“Bloody foreigners.”
“I’m sorry, isn’t your family German?”
“The King is German. Everybody is German.”
“I see,” I say, trying to stop myself from rolling my eyes.
When the waiter gets to Edward, he does a double take.
“Prince!” he exclaims. “Eduardo!”
Edward flushes a little bit. A mild flash of annoyance skitters across his face, but in an instant, it’s gone, replaced by a wry smile. “Sí, sí,” he says. “Eduardo. That’s me.”
After he walks away, Libby leans over to Edward, quietly saying something I can’t hear. He gives her a grateful look and nods. “It is. Thank you.”
She smiles back. Victory! They’re getting along.
I feel like Libby is finally enjoying herself, which helps me relax in turn. I spend the rest of the meal laughing with my side of the table—drinking wine, uploading Snaps of my food, and inhaling my pasta carbonara. One of the major advantages of field hockey practice five times a week: I can eat boatloads of pasta—my favorite—without it affecting me. While I hate waking up early, that perk alone is worth the price of admission.
After dessert, I push away my half-eaten plate of tiramisu. I haven’t even thought about Libby in over an hour, after angling my chair away from her to joke with David. I look back and see her and Edward deep in quiet conversation, their chairs turned toward each other and their heads leaning down. Libby is ticking things off her fingers one by one. I strain my ears and catch her saying the words “Pareto principle.” They must be talking about study habits.
If you walked in the room and looked at them, you’d have no idea that tonight was the first proper conversation they’d ever had.
I smile, happy they’re bonding—even if it’s over something as boring as their studies.
“Why are you grinning like a maniac?” David asks.
“Am I? No reason.”
Everything’s proceeding exactly as planned.
A few hours and several glasses of wine later, we all walk back to campus together.
India, Edward, Libby, and I hang back from the rest of the group. David and Tarquin run around like drunken fools, chasing up behind Flossie and Alice and hoisting them over their shoulders. Georgie and Oliver are ahead of everybody, walking arm in arm. I’m not sure if they’ve hooked up yet, but it’s clearly heading in that direction, which makes me smile. Sometimes opposites just attract.
The sexual tensions in our group are always shifting. It seems everybody has a crush on somebody else from week to week: one week it’s David lusting after Alice; the next, he has his sights set on Flossie. Now that Flossie seems resigned to the fact that she’ll never have Edward, her radar has turned back toward Tarquin; she’s constantly laughing at his inane jokes. They’ve already made out a few times, and they’re perfect for each other—they’re both convinced they’re the most wonderful people on the planet and that everybody else is beneath them.
Everybody—girls and boys alike—is a little bit in love with India, although she only dates girls, of course. I don’t know anybody who isn’t attracted to that sort of burning confidence. It doesn’t hurt that she’s gorgeous and nice.
As we make our way back onto campus, the group immediately settles down and starts to break apart, everybody blowing kisses and quietly saying their good-byes as they tiptoe back to their halls of residence. I notice Georgie and Oliver sneaking off together toward Snog Point.
Now it’s just Edward, Libby, and me.
“Tarquin fancies you,” I say.
“Does he?” she giggles. The wine seems to have gone to her head. She winds her arm through mine as we walk down the sloping hill toward Colvin. “Should I be interested?”
“No,” Edward says firmly. “He’s fun for a laugh, but I’d never date him.”
“Yeah, he’s a total wanker,” I say. “And thank goodness. I’d be so embarrassed if you dumped me for Tarquin.”
Edward laughs.
“Then why are you all friends with him?” Libby asks.
Edward shrugs. “I’ve known him since we were kids. We grew up together with India and Flossie. If I were just meeting him now, I don’t think we’d be mates.” The Gloucestershire set is nothing if not tight-knit: just a few titled families running in the same circles over and over.
We walk back through campus. The oak trees look gauzy in the moonlight.
“What was that Indian restaurant you were talking about at dinner, Edward?” Libby asks.
“Maharajah.”
“I love a good curry.”
“Yeah, that place is one of our favorites,” I say.
“Why don’t we all go next week?” Libby says. “I’m dying for some popadams.”
“How about Tuesday?” I say.
Edward nods. “Works for me!”
“It’s a date!” Libby says.
The three of us reach the crest of the hill and say our good-byes. Edward hugs Libby and then gives me a quick peck on the lips.
“Bye!” Libby waves at him, reminding me of a happy toddler waving bye-bye.
She links her arm through mine again as we walk to our residence hall.
“You’re right, Charlotte,” she says. “He’s lovely!”
“I knew you’d get along! You just needed to give him a chance. What’d you talk about?”
“Mostly polo—I had no idea it was such a dangerous sport. Did you know that people die every year?”
I nod. “Those horses go almost fifty miles an hour, I think. It’s crazy.”
Libby shakes her head in wonder. “It sounds a bit strange, considering we grew up in the shadow of Cowdray, but I’ve never paid much attention to polo.”
“Because you were too busy being a nerd,” I say, poking her in the ribs playfully.
She swats my hand away. “He said that we could go see a game with him soon, if you want to. He’s very passionate about it.”
“Sure.” I shrug. “That sounds like fun.”
