Romancing the Throne

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  I turn off the television and the common room lights, and together the two of us walk down the hall and up the stairs.

  “Hey,” she says. “Want to have a little slumber party tonight? Like old times?”

  I grin. “Do you even have to ask?”

  After stopping by the bathroom, Libby borrows a T-shirt, and together the two of us slide under my covers.

  “Remember the day Mum got that huge Soles order?” I say, feeling nostalgic.

  “I do. From Selfridges.”

  “It was just a day like any other. We woke up, and we had lunch, and we went to the community pool—”

  “—oh, God, that place was so gross—”

  “—and suddenly our lives changed forever.”

  “Except it wasn’t exactly sudden,” she points out. “Mum and Dad had been working for years to get to that moment. It seemed overnight, but in reality, it was ages of effort.”

  “That’s true.” I pull the covers up to my chin, snuggling in closer to Libby. “It feels like a million years ago.”

  “Well, so much has changed.”

  “Like us, finally together! I’m so happy you’re here, Libs.”

  “Me, too. I can’t believe we didn’t go to the same school from the beginning.” She yawns again.

  “Part of me thinks the reason I never applied to Greene House was because I was scared I wouldn’t get in,” I say, leaning my head over toward her shoulder. I’ve never admitted this out loud.

  “You’re so talented, Lotte. You just have to believe in yourself like I do,” she says, her voice getting heavy with sleep as she contorts her arm to scratch the top of my head. “You’re so smart, but you don’t give yourself enough credit.”

  “Thanks, Libs,” I whisper into the dark. “It’s nice to hear that.”

  “Okay.” She yawns again. “Sleepy time.”

  “Love you, Bug,” she says, using my childhood nickname.

  “Love you, Button,” I say, turning over and falling asleep.

  seven

  Like many boarding schools, Sussex Park has a small coterie of day students. They’re included in pretty much everything except Friday afternoon house meetings—the last thing after classes standing between us and weekend freedom.

  Officially, the head of house is supposed to review complaints about the communal facilities, update the students on campus events, and provide a safe atmosphere for grievances or concerns. In reality, it’s just a pointless ten minutes where everybody yawns and buries their head in their phone as Arabella munches on crackers and lazily reads off a handwritten list provided by McGuire.

  This week’s announcements include a reminder to turn off the TV and lights after using the common room, a plea to stop using up all the hot water in the showers, and fair warning that McGuire will be conducting a “surprise” bed check tonight for the girls who haven’t already submitted paperwork for weekend leave.

  After we all file out of the common room, Flossie and Alice blow us air kisses and head upstairs to get their overnight bags. Flossie’s parents are back in the UK and have invited her and Alice to spend the night with them at their country place nearby. Georgie rushes off, muttering that she’ll see us at dinner. She’s wearing makeup, which is rare.

  That leaves Libby, India, and me.

  “Come by mine,” says India.

  “I shouldn’t.” Libby looks upstairs apprehensively. “I’m drowning in homework since I started the school year late. It’s going to take me weeks to catch up.”

  “You know the teachers will totally cut you a break. They don’t expect you to do all the assignments.” I don’t even know why I’m saying it. I know better than to argue with Libby over schoolwork.

  “I need letters of recommendation and these teachers hardly know me yet. Universities are going to be looking hard at my marks this year. I can’t be a slacker.”

  “You? A slacker? That’s hilarious,” I say.

  “How about I study for an hour or two, but then I’ll come meet you guys later tonight after dinner?” Libby says. “I have a stash of cookies I picked up in town.”

  “White chocolate chip?” I ask.

  “What else?”

  “You are dismissed.” I nod. “Go. Be free. Study until you have attained enlightenment, young grasshopper.”

  Libby smiles at us, rushing upstairs gratefully. India and I follow behind, climbing the stairs at a snail’s pace.

  “I swear, she’s the only person I know who thinks an A-minus is a failure.”

  “Bless her,” India says. “It’s sweet. At least one of us is doing her homework.”

