Romancing the Throne

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  And when you’re new money, you’re always jealous of those who are old.

  “Fine, let’s go downstairs; this entire floor is overpriced anyway. We’ll hit the high street and get new dresses on the cheap for tonight. Nobody’ll know the difference, and even your parents can’t complain about one bloody dress from H&M.”

  “Tonight? Where are we going?” We walk through the department store and get on a downstairs escalator.

  “Alpine Haus. It’s brand-new, across from KP. Let’s stop by the flat, dress, run by Il Carpaccio for a bite, and then it’s up to High Street Ken.”

  “Thanks for this. I needed a girls’ night desperately.”

  She looks at me full in the face, patting me on the shoulder. “You’ve had a tough run these past couple of months. But you’ll figure it out. Now let’s find you something to wear and show those London boys what you’re made of.”

  Four hours later, our arms are laden with shopping bags as we turn off the King’s Road in Chelsea, stepping around the slushy puddles of ice and melting snow pooling on the street.

  I got carried away—between the dresses, the blouses, a new winter coat, several wool skirts, and a couple of pairs of shoes, I guess that I’ve spent at least two thousand pounds today. I try not to think about what my parents’ reaction will be when they open the credit card bill.

  Oh, well. It’s not like they don’t actually have the money.

  I follow India upstairs to the fifth-floor penthouse, the two of us scraping our Wellington boots against the mat outside her front door before stepping inside. The flat is cavernous and full of light.

  The hardwood floor is covered with faded Oriental rugs. Three large floral sofas anchor the sitting room, which connects to an open kitchen opposite the front door and a hallway to the left. The right side of the sitting room has sliding glass doors leading to a wraparound balcony with views of leafy Onslow Square below. I know I shouldn’t be surprised that India has a place in Chelsea—and clearly renovated, to boot—but I’m still impressed. Most families we know have been priced out to Fulham.

  “Should I take my boots off?” I ask, looking for a slipper bin near the door.

  She shrugs, leaving her wellies on as she walks over the rugs to the kitchen. “Only if you want to.”

  Another one of those invisible little class markers: my mother would be having a heart attack at the idea of mud tracking around her expensive carpets. Old money likes it when toys lose their shine.

  “This place is awesome.” I walk around the apartment inspecting everything. Libby would love it here—she’s always dreamed of a flat in Chelsea. I pick up a wooden frame displaying a photo of the extended Fraser family, gazing at the tanned, smiling faces. “How often do you come here?”

  India tosses her bags on a sofa and walks to a wooden cabinet in the far corner. She opens a bottle of Tanqueray and pours two generous glasses.

  “Not often enough. Whenever I go out in London. Once every couple of months? My older brother uses it when he’s visiting from New York.”

  She hands me a glass and we cheers, knocking the drinks back. The metallic-tasting liquid trickles down the back of my throat, making my insides glow.

  India gives me a quick tour of the four-bedroom flat. Her parents are usually traveling or in residence at Huntshire, her older brother works at a fund in New York, and her younger brothers are all at Harrow, so India often has the whole place to herself when she’s in London. Her bedroom is cold and surprisingly modern, decorated in shades of silver and blue, with a renovated walk-in closet and adjacent, state-of-the-art bathroom cluttered with designer perfume bottles.

  “Make yourself at home,” India says. “I’m taking a quick shower. We have a reservation at Il Carpaccio at eight thirty—you’ll love it. It’s just Italian, nothing to write home about, but you don’t go to a restaurant in London for the food, do you?” she laughs.

  After a hearty—and despite India’s description, delicious—Italian dinner, we’re holed up at a table at Alpine Haus, drinking spiked fruit punch from giant jugs. I’m wearing a skintight red minidress over tights; India’s in a more demure blue-and-white printed silk dress that falls to her knees, one of her newly acquired goodies. Despite the cold, we each wore a single black peacoat over our dresses—the alcohol and the dancing will keep us warm.

