

  “Monopolize away,” I say, giggling. “I’m really happy to see you.”

  “I’m happy you’re happy.” He pauses, looking like he’s debating saying something. Finally, he says, “I kind of missed you these past few weeks. Texting isn’t the same.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “You look great.”

  “You, too,” I say, blushing a little as I give him the once-over again. He looks bloody hot, in fact. I’ve always been a sucker for sharply dressed guys.

  After I exposed Flossie and Tarquin to Edward, Robert met me downstairs in the Stuart Hall common room, where I told him everything. We spent only a few minutes talking before I went back to find Libby, but just a few minutes was all the time I needed to catch him up.

  “I’m sure you have loads of plans this summer, but I’d love to see you,” he says.

  “Well, you only live twenty minutes from me. You’re practically in my back garden.”

  “Exactly.” He grins, his dimples popping. “It would be a crime not to hang out. So maybe we could get dinner, or lunch, or whatever.”

  “Or whatever,” I repeat. “I’d love that. Option C. All of the above.” I lean up to give him an impromptu kiss on the cheek, and he turns his head in surprise. Our lips meet, and then we pull away quickly, smiling.

  “Whoops,” he says.

  “Sorry.”

  “Didn’t mean to do that.”

  “That’s a shame,” I say coyly.