“You’re allowed to think you’re pretty,” I tease her. “I won’t tell.”
She blushes.
“So that dress goes in the yes pile. Try on the red one.”
Each of the next few dresses is rejected for being over the top, but after a solid forty-five minutes of trying on clothes, we have a respectable pile of dresses, blouses, and trousers. I even manage to get her into a pair of skinny jeans and ankle booties.
“This is too much stuff,” Libby says, carrying an armful of clothing to the cash register. “How are we going to buy all this? My allowance won’t cover it.”
“Credit cards, duh.”
“Dad made it clear our cards are for emergencies only.”
“You’re having your first Saturday night dinner with the group tonight and you have nothing to wear. This totally qualifies as an emergency.”
She plunks her card down, looking doubtful.
“Now we need to get you some fitted jumpers. Yours are too baggy.”
“We can’t buy more. Mum and Dad will kill us!”
“They’ll get over it.”
We hit several more shops, buying choice pieces at each until I’m satisfied with Libby’s bounty.
“I feel like that makeover montage in Pretty Woman,” Libby says.
“Minus the prostitution.” I gently steer her by the elbow toward a hair salon across the street.
“Is this the part where I walk in as an ugly duckling and emerge a swan?”
“Something like that.”
I come to the salon once a month for a trim: the irony of having long hair is that you have to cut it all the time to maintain it, otherwise it turns into a shapeless mess. India turned me onto this salon, coming here to maintain her own crazy-long hair in between her trips to London.
Libby and I sit quietly in the reception area. I grab a copy of Hello! from the coffee table and start flipping through it. A few pages in, my eyes widen at a photo of Edward at home at Cedar Hall in Gloucestershire over the summer. He’s playing polo, sitting confidently astride a horse with a mallet slung over his shoulder. I love the fierce look in his eyes.
“Hey, Libs. Look. The guy I’m dating is in Hello!”
She nods, smiling a little. “Surreal.”
The receptionist calls her name and escorts Libby to a stylist’s chair. I follow with her.
“So, what are we doing today?” he asks, running his fingers through her hair. He’s a skinny man with bleached hair, black eyebrows, and thick black-rimmed glasses.
“Not too much,” she says. “Just a trim.”
The stylist and I exchange a look.
“She doesn’t need much,” I say. “She’s low maintenance, so just a good hairstyle she can work with. But I want her to start blowing it out. Maybe you can show her some straightening techniques, too. And add a few layers. And maybe a tiny bit of fringe. Should we do highlights?”
“Just a trim,” Libby repeats firmly.
The stylist spends nearly an hour painstakingly pulling on Libby’s curly chestnut hair with a round brush, running the blow dryer down the hair shaft over and over. It falls in thick waves, cascading over her shoulders.
“You have so much more hair than I do,” I say. “I’m jealous.”
“Jealous? Of this mess?”
“Most of my clients would kill for hair like yours,” the stylist says, pulling on a tender section of Libby’s scalp and causing her to yelp. “Sorry. No pain, no gain.” She shoots him a dark look.
When he’s done, we stand back and admire his handiwork. Libby’s hair is normally a little frizzy and pulled back, but now it falls in loose waves around her face. He’s given her a few easy layers, but nothing over-the-top. She looks both naturally beautiful and sleek—a million times better.
“You look gorgeous, Libby. Absolute stunner.”
“Wow,” she says. She touches her hair and sits forward in the chair, staring at herself in the mirror. “It’s so soft. How?”
“Loads of conditioner—and some serious elbow grease.”
“We’re going to a dinner tonight,” I say. “Can you make sure it lasts until then?” Libby’s hair turns into a frizzy pouf-ball at the merest hint of moisture in the air.
The stylist pulls out a big can of hair spray, spraying Libby’s hair until it’s well lacquered.
“This must be some fabulous dinner the two of you are going to.”
“Just to Donatella with some friends.” Our friends meet in town most Saturday nights for dinner at Donatella, an Italian hole-in-the wall famous for a lax student-drinking policy.
