“Hi, Edward. Good luck today,” Libby says.
“Thanks, Libs.”
Libs? They have one dinner together and a few study sessions and she’s Libs to him now?
“Um, let’s go over to the sidelines, I guess,” I say, flustered. “We’ll see you after the game?”
“Sounds good,” he says distractedly, blowing me a kiss before turning away. He huddles together with one of his teammates, a short, balding man with ruddy cheeks and a substantial paunch.
Libby looks around. “Should we go over there?” she asks me, using her arm to shade her eyes as she points to a row of Land Rovers and Audis. Several blond thirtysomething women in aviators, jeans, flowy tops, and Barbour jackets are standing around, looking like professional girlfriends. I’m relieved to see that our outfits are right on point. Funny, relying on Libby for fashion advice.
“Okay.” I shrug, letting her lead me. “I doubt it matters. This seems way more casual than I expected. Those girls are in jeans, too, thank God.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I get the feeling that it looks casual—but one slipup, and we’re branded for life.”
Maybe Libby understands more than I give her credit for.
“Here,” she says, leading us to a patch of grass near a car and pulling a blue blanket out of her bag. “Sit.”
“Look at you. All prepared.”
“I did some research online yesterday. I was scared we would feel like outsiders—so I needed to arm myself. Knowledge is king.”
“I’d make fun of you for being a nerd if I weren’t so grateful. Explain this to me: I thought everybody in polo was supposed to be a hot Argentine. Why’s that dude playing? He’s like fifty years old.”
“Ah!” Libby says, punctuating the air with her finger. “I read about this, too! He’s probably the patron. Polo is a pro-am sport, so it’s played by both professionals and amateurs. The patrons are the team owners, and they hire the professionals.”
“The hot Argentines.”
“Precisely.”
“So the old dude owns the team.”
“Yes. Likely.”
I shake my head. “Why not just enjoy it from the sidelines like all the other rich men who own sport teams? Make your money and go home.”
“Nobody makes money on polo. It’s a million-dollar money pit. And he’s not just any old guy. His family owns half of Qatar. Hence the team name: Doha.”
“Oh. Well, that’s something, at least,” I say, looking at the patron with renewed interest before turning back to Libby. “Do you think any of these girls is his girlfriend?”
“Maybe,” she says. “He’s a billionaire. I’m sure there are at least a few women out there willing to play the part.”
“Ugh,” I say, shuddering. “Can you imagine? Gross. I could never be with a guy for the money—not for all the billions in the world.”
“Not for a title, either—right?” she says, smiling at me impishly.
“I don’t like what you’re implying,” I say haughtily, “but no. Not even for a title. I don’t care if I marry a pauper or a prince, as long as he’s hot and he gets me.”
“Good,” she says. “That’s the spirit. I’d like somebody with a good sense of humor, who’s kind and thoughtful—and who’s taller than I am.”
“Taller than you? Tall order, indeed.”
She giggles at my pun. “Tell me about it. I’ll settle for somebody my height who doesn’t forget my birthday.”
“Now we’re talking. Aim high, Libs!” I still can’t believe she’s never kissed anybody. Scratch that—actually, I can believe it.
She’s sitting on the blanket now, legs spread out in front of her just like the blond women on either side of us.
“So, are things better between the two of you?” she asks. “You talked it over?”
I pull a face, sitting down next to her and wrapping my scarf around me tighter for warmth. “No. What would I say, anyway?”
“Tell him the truth! Say that your feelings were hurt. Ask him to confide in you. Let him know that you care.”
“Eh . . . thanks, but no thanks. Besides, why should it all be on me? I don’t see him worrying about our relationship.”
She nods. “That’s true.”
“I mean, we’re so casual anyway—I rarely see him alone anymore. I might need to downshift our relationship after the new year.” Even as I say it, I don’t completely believe it, but somehow it makes me feel in control. Thinking about it makes me feel bad, so I change the subject. “Thank God I didn’t wear a hat or a dress,” I say. “I would have been completely out of place. How embarrassing would that have been?”