  “Are we here all night?” I ask, my eyes darting from person to person as I check out the scene. The bar is full of pretty, well-dressed people: the type of social pioneers whose coolness christens a place and makes it an official hot spot.

  “I had been thinking Maggie’s after,” India says, leaning back against the leather seats and surveying the crowd. “But I heard this is the new place to be. And Maggie’s has gotten really strict with IDs. So many places in London are a drag about underage drinking now.” She rolls her eyes and sighs wearily. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture India in middle age, ruing estate taxes.

  “So, tell me,” she says. “Now that we’re alone, just you and me and all these strangers: How are you?”

  “Not bad.” I’ve barely thought of Libby all day. I’ve been too consumed with the brilliance of London: Hyde Park, Big Ben, the King’s Road—the whole charming, gorgeous, frantic city mine for the taking. It’s so different from the quiet sameness of Sussex Park, where it’s impossible to forget your problems.

  “Good. You’re handling it well. Someday we’ll all look back and laugh.”

  “I don’t know about that.” A waitress walks by with a bevy of shots on a tray, designed to look like chemistry experiments. “What do you think? Shots?”

  India smiles. “You read my mind.”

  We knock back several shots of something yellow, and then switch to tequila on a dare by India.

  “Whew!” India looks unsteady in her seat and already a bit worse for the wear. She always goes from sober to drunk instantly, which is disconcerting. I’m not in the mood to babysit tonight. She bops her head around. “Dance?” We bounce up and elbow our way onto the tiny dance floor.

  I’m dancing, losing myself in the music, when I hear my name. I look up to see Robert.

  His eyes are wide. “Hi. You look bloody amazing,” he says in his distinctive northern accent.

  “Robert!” I throw my arms around his neck. He smells delicious, and I nestle myself in the crook of his neck for a second. “Your cologne is yummy. You smell divine.”

  “Oh, thanks,” he says, blushing and looking pleased. “What are you girls doing here?”

  “We fled Sussex Park for Valentine’s Day. Thought we could have some adventures in town. What about you?”

  “Same. Some of my friends and I came down for the weekend, and this place is supposed to be the cool spot.”

  “Ooh, a prefect sneaking off campus for some underage drinking. I like it.” I lean in. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  Robert blushes. “Deal.”

  We spend the next couple of songs dancing, wheeling each other around the dance floor in a blur of laughter. He’s good fun and, judging by the puppy-dog looks he keeps sending my way, has a bit of a crush on me. It’s very flattering. He’s not a bad-looking guy at all.

  “How’d you hear about this place?” I ask, standing with him at the bar after we take a break from dancing.

  “My dad,” he says, blushing again. “Is that a lame answer? He’s friends with the owner.”

  “What does your father do?” My right foot is starting to feel slightly pinched in my heels, so I lean on Robert’s arm for balance.

  “He owns one or two restaurants in London. The Dominion?”

  “Your dad owns the Dominion? My parents love that place. They go there for their anniversary every year.”

  “Yeah, I basically grew up at the restaurant.”

  “Don’t they own a few other places?”

  “Yeah. L’Espace, Warden, Sui Generis, All Spice, Matisse, a few others . . .”

  “So one or two places isn’t quite accu
rate. He’s major.”

  Robert laughs. “I suppose he is.”

  “Color me impressed. I had no idea.”

  “Well, it’s not me,” he says. “It’s just my parents.”

  “That’s not a very English attitude,” I joke. “Especially at our school. You’re completely defined by what your parents do.”

  “But it shouldn’t be like that. I spent summers in the States as a kid—my mum’s sister is married to an American in San Diego. Nobody cares what your parents do. They care about what you’re doing. My brother is the perfect example of that.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s he do?”

  “He’s an angel investor. Like a venture capitalist—those guys who invest in Facebook and stuff like that. He does small tech startups.”

  “He must be loaded.”