  We walk into her room and sit on her bed. There’s a single framed photo on the bedside table: India, her parents, and her four brothers, smiling prettily into the camera on a gray beach. The setting sun pokes through the window, bouncing off the gold signet ring on the pinkie finger of her left hand.

  “She’s a rock star—academically, at least. Although she’s always on my case about university.”

  “Already? But it’s not for ages,” India says.

  “You’re preaching to the choir.”

  “I always wanted a sister. Are you two close?”

  “Very. Even after she went away to boarding school, we texted each other every single day. I missed her like crazy that first year. Now we mostly only see each other in summer, though.” I’m quiet for a second, suddenly feeling sad for all the time lost.

  “You think she’s enjoying it here?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Good.”

  “Well . . . mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  “She’s finding her rhythm.”

  “That takes time. She transferred schools in her last year, left all her friends, has her little sister looking over her shoulder—it’s a lot.”

  “True.”

  “But it’s kind of you to worry about her,” says India. “You’re a good sister.”

  “I just want her to fit in. Greene House was so different.”

  “How so?”

  I think back to the times I visited the campus with my parents. “It was so serious—much more regimented. The girls put pressure on themselves like you wouldn’t believe. They have an amazing humanities program, and everybody gets into great universities, but it always seemed like such a miserable grind to me. I wanted to be at the same school as Libby, but after I toured it, I realized you couldn’t have paid me enough to go there.”

  “She does seem rather tightly wound,” India says.

  “Nah, she’s not that bad. And she wasn’t like that when we were kids—I mean, yeah, she was always less outgoing than me, but when she’s comfortable, she can be really silly and just funny. Greene House wasn’t the right place for her.”

  “Why don’t you have a girls’ day out tomorrow, just the two of you? You’re always around us, around Edward—maybe she just needs a little quality Charlotte time.”

  “The world needs more Charlotte time,” I say, laughing. “That’s a good idea.” I think back to Edward talking with his mother and how tight-lipped he was being, changing the subject. “Random question, but speaking of Edward—do you think he’s been weird recently?”

  India considers the question. “I wouldn’t call it weird, exactly—he’s just off in the clouds again. He’s been like this since we were kids. Every once in a while, he gets overwhelmed by life and just . . . disappears.”

  “Huh.”

  “He skipped dinner twice this week, remember?” she points out. “His life is hard. Most people don’t understand that.”

  I think back to Libby telling me she felt sorry for Edward. “I shouldn’t take it personally, right?”

  “No. But he needs somebody understanding. He’s under a lot of pressure, especially now.”

  “Why now?” I feel like I don’t know him at all. It has only been a few weeks that we’ve been dating.

  India turns away, reaching for the pack of Camel Blues she keeps in the jewe
led case next to her bed. “Close the door, will you?”

  As I close the door to the hallway, she opens the window, lighting up a cigarette.

  “Don’t take it personally,” she repeats. “He’s got stuff going on.”

  I roll my eyes. “We’ve all got stuff going on.”

  “Family stuff.”

  “Oh.”

  “He turns eighteen this year,” she says, as if this explains everything.

  “Which means . . . ?”

  “It means our little caterpillar is about to become a butterfly, and he’s freaking out about it,” she says. “You guys don’t talk about this at all?”

  When Edward and I hang out, we don’t do much talking—we’re either watching TV, making out, or absentmindedly scrolling through our phones.

  Suddenly, I feel like a terrible girlfriend. Am I his girlfriend? Or am I just some girl he’s dating?

  I shrug. “Not really.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” she continues. “You’ve got a lot going on, too. It’s not up to you to fix everybody’s problems for them. Just give him some space and he’ll come around.”

  “You’re right. Good idea.”

  She collapses back on her bed, her mermaid hair floating on her pillow around her as she takes a deep drag of the cigarette. “I’m full of ’em.”