“Hats are for Ascot. Women in America wear them at those Veuve Clicquot polo matches in New York and LA—but that’s not high goal. It’s not real polo.”
I burst out laughing. “You sound like a total snob.”
Her cheeks glow pink. “Do I? I don’t mean to sound like that. I’m just passing on what I learned.”
“The advantage of approaching even fun activities like homework, I guess.” I watch the men trotting across the field, their mallets slung over their shoulders. “It’s weird we didn’t go to more polo growing up.”
“Dad hates horses, and Mum was always busy with the business.”
“Yeah, but Cowdray Park is practically in our backyard. It’s like the biggest polo mecca in the world. You’d think we would have gone more than only once, if only so we would be ‘exposed,’ to use Mum’s language.”
“Cowdray’s the third biggest,” she corrects me. “Argentina is where the real action is.”
“And second?”
“Guards Polo Club. Right here.”
Once the game starts, Libby begins explaining it to me. I try to follow along as she talks about the line of the ball, but I quickly start to get bored. I upload a few Snaps of the field, a selfie of me and Libby, and an Instagram of my leather booties. I’m relieved when India texts me.
INDIA: How’s the polo?
ME: Boring.
INDIA: Sacrilege.
ME: Don’t tell Edward.
INDIA: Don’t tell Edward what? Xx
ME: Haha.
“Oh my God, you’ve been on that thing for the last twenty minutes,” Libby says. “I swear, you’d die without your phone.”
“Guilty.” I put my phone on my lap. “Plus, you see one horse, you’ve seen them all.”
She squints, taking in the action across the field as Edward swings his mallet.
“I think it’s exciting! And in polo they call them ponies.”
I shrug. “I’m remembering why I never go to polo matches at home. I’d rather be riding the horses—ponies, whatever—not watching them!”
Every few minutes, Edward gallops back to our corner of the field and switches out his horse, which Libby explains is to keep the mounts from getting overtired. Near the end of the game, when he’s hopping from one pony to another like he’s playing a game of musical chairs, he looks over at us and whoops. He swings his mallet over his head like in a war chant before kicking his pony and setting back off down the field at full speed.
The girls around us, who have mostly been ignoring us, suddenly start looking at us with interest after it becomes apparent we’re with Edward.
“Are you with Doha?” one of them says, a leggy blonde with faint wrinkles around her pretty eyes.
“Yes,” I say, smiling sweetly. “You?”
“I’m Pablo’s wife,” she says. Two small boys with beautiful long blond curls toddle around her. “And these are our boys, Matias and Joaquin.”
“Congratulations on the win at Tortugas,” Libby says. “Pablo played spectacularly, I heard.”
The woman smiles proudly. “Thank you. It was a nail-biter. Oh, excuse me—Matias, no!” She rushes after the younger boy, who’s trying to climb over the boards and run onto the field with his own mini mallet.
“Tortugas? Pablo?” I whisper to Libby.
“You�
�d be amazed what you can pick up by doing a little bit of reading—and by just being quiet and watching. Paying attention goes a long way.”
“Not my strong suit,” I laugh. “Thank God I have you along for the ride.”
Libby smiles, waving gaily at Pablo’s wife as she heads back our way, little Matias scooped up in her arms. “Thank God.”
After the game is over, Libby and I walk back to the tents to congratulate a jubilant Edward on winning. He’s filthy, his shirt soaked through with sweat and his boots and white trousers caked in mud.
“You were amazing!” I say brightly as we walk up.
In response, he picks me up and swings me around. “Did you see that last goal?”
“Oh, yeah, totally. It was awesome!” Actually, I missed it because I was watching Flossie’s Story on Snapchat. She’s in Copenhagen for the weekend with her family.
“I can’t believe you made that penalty shot,” Libby says. “And from fifty yards out! Seriously impressive.”
He beams.
“So, listen,” I say. “We were thinking of going out to celebrate. What do you think? Our treat.”
“I wish I could. The patron is throwing an asado for all the players tonight.”