“You don’t mind if I tag along, do you?”
“Of course not.”
“It’ll be fun,” she giggles.
“You’re smashed!”
“Maybe a little. I only had two glasses of wine. Barely that. But I’m not used to drinking.”
As we enter the residence hall, closing the front door gingerly behind us, I put my finger to my lips.
“We need to be quiet,” she says loudly. Her voice reverberates off the marble.
“Shh!” I whisper in a panic. “Don’t . . . say . . . anything.”
We tiptoe up the stairs. When we reach the second floor, Libby accidentally stumbles, calling out “Damn!” as she trips.
I grab her by the hand and pull her after me, sprinting down the hall to my bedroom and shutting the door. In the hallway, I hear McGuire’s door open. It’s several seconds before it closes again.
“That was close,” I say, my heart pounding. “You should sleep here tonight.”
“It’s only one floor. I can make it.”
“You smell like a wine cellar. It’s not worth it. Let’s have another slumber party.”
“Ooh!” She smiles. “Let’s do that!”
We start getting ready for bed.
“How do you wear all that makeup all night?” she groans. “I’m dying to get this slop off my face.”
“Try these.” I toss her a packet of makeup remover wipes. “Perfect when you can’t be bothered to wash your face.”
She rubs the wipe all over her face.
“You look like a Jackson Pollock painting. Here.” I take another wipe and gently tissue the eyeliner, mascara, and foundation residue off her cheeks. “Much better.”
“Thanks, Lotte,” she murmurs, pulling the covers down and crawling into bed. She scooches next to the wall.
“You’re still in your clothes! Aren’t you going to change?”
But Libby is already snoring lightly.
I smile at my drunken sister, changi
ng into a T-shirt and boxers before climbing into bed.
nine
“Weston!” Coach Wilkinson blows her whistle. “Get your ass over here!”
I run over to the sidelines, sweating through my jersey.
It’s a bright, clear Tuesday in late October: the type of blustery day where it’s warm in the sun but freezing in the shade. Running all over the field during practice has exhausted me. I started the practice with several layers this morning at six thirty a.m. Now, I’m in only a T-shirt and shorts, and I’m boiling.
She places her hands on her hips. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
Coach Wilkinson comes from America. She married a Brit she met while backpacking through Europe after college, and then she stayed. I’ve seen enough American telly to know that her accent must have softened over the years: it’s not as harsh and flat to my ears as most American accents. She kind of sounds Canadian. But she’s still a dyed-in-the-wool, born-and-bred, flag-waving American. This is never clearer than on the hockey field. I think she gets off on yelling at us.
“I’m sorry?”
“Do. You. Think. I’m. An. Idiot.”
“No. Why?”
“Well, that’s music to my ears. The way you’re pussyfooting around out there, it’s like you think I haven’t noticed how lazy you’ve been all morning.” She adjusts her visor.
“Um . . . I’m sorry? I’m not sure why you’re upset.” I hate people yelling at me.
“You’re not sure why I’m upset? How about your time around the track this morning? You added six seconds. Or the fact that you were late to practice?”
“I’m very sorry. Like I said, my alarm didn’t go off this morning, and then I needed to run to Powers Hall to turn in a late paper—”
“Quit it with the excuses. There are no excuses in real life. Either you win or you fail. Do you want to be a winner or a failure?”
“A winner?”
“Exactly. You want to be a winner. That means you need to get your head in the game. We’re never going to win anything this year if you’re strolling around the field like my grandmother.”
Sometimes I feel like Coach Wilkinson has seen too many sports movies.
“I’m sorry. I understand,” I say firmly.
“Good.” She gives me a curt nod. “Back to practice.”
I push myself hard, determined to show Coach Wilkinson that I’m giving it my all. Sure enough, she claps me on the back as I’m heading to the locker room. It’s not exactly praise, but I think it’s as good as I can expect from her.
But while we’re undressing, she comes into the locker room.
“Listen up! We’re going to be having extra practice every day this week after classes. Five p.m. sharp.”
The group erupts.
“What?”
“No!”
“But I have plans.”
“You can’t!”
Once everybody has stopped complaining, she says, “You got dinner plans? Cancel ’em. Our game in two weekends is against Norfolk, and we need the extra work. Badly. You’re a hot mess out there. I’m not going to name names”—her eyes dart toward me—“but I need everybody on the team to step up. Don’t like it?” She points toward the exit. “There’s the door. You’re welcome to get the hell out.”
Silence.
“All in agreement? Good. Meet me in the weight room at five p.m.”
I shoot Edward and Libby a group text message:
ME: Ugh. Have to practice late every day this week. Wilkinson sux. Don’t bother rescheduling dinner. Have fun. Xxx
EDWARD: Damn. Ok.
LIBBY: Proud of you, Lotte! Should we bring back a takeaway?
ME: Rock star! Yes, pls.
At least they’ll have some time to bond without me.
Later that night, after practice finally winds down, I go over to India’s room, knocking on the door. Nobody answers, so I move on down the hall to Flossie’s room, where the door is open.
She’s leaning back on her bed, a sea of pillows behind her, writing something longhand.