“All this fuss for Donatella?”
I bristle. “I want her to feel pretty. Are we all done here?”
At the checkout counter, I pull out my wallet. “I’ll pay for this,” I say magnanimously. “My treat.”
Libby bursts out laughing. “Your treat? You’re putting it on Mum and Dad’s credit card!”
My cheeks redden. “It’s the thought that counts.”
“Thank you for a wonderful day, Bug,” she says. She throws her arms around me, pulling me toward her as I sign the receipt and shove the credit card back into my wallet. She plants a big, sloppy kiss on my cheek. “You’re the best sister ever.”
“And don’t you forget it,” I say huffily, leading her out of the salon. I pretend to be irritated, making a big show of wiping my cheek, but I’m pleased.
Once we’re back in my room, I play music on my iPhone and scatter Libby’s new clothes all over the floor.
“Charlotte! You’re going to wrinkle everything!”
“Calm down. We need to figure out what you’re wearing tonight. You can Marie Kondo everything when we’re done.” I pull the blue dress out of the bag. It looks even more stunning in soft lighting. “What about this one?”
“Okay. But what if I’m cold? It’s not very heavy.”
I rummage around my top drawer, pulling out a pair of opaque black tights. “That’s what these are for. We’ll pair it with the new booties and the new black coat—the faux fur collar is major. It’s all going to look beyond.”
“You’re sure I won’t be overdressed?”
“Libby. Relax. Do you trust me?”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Good. Now sit down so I can put makeup on you.”
I spend the next half hour painting on foundation, applying contour, shading her brows, and patting blush on her cheeks.
“Orgasm?” she asks, looking at the blush compact.
“It’s the best. Goes with almost every complexion.”
I reach into my lipstick drawer, pulling out two shades of lipstick, a lip liner, and a light pink gloss.
“That’s all for me?”
“Yeah.” I apply a succession of lip liner, lipstick, and gloss. “Okay, now your eyes. I do them last, ’cause it’s the most important part of the look. There are YouTube gurus who would disagree with me, but . . .” I shrug. “Whatever works, right?”
She starts giggling. “Remember when you got sent home from school for putting on too much makeup?”
My cheeks redden at the memory. I stole some makeup from Mum’s bag and applied it in the bathroom of our primary school. My teacher called the nurse, who thought I’d come down with a fever—my face was covered in splotchy blush and bronzer.
“Not my finest hour. Mum and Dad couldn’t stop laughing!”
“You’ve always been such a beauty genius. You can tell that story after you make your first million and are giving the keynote speech at—what’s a beauty conference?”
“Hmm. CEW?” Cosmetic Executive Women is one of the leading organizations for beauty executives. My favorite blogs report on its awards each year.
“There you go. At CEW.”
“Stop talking,” I say, grinning. “You’re going to look like a Picasso if you keep moving your face.”
I hold my wrist to steady it while I apply a thin line of eyeliner. Next, I buff on several shades of eye shadow, blending unt
il her eyes are smoky.
I lean back to inspect my handiwork. “Now this is what I’m talking about.” Libby looks fantastic.
She examines herself critically in the full-length mirror next to my wardrobe. Several seconds of silence pass. Finally, she says, “You did a really good job.”
“Thank you! I just cleaned you up a bit.” I pull out my phone. “Hold still. I want to take a Snap.”
She smiles widely for the camera, reminding me of a little kid.
“That’s going on my Insta,” I say, saving the Snap to my camera roll and then uploading it to Instagram. “I want to break twenty thousand followers by the end of the school year.” I look at my phone again. I’ve spent so much time getting Libby ready for the party that I’ve completely neglected myself. “We only have forty-five minutes left, and I need to get myself ready. Can I leave you by yourself?”
“Charlotte, I might be inept with makeup, but I’m not a toddler.”
“Okay, chill, no need to get all snappy.”