I look at Libby quizzically. “It’s a barbecue,” she whispers to me. Her primary school Spanish is way better than my rusty French.
“Oh. Okay.”
“Sorry,” he says. “I’d much rather hang out with the two of you.”
“No, that’s cool. I get it. You have responsibilities.”
“Unfortunately,” he says, pulling a face.
“Are you back on campus tonight?”
“Not until Monday morning. Since we’re near Windsor, I told my parents I’d spend some time with them.”
I want to tell him that I miss him. I want to tell him that I’m feeling neglected. I want to tell him that I’m not okay with barely seeing the guy I’m dating. I want to tell him things need to change.
Instead, I say, “Cool. See you Monday,” giving him a quick kiss and a hug before turning and walking with Libby back toward the car park.
The following week, I wake up and lie in bed, stretching my arms over my head and trying to shake the sleep off me.
Seventeen years old.
Now that I’m seventeen, I should finally feel like I’m becoming a woman. It’s when people come out of their shells, moths turn into butterflies, and girls embrace their true selves, right? I’ve always heard that you stop caring what people think when you’re older. You do what you want. You say what you want. You give zero fucks.
However, this morning, I feel exactly the same.
I still have all the fucks to give.
If I were Libby, I’d probably be methodical and solemn about it: write in my journal, take a long, contemplative walk through the windy November woods, make a bucket list of things I want to do before I turn eighteen.
Instead, I sleep in—it’s a Saturday and there’s no field hockey practice, thank God—and then spend a full hour leisurely getting ready. This morning I spend time on the little details—body bronzer, a few passes of the curling iron, the special mascara that makes my lashes look a mile long—enjoying the feeling of making myself look glamorous. I know the cool thing is to pretend I don’t care what I look like and just roll out of bed—like India and Flossie—but I like makeup, damn it, and if I want to spend twenty minutes applying bronzer, I’m going to spend twenty minutes applying bronzer.
I hate being a cliché—the girl upset over her neglectful boyfriend—but everything with Edward is only getting worse, and it has me in a funk.
It’s not normal to have your boyfriend ignore you like this, right? Is he my boyfriend? We never said anything to make it official.
I don’t know what to think. I don’t like feeling so out of control.
As I get ready, the texts roll in:
LIBBY: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! Love you so much. Proud of you. Tonight’s going to be fun! Xoxoxoxo
LIBBY: By the way, I have a little surprise for you . . . ☺
INDIA: Happy birthday! It’s going to be a great year. Xxx
FLOSSIE: Happy bday! Don’t forget 2 bring red wig for 2nite. Meet at gates at 12. X
ALICE: It’s SO real now, RIGHTTT?
TARQUIN: HB, yo.
EDWARD: Sending u big kisses. Can’t wait for 2nite. Happy birthday! Xx
eleven
The piercing, happy voices of drunk teenagers echo throughout Flossie’s country house, past the barn onto the polo fields and the forests beyond.
Flossie’s place is only five minutes from campus, a two-story farmhouse surrounded by tall hedges and shrubs so that it’s not visible from the main road. With five bedrooms, it’s relatively small, considering how much money her family has—but apparently they have about seven houses, so it’s not like they have anything to prove or need the extra space.
The group met at the front gates this afternoon to share cabs to Flossie’s house. I split a cab with Libby and Edward, and the two of them spent the entire ride talking about homework and upcoming assignments and their shared history professor. I guess their study sessions are, like, a regular thing now.
Libby and I are sharing a room on the driveway side of the house. Flossie has invited India to share her bedroom, giving the boys prime real estate overlooking the property’s polo fields. Edward gets his own room in the back of the house, as always—his security team doesn’t like him sharing rooms. They needed to do a sweep of Flossie’s house before he arrived and put Simon the bodyguard next to Edward’s room. Edward’s security team is on strict orders to protect him from security threats, but that’s all, so they’re not allowed to interfere when they see him doing things like drinking.