  Later that night, Edward and I are in the Colvin Hall common room, snuggling together on the sofa while watching telly. I invited Libby to come watch television after dinner, but she begged off to keep doing homework. Even though she’s only a couple of weeks behind schedule, she’s panicking about catching up.

  It’s been warm for October, but suddenly the weather has turned freezing, the wind whistling outside the window. I snuggle closer to Eds for warmth and lay my head on his chest. Neither of us is paying attention to the TV: I’m hopping between Viewty and Snapchat, and he’s texting somebody.

  “Everything okay?” I ask. “You’ve been frowning at that thing for the past ten minutes.”

  “I’m sorry. Just texting with my dad.”

  This makes my eyes go wide. “I’m sorry. You’re texting with your father?”

  He chuckles, looking up from his phone. “I guess that does sound a bit bizarre. Yes, my father texts occasionally. The King knows how to text.”

  “I heard you on the phone with your mum before—the day you met Libby. You seemed tense. I mean, even before the whole photographer thing.”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry. There’s a lot of family stuff going on right now.”

  I look at him expectantly, but he doesn’t say any more.

  Three Colvin girls from the third floor—Sara, Henrietta, and Violet—walk into the common room. “Hey, Charlotte. Oh! Edward! Hi!” says Henrietta.

  “Hi,” he says, smiling. He clicks off his phone, sliding it into his pocket. “You ready for Gogglebox?”

  Violet stands in the doorway, looking uncomfortable. “Um, we can go watch it in Trinity Hall, if you want.”

  Edward opens his mouth, but I beat him to it. “It’s fine! We’re leaving soon anyway.”

  “We are?” Edward asks.

  “India texted me. She’s at Snog Point with Georgie, Oliver, David, and Tarquin. We can go after the advert.” I’ll go upstairs before leaving and force Libby to join us. Twenty minutes of fun won’t kill her.

  “I don’t know,” he says. In the corner, Henrietta puts a bag of popcorn in the microwave, the smell wafting through the common room as the kernels pop. “That popcorn smells good.”

  “You can have some!” she says, looking elated.

  “But they’ve got snacks, too—Georgie’s mum sent her a care package with homemade cookies. Plus, India has a bottle of wine.”

  “It’s cold outside.” He puts his arms around me, pulling me closer to him. “I’d rather stay inside with you.”

  I know I should find this sweet, but it only makes me feel grumpy. My idea of the perfect Friday night is hanging out with all our friends and sneaking off for kisses, not sitting on a stained sofa with three girls I barely know.

  “Fine,” I say, deciding I’ll try to make the best of it. “Hey, Henrietta—mind if I have a little of that popcorn?”

  Two campus shuttles take students to and from London twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays. On Libby’s second Saturday at Sussex Park, we plan to catch the morning shuttle into London for a girls’ day out, but I’m so knackered from a week of early field hockey practices that I skip breakfast in favor of more sleep. I wake to find Libby standing over my head, asking when we’re leaving.

  I look at the time on my phone. “Damn it! The bus left three minutes ago.”

  “It’s okay,” Libby says. “Aren’t there a bunch of shops and restaurants in town?”

  “Yeah, but the ones in London are better.”

  “Why? A Topshop is a Topshop. A café is a café. We’ll be fine.”

  I roll over, burrowing under the covers. “Okay. Wake me in another hour.”

  “Come on, Charlotte. You’re the one who suggested it!”

  “And now I have a new suggestion: sleep.”

  She flings the covers off me as I shriek in response to the blast of cold air on my legs. “You have half an hour! I’m going to go upstairs and do some homework in the meantime.”

  I pull the covers back on top of me, yawning. “How about forty-five minutes?”

  She smiles at me. “Fine. But I’m coming back for you in exactly forty-five minutes—and you’d better be ready.”

  “Whatever you say, Mum,” I say, rolling over to sneak in a few extra minutes of sleep.

  It’s an easy ten-minute walk to the far end of the high street, where all the chain clothing stores are. We hit up Topshop first, me pulling clothes off the racks and handing shirts, dresses, jumpers, and trousers to a shop assistant who finds us a changing room.