I rush down the hall to the shared bathroom, bringing my shower caddy. I already washed my hair this morning, so all I need to do is suds up my body and apply some makeup.
While in the shower, I start daydreaming about my friends’ reactions to Libby. They’re going to be blown away when they see her.
But when I return to the room wrapped in a towel, I find that Libby has rubbed off half my work.
“What did you do?”
She looks sheepish. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
“Wouldn’t notice? You’ve rubbed everything off!” The eye shadow is practically gone and her lips are almost bare.
“I’m not used to wearing all that makeup—I felt like a clown!”
“You looked bomb.”
“Well . . . I’m wearing the dress you wanted. And my hair is nice and sleek. And I still have on way more makeup than normal. Isn’t that enough?” She looks hopeful.
“Fine. I just want everything to go great. I want you to fit in.” I look at Libby with a hard eye. “Actually . . . you still look amazing. Less is more, and it suits you better, anyway.” Suddenly, I feel a little bit guilty for trying to bend Libby to my will. I need to do a better job of accepting her for who she is, not who I want her to be.
She visibly relaxes. “Thank you.”
“Natural beauty is totally in, so you’re on point.”
“I appreciate the effort. It means so much to me, Charlotte.”
“You’re my sister, silly. I’d do anything for you.”
“Anything?”
“Anything. Here,” I say, tossing her the latest issue of Tatler magazine. “Read this while I get ready.”
She wrinkles her nose. “This magazine is so silly—I never understood why you and Mum are obsessed with it.”
I gasp. “You did not just say that.”
“It’s so boring!”
“How do we come from the same family? Sorry, but I don’t have any issues of the Economist lying around.”
She laughs. “I don’t read the Economist. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Whatever. You’re like a thirty-year-old. We need to make you young again.”
She looks at me wryly. “Was I ever young?”
“Yeah, good point.” I grab one of the old issues of Elle from the floor of my closet. It’s hidden underneath a pile of dirty clothes that I keep meaning to send out for the school’s laundry service. “Read this instead,” I say, tossing her the issue. “It’s fashion and feminism. Give it a chance: you’ll love it.”
“How did I ever survive without you?” she says teasingly.
I shake my head. “I genuinely don’t know.”
eight
Even though all I have to do is apply party makeup and put on my clothes, it still takes me over an hour to get ready. By the time I’m finished applying my eyeliner, brushing out my hair, and putting on my clothes, Libby and I are dead late. I still take five seconds to Snap myself and post an Instagram of my shoes before leaving. Five seconds won’t kill anybody.
At least I’ve chosen a relatively simple outfit: gray tunic over black leggings, thick black cashmere scarf, gray stiletto boots, and my favorite black bomber jacket. I don’t want to steal attention from Libby tonight.
When we walk into the back room at Donatella fifteen minutes later, our cheeks pink from the wind, heads turn. As Libby shyly takes off her coat, however, nobody’s looking at me.
“Damn!” says David, whistling.
Oliver grins. “Looking good, Libs.”
“I would hit it,” Tarquin says to nobody in particular. “Definitely.”
As the boys look at her with interest, India gives Libby the once-over, nodding approvingly. “Your hair looks nice like that.”
Next to Oliver, Georgie grins at Libby, shooting her a thumbs-up. Even Flossie looks impressed.
I look at Edward, hoping to see a big smile, but his reaction is neutral. He looks at me, patting the seat next to him.
“Oh, but where will Libby sit?” There’s an open seat at the end of the table, between Tarquin and David. “I’ll sit there,” I say. “Libby, why don’t you sit here next to Edward?”
Libby does as she’s told. I plop down at the opposite end of the table and Tarquin immediately turns to me.
“Weston,” he says, “your sister is a right fittie.”
“She is?”
“Yeah. She’s hot. I’d do that.”
“Vomit. Don’t be a wanker.”
He responds by reaching over and filling my empty wineglass. I notice that there are already several empty bottles of the house red, a bitter swill that might as well be vinegar. “You’ve got catching up to do. Drink up.”