The whole barn has been turned into a disco, with the doors flung open onto the polo field. Bales of hay are scattered everywhere, there’s a vinyl dance floor in the center of the barn, and an actual disco ball has been affixed to the barn ceiling. Flossie’s gone all out: she’s rented speakers, she’s gotten a DJ and a bartender, there’s a taco truck in the driveway leading to the polo fields, and there’s even a photo booth. The lights are turned down, the beer is flowing, and Rihanna is blaring. The perimeter of the barn is surrounded by heating lamps, so that we don’t all freeze to death in our flimsy costumes.
Libby and I walk together to the bar.
“Two glasses of wine, please,” I say.
“Just don’t drink too much,” she says. “You have the big game tomorrow.”
“Whatever, I’ll be fine. I won’t have more than a couple glasses.”
“I wish Flossie hadn’t scheduled this for today,” Libby says, looking worried.
“Yeah, but it’s my actual birthday—it’s the first Saturday birthday I’ve had in years!”
Libby doesn’t look convinced.
Flossie’s by the speakers, her hands waving animatedly as she talks to the DJ. Her costume is amazing—she’s dressed as the supervillain Poison Ivy, wearing a green corset with green leaves affixed to the bodice, a green mask, and the fire-engine-red wig I lent her.
“I said no reggae,” she complains to the DJ as “Could You Be Loved” floats from the loudspeakers. “Not only reggae.”
“Floss, you look incredible,” I say as we walk up to her. The DJ shoots me a wounded look. “That corset is bananas.”
Her face immediately brightens. “You think? You don’t think it’s too much?”
“No way. It’s genius. The leaves are a nice touch.”
“Thank you,” she says, practically purring. “I like your outfits, too.” I’m dressed as Wonder Woman and Libby is, as promised, Ginger Spice.
“Oh, this old thing?” I joke. “The barn looks incredible. Thanks again for throwing this.”
“Any excuse for a party, right?” She smiles at both of us, leaning in quickly for cheek kisses before turning back to the DJ. “Do I need to send you the approved music list again?”
Libby and I turn a
nd face the crowd. Tarquin and David wear suits and oversized Batman and Robin masks, running around the perimeter of the dance floor like lunatics, waving their arms. India’s lounging on a hay bale, wearing a flowy white tunic and a long red braided wig—I’m not sure who she is—while talking to a girl in a Russian fur cap. Alice stands next to them, wearing a white flapper costume and enough pearls to anchor a ship. Georgie and Oliver—who are now totally dating—are dressed as Bonnie and Clyde. Edward is a pirate, with a long, curly black wig, a thick black mustache, and a magnificent red-and-black costume threaded with gold. At his waist, a sword hangs from a golden belt.
I poke Libby. “Do you think the sword and the belt are real?”
She considers the question. “He does have access to lots of historical knickknacks. You never know! Hey, I need to go do something quickly. Do you mind?”
“Oh. Okay. Sure.”
I lean against the bar at the far corner of the barn with my drink, watching the action as people approach me every few seconds to say hello and wish me a happy birthday. Surprisingly, I don’t know most of the crowd—word must have gotten out.
I’m seventeen, all my best friends are here, we have zero adult supervision—even less than we did at Huntshire—and I’m the guest of honor. Tonight is all about me. It should be one of the best days of my life.
But my dark mood is only getting worse.
Edward comes up behind me, hugging me.
“Hey,” I say, turning and melting into him. I know that things aren’t perfect between us—but right now, it just feels nice to have his arms around me. “I’ve kinda missed you.”
“Oh, yeah? I’ve kinda missed you, too,” he says. “Sorry I’ve been MIA. It’s been a stressful month. Dealing with family stuff. And December is bound to be worse, what with exams and the holidays.”
“So I’ve heard. Libby told me all about it,” I say, exaggerating.
Edward frowns slightly, releasing his hold on me. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. She said all the Firm stuff was really getting to you.”
Edward looks annoyed. “Oh. I see.”
I look at him expectantly.
He takes a sip of his beer.
“But it’s all okay?” I ask.
Romancing the Throne Page 12