  I’ve decided that Libby needs better clothes. I know what she wants: loose and low-key. But she needs to look like she belongs with India’s crowd, not like she’s a refugee from the 1990s. The wrong clothing will immediately mark you as an outsider.

  When I was younger, it’s not like I spent time thinking about the clothing choices of upper-class girls. In the town we grew up in, discount clothing from Marks & Spencer was the norm—fashion wasn’t even a little on my radar until we suddenly had money and I realized I needed to fit in. But if I had thought about it earlier, I would have assumed posh girls wore tweed and riding boots and tailored red jackets: really serious, horsey stuff. India and the rest of the girls occasionally wear stuff like that, but more often than not they’re dressed in jeans, cable-knit jumpers, and scruffy trainers, like regular teenagers. I’ve spent years studying every little detail of how they dress, and luckily I have a sharp enough eye to pull it off. If I’m being charitable, it’s not really that different from how Libby dresses, except she wears the same few clothes over and over again. She prefers to divert her monthly allowance into a savings account.

  Me, I spend mine. Life is short, and it’s made for actually living, right?

  “What is that?” Libby asks, pointing to a sparkly blue skirt.

  “A skirt. I thought it would be good for nights when we go into London.”

  “Why would we go into London?”

  “You’ll need something to wear dancing.”

  “Won’t we get in trouble? How will we get there? Won’t the clubs turn us out for being too young?”

  “Oh my God, relax! I’ve got it covered.”

  “It looks like a headband,” she says, taking the skirt from me and holding it gingerly, like it might explode.

  “Your style is all over the place. Clothes like that”—I point to her oversized flannel shirt and boot-cut jeans—“mean you’ll still be a virgin when you’re forty. Why are you wearing those jeans anyway? I lent you a ton of clothes. There were some J Brands in there.”

  “I love these jeans. And they weren’t cheap. I got them at Selfridges.”

  “They loo
k like mum jeans.”

  “They’re comfy. I can wear my favorite boots with them.”

  “Nowadays, in the future, we humans wear skinny jeans, and we wear our boots over the jeans,” I say slowly, exaggerating my words as if Libby is an alien.

  “Skinny jeans look weird on me.”

  “Then you just haven’t found the right pair.”

  “I’m not comfortable showing off my body like you are.”

  “I don’t know why—your body is sick. Keep your nineties jeans, if you insist. But there has to be a middle ground between miniskirts and muumuus.”

  She laughs. “Fine. I’ll try on a pair. Dress me, fashion Yoda. I’ll help you with your homework in return.”

  “Ew. Pass.”

  “I’ll bake you white chocolate chip cookies?”

  “Now you’re talking!”

  I grab another dress, sending Libby into the changing room.

  The minutes tick by. Finally, I go in. “Well? What’s the holdup?”

  She pokes her head out from behind the door. “I look silly.”

  “Out with it. Let me see.”

  Libby steps into the hall, her eyes downward. She’s wearing a fitted bright blue dress that shows off her waist to perfection. It’s longer than anything I’d wear, but knowing Libby, she probably considers it a miniskirt.

  “Hot stuff!” I whistle. “You look banging.”

  She blushes. “You don’t think it’s a little tight?”

  “Libs, that’s kind of the point. It’s a dinner dress. Do you like it?”

  She turns around, inspecting herself from multiple angles in the mirrors. “I do . . . but what about the chest? You don’t think it’s too low-cut?”

  “We have professors that wear dresses more revealing than that. It’s perfect. It shows off your body without making you look slutty.”

  She frowns. “Don’t objectify women like that. Slapping labels on females because of their sexual choices—”

  “Okay, jeez, I’m sorry.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “It shows off your body while still making you look like a strong woman who knows her mind. Is that better?” She rolls her eyes at me. “I think it’s a winner. You look seriously hot.”

  Libby stares at herself in the mirror for several long seconds. Her face relaxes slightly and she looks pleased.