  Robert shrugs. “He does all right. He’s always looking for the next big thing. He’s obsessed with the idea of finding another Zuckerberg.”

  “That’s funny. Well, you’d better get a major finder’s fee if you lead him to Snapchat 2.0.”

  “Tell me about it. But the point is—he’s done it on his own, no money from Dad. It might seem like the cards are stacked against us because we’re not aristocrats, but it’s not like that anymore. Anybody can rise to the top.”

  “Yeah, well, you’d think we robbed a bank and crashed society the way my mother gets treated sometimes.”

  “She grew up poor?”

  “She grew up okay, actually, but her family was originally working-class—totally bottom of the barrel,” I confess. “But my father came from a good enough family.”

  “Why should you feel embarrassed because of that?” He looks at me sidelong. “I think you’ve been hanging out with the wrong crowd for too long.”

  “You mean India and her lot?”

  “Yeah. And Prince Edward, too.”

  I flush. “I’m not hanging out with him anymore.”

  “I heard about him and your sister. I’m sorry. That must have sucked.”

  My face falls. “You have no idea.”

  “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. You broke all our hearts when you were off the market.” He laughs self-consciously.

  “Well, I’m back on the market now,” I say flirtatiously, putting Libby out of my mind again.

  I feel a tug on my elbow. It’s India. Her makeup is starting to slide down her face. “Come with me,” she demands.

  “Girl talk,” I say apologetically. “See you later?” I race off hand in hand with India.

  “Where have you been?” she asks. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  “I’ve been talking to Robert,” I say.

  She shrugs. “Anyhow. Guess who’s here?”

  “Who?”

  “Clemmie Dubonnet!”

  Clemmie Dubonnet is the hottest supermodel in the world right now. She’s only eighteen years old, but she’s already been on all the big magazine covers. She just broke up with her girlfriend, an American TV actress.

  “Oh, yeah? That’s cool.”

  “She hasn’t seen me yet. How do I look? Is my makeup okay?”

  It’s not like India to get so excited over a celebrity. I look at her strangely. Is she saying what I think she’s saying? Is Clemmie the reason she’s been so mysterious?

  I look her up and down. She’s beautiful as ever, but the alcohol is taking a toll on her fair complexion. Her eyes look bloodshot and her long, thin hair is appearing a bit stringy.

  “You’re looking a little worse for wear,” I say honestly. “Can I help?”

  I reach into my handbag, pulling out some makeup blotting wipes, lip gloss, and a comb. I spend a couple of minutes freshening India up, and when I’m done, she looks much better.

  “Thanks,” she says, giving me a big, long hug. “You’re amazing, Charlotte. I knew you’d have a few tricks.”

  It occurs to me that India, who barely wears makeup and just rolls out of bed looking fabulous, probably doesn’t know what to do the .01 percent of the time when she appears anything less than perfect.

  “Good luck with Clemmie,” I say.

  She looks startled for a minute, like she’s been caught out, but then she laughs. “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

  We go back out into the club from the bathroom and I look for Robert. I find him standing by the DJ, dancing spastically. He’s thrusting his forearms and closed fists in the air, one at a time, which has the result of looking like he’s pantomiming being locked in a box.

  “Oh my God,” I say. “You are the worst dancer.”

  He laughs. “I know. Careful, I might infect you.”

  The DJ throws on old-school Madonna and a roar goes up from the crowd.

  It’s only when India reappears that I realize Robert and I have been dancing and laughing for hours. It’s nearly three a.m.

  “I’m getting a cab with Clemmie,” she says. Her hair looks like a rat’s nest.

  “Where the hell are you two going at three in the morning?”

  “She says there’s an after-party?” She points vaguely off into the distance, swaying.

  “I don’t see her. Where?”

  “Over there,” India says, looking irritated. Clemmie stands by the bar, frowning into her phone and shooting us little looks.

  “And where am I supposed to go? I’m staying at yours, remember?”

  India sways a little. “With Robert?”