The fireplace warms the small room, which otherwise has no heating. I keep my jacket on, leaning back to let the fire warm me. The English aristocracy seem to think suffering is glamorous. How else to explain the addiction to everything cold and drafty? I think it must be a throwback to their ancestors, who had titles but not the money to back it up. Of course, with the current interest in all things royal, those days are over—if you’ve got a title and a country estate, you’re milking it for all it’s worth.
My phone pings with a text.
INDIA: Job well done. She looks bloody fantastic.
ME: Thx! Did major damage on parents’ cc today, ha!
INDIA: Worth every penny.
I look up from my phone to smile at India, and Edward catches my eye. He blows me a kiss.
“What took you two so long?” asks Flossie across the table.
“We were shopping,” I explain.
“Did you buy anything good?” she asks, turning to Libby.
“I don’t think there are any clothes left in town! Dresses, shirts, trousers—everything.”
“Libby hasn’t gone shopping in a long time,” I say.
“Charlotte has demanded I donate my jeans to an old-age home and burn all my flannel shirts,” she says.
“I don’t know, flannel is kind of retro,” says Flossie. “Like, in a good way.”
“Right?” says Libby, turning to me and smiling. “See? I wasn’t a fashion disaster, I was fashion forward. Everything old is new again.”
“You looked lovely then and you look lovely now,” India says kindly. Libby gives a small smile, blushing and looking pleased.
“She’s shy, eh?” Tarquin says as India leads the conversation on the other end of the table.
“Yeah, we have a loud family. She fades into the background and lets us all tear each other to bits like a pack of wolves. Plus, she’s self-conscious.”
“I have no bloody idea why,” he says, taking a gulp of wine as if it were water. “Put in a good word for me? I’m going to try my luck.”
“Ha! You’ll need it.”
I make a show of playing along with Tarquin and ribbing him good-naturedly, but in actuality, I find him a boor. He’s the worst type of aristocrat: entitled, smarmy, and convinced that
everything coming out of his mouth is brilliant. Luckily, he mistakes insults for flirting.
He cocks his head, looking at Libby thoughtfully. She’s quietly sitting at the end of the table, taking tiny sips of her wine and watching India, Flossie, and Edward as if observing a tennis match.
“Yeah, I’m going to hit that.”
“You’re a pig.” He thinks I’m joking. I’m not.
“What about you?” He leans in closer. “You and Eds? A little side helping of dessert?”
“Jesus, Tarkie, you’re on fire tonight. Have you got any shame?”
“C’mon!”
“It’s none of your damn business—but, no, if you must know.”
“Really? Surprising. Hoping to lock him down first?”
I’m tempted to throw my drink in his face. I ignore him.
“So, Edward,” I call from across the table. “You and Libby are in the same maths class, yeah? How’s old Jonesy?” Professor Jones is only in his forties, but he carries himself like he’s a thousand years old, wearing thick spectacles and using a walking stick. His hair is already completely gray.
“Still impossible. That man is a proper sadist.”
“Libs, you should tutor Edward. Libby is an absolute whiz at maths,” I explain.
She blushes. “I’d hardly call myself a whiz.”
“Stop being so modest—you’re a genius. I dread that class next year.”
“Are you having problems in maths?” Libby asks Edward.
“Always,” he laughs.
“I’d be happy to help you, if you like?” She looks over at me, as if for affirmation, and I nod at her, smiling. I know she’s drowning in homework, but she’s still willing to take time out of her schedule to help others—I love this about her.
“I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” he says, refilling his wine and then offering it to Libby. She accepts half a glass.
“It wouldn’t be any trouble,” she says.
“There!” I say. “It’s settled!”
The waiter arrives to take our orders. He’s an older Italian man with a suffocatingly thick accent—somebody I’ve never seen before. It leads to a comedy of errors: lots of pantomiming and raised voices.
“If they don’t speak English, shouting at them isn’t going to help,” I say to Tarquin.
Romancing the Throne Page 9