“Hey,” she says. “Come in. Want some wine?” There’s a mug on the desk that I’d assumed was tea, surrounded by lit candles.
“Sure. Should I close the door?”
“Yeah.”
I enter, closing the door behind me. Flossie sits up, swinging her long legs over the quilted blanket.
“So. Donatella,” she says.
“Huh?”
“Your sister. She looked bloody fantastic.”
“She did, didn’t she?”
“You did a tremendous job. You should be proud.” Flossie reaches into the nightstand and pulls out a pack of Camel Blues, popping one into her mouth and lighting it with one of the candles. “Want one?”
I lean over, plucking a cigarette from the pack. “Shouldn’t we open the window?”
“Sure,” she says. It’s clear she’s not going to do it, so I stand up and push open the panes, looking out onto the back forests of Sussex.
“What are we all doing this Saturday?”
But Flossie doesn’t seem to hear me. She frowns into her phone.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Libby and Edward are in town without you.”
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging. “Hockey practice went long.”
“So?”
“The three of us had dinner plans—so Libby and Edward could keep getting to know each other. We have late hockey practices the whole week now, so I told them to go without me.”
Flossie nods. “I see. That makes sense, I suppose.”
“What? You sound weird.”
She takes a deep drag of her cigarette. All she needs is bloodred lipstick and a deep side part and she’d look like a film star from the thirties. “I don’t know.” She exhales slowly. Libby hates it when I smoke. But most kids at Sussex Park smoke at least a little bit—except Edward.
“I’m not sure I understand why you’re so keen on Edward and Libby getting along,” she says. “Explain it to me.”
“She’s my sister.”
“We’ve established that.”
“And he’s my boyfriend.”
“Aware of that, too . . .”
“I guess I just thought they would get along.”
“Yes, but Charlotte, there’s a world of difference between making sure your sister and your boyfriend get along, and setting them up on a romantic dinner. Sure you don’t want to book them a hotel room and send a bottle of champagne while you’re at it?”
Now it’s my turn to frown. “You think it’s too much? Maharajah is hardly romantic.”
“How many options do we have in this town? We’re not in London. It’s a real restaurant with tablecloths. They don’t serve burgers, pizza, or fish and chips. And it’s your date spot with Edward. I’d say it qualifies as romantic.”
“You’re freaking me out. Should I worry? Ow!” My cigarette has burned down to the nub, burning my index finger. I toss it into the water-filled mug on the window ledge that she’s using as an ashtray.
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
I look at her suspiciously. “Do you know something?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t. But even if I did, I wouldn’t get involved. Your love life, your problem.”
I start picking at my cuticles. “Well, that’s lame,” I say sullenly. “I’d tell you if something were going on with your boyfriend.”
“First of all, I don’t have a boyfriend. Maybe this summer, we’ll see what we can put together on the Mediterranean cruise”—Flossie’s family charters a yacht off Sardinia every June—“but until then, I have zero interest in teenage boys. Secondly, if something were going on with my boyfriend, I’d know.”
“Where is this coming from? Did somebody say something?”
Her eyes flick toward her phone.
“What? Who texted you? India? What did she say?” Any pretense of keeping my cool is gone.
“It wasn’t India, it was Alice. S
he says she saw Edward and Libby in Maharajah. From behind, she thought it was you at first.”
“Is that all? Jesus, you freaked me out. Libby and I look alike. Our hair’s the same color—I think she’s even wearing my clothes tonight. I lent her my favorite blazer.”
Flossie doesn’t look convinced.
“Did she say anything else?”
“That’s all.”
“So why are you so concerned?” I’m beginning to feel exasperated.
“Charlotte. Alice thought Edward was with you. Doesn’t that imply something?”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . maybe they were too close. Maybe he was looking at her a certain way.”
My stomach clenches.
“I don’t know,” she continues. “I don’t want you believing something that’s not true. But something feels off. Maybe you should have your guard up.”
“My guard up against what?”
Flossie looks at me impassively. She waits several beats before lighting up another cigarette. “I’m sure it was nothing. I don’t know what I was thinking. Edward and Libby . . . it would be laughable.”
We move on to other subjects, working our way through a bottle of wine before I decide it’s time for bed. But while washing my face, I can’t help but turn Flossie’s words over and over.
Back in my room, I text Libby:
ME: How’s dinner going?
No response. I wait twenty minutes and text again:
ME: Come to my room when you’re done, k?
It’s another half hour before Libby knocks. I’m half asleep on top of the covers. I wipe a trickle of drool off my cheek and call, “Come in!”
“Hey! How was practice? Did you have a good night?”
“It was fine. So, tell me everything. How did it go?” I pat the bed next to me.
“I’m knackered. Mind if we chat in the morning? I’ll give you the full scoop.”
“No. Come. Sit.”
She obeys, kicking her shoes off and sinking into the mattress.
“How’d it go?” I repeat.
“We had so much fun. He’s a great guy! I completely understand what you see in him now.”
“How was dinner?”
“Delicious! Maharajah was a good choice. I had the tandoori chicken. And their popadams are to die for.”
Romancing the Throne Page 10