  “India looks smashed,” Robert whispers into my ear.

  “Tell me about it. She wants to go home with Clemmie Dubonnet. I don’t think it’s a good idea—she’s wasted.”

  “Isn’t Clemmie a lesbian?”

  I shrug. “So’s India.”

  “You should take her back—it’s late. Can I help?”

  “Agreed, and thanks. Let’s go.” I turn to India. “Come on. You can text Clemmie from the cab and say you’ll see her tomorrow. But right now, you’re coming with us.”

  Together, we take India upstairs, each one of us holding an arm. Robert helps her maneuver the steps, and he hails us a cab once we’re upstairs and outside on the street.

  “Where are you headed?” he asks me.

  “Chelsea. Onslow Square.”

  “Take them to Onslow Square,” Robert says to the cabbie, handing him a wad of cash. “What’s your number?” he asks me. “I’ll text you so you have mine. Let me know when you’re back home safely.”

  We exchange numbers, and I wave at Robert as the cab turns around the corner.

  I look at India, who’s giggling in the seat next to me as she jabs at her phone.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  She puts her phone in her lap. “Fine. You and that boy were so dramatic about it.”

  “You’re wasted!”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “What did you say to Clemmie?”

  “I just texted her that you were jealous and I had to take you home.” She starts giggling again. “Gotta keep her on her toes. So, did tonight take your mind off things?”

  “Yes.”

  As the cab drives through the circular around Buckingham Palace, the gold windows blazing with light, I think of Libby yet again. I wonder what she’s doing right now. It’s been a month since we’ve had a proper conversation. Suddenly, I have an impulse to be truthful.

  “Can I be honest?” I ask.

  India looks at me, her eyes a little bloodshot but her gaze steady. “Yeah. Everything okay?”

  “I’m lonely.”

  “Oh.”

  “I miss Libby.”

  “Well, obviously.”

  “Plus, our group is all weird now. I miss half of our meals. I was betrayed, but I feel like nobody gets it or really gives a crap about it. It’s just like, ‘Oh, well, Edward and Libby are dating now! That’s life!’ None of them text me to check in. Nobody ever really asks how I’m doing with it. I just sort of feel . . . forgotten.” The drink
s must have gone to my head more than I realized. India and I don’t usually deep-dive on our feelings like this.

  She gives my hand two quick pats. “I don’t like to hear that.”

  I turn back toward the window, feeling lonelier than ever. India’s great, but she’s not Libby.

  We’re driving through Victoria now, the Thames ahead of us and Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament visible in the distance. The cab turns right, heading toward Chelsea. “It’s fine. I get it. Everybody has their own things going on. I’m just complaining.” Never complain, never explain.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. I thought I was checking in on you.” India seems slightly offended. I’m reminded of the fact that she’s not as emotional as I am. I don’t know if that’s a class thing or just an India thing, but it makes me feel distant from her.

  “No, you are, thank you. This weekend was huge. It’s just . . .” I exhale in a puff of frustration. “Like I said—this year has been really shitty so far.”

  “Well, buck up, buttercup,” she says, giving my hand another pat. “Good days are just around the corner.”

  “I hope so,” I say. “I don’t think I can take much more of this.”

  Monday morning, I wake with a start.

  Shit. It’s six fifty-five. My alarm was set for six thirty and I completely missed it. I look at my iPhone and the volume is turned almost all the way down. My alarm has been going off for the past twenty-five minutes and I didn’t hear a thing.

  I jump out of bed, grabbing my toothbrush and toothpaste and racing down the hall to the bathroom. No time to apply makeup or even wash my face—I throw my hair into a ponytail and run back to my room. There’s a note pinned to my wooden door in shaky, loopy handwriting.

  Charlotte,

  You weren’t in your room Friday night for dorm check. Neither were you there Saturday night. We did not have a parental permission slip on file for you to be off campus. I shall be forced to report you to Master Kent. Please be in your room tonight (and every night) for checks.