Romancing the Throne

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  “I’m so proud of you!” Libby says to me. “You were like a blur!”

  “Thank you.” I beam, wiping the sweat away from my forehead. “I feel amazing. I’m having a total runner’s high right now. Where should we celebrate? Dinner at Maharajah, then maybe drinks at the White Horse?”

  Libby’s face falls. “I can’t tonight. We have plans with Edward’s cousin Isla. We have a car coming in an hour. We simply can’t cancel on her.”

  “Oh. Of course. That’s okay.” How many bloody cousins does Edward socialize with?

  “I’m so sorry, Charlotte.”

  “No, I get it. It’s totally cool.”

  I turn away so that Libby won’t see the disappointment on my face.

  She puts her hand back on my arm. “Wait.”

  As I look back, Libby trots over to Edward. I watch them carefully, Edward nodding as Libby waves her arms animatedly to explain something. She has so much more energy than she used to have—even with the stresses Edward’s position brings to her life, it’s as if he’s her battery-charging station.

  She throws her arms around Edward. When she pulls away, he leans down and gives her a series of cute little kisses all over her face, like he’s a puppy dog.

  “Edward said it was cool if we rescheduled with his cousin!” Libby says, returning triumphantly.

  “He did? That’s brilliant! We’re going to have so much fun tonight.”

  “What time should we meet you?” she asks.

  “We?”

  “Well, yeah. Me and Edward.”

  “Oh. Right.” For some reason, the realization that Edward is coming along takes some of the fun out of it. Even though tonight was supposed to be a group outing, I’d hoped to have Libby there without Edward. Just the two of us—like it used to be. I hurry to cover up my disappointment, so I don’t hurt Libby’s feelings. “Let me talk to Georgie and Flossie, but maybe seven?”

  “Okay, cool!” Her face is shining with excitement. “I’m so proud of you, Lotte. We have a lot to celebrate tonight.” She gives me a big hug and then practically skips back over to Edward, the two walking off down the lawn hand in hand. They’re even wearing similar outfits—jeans and powder-blue jumpers. From behind, they look like an old married couple.

  I feel a twinge of jealousy in the pit of my stomach watching them go. It has nothing to do with Edward—I’ve long since realized that he and I were completely incompatible. Rather, all my complicated emotions are focused on Libby: this messy coil of envy and sadness and irritation, layered with a nobler mix of pride and satisfaction and approval.

  I’m so happy for Libby that she’s found a great boyfriend. Edward seems to calm her insecurities. He bolsters her confidence and channels her nurturing side. He understands her—or, at least, it seems like he does.

  I just miss her. I know things between the two of us will never be the same. Even if she and Edward break up—which, let’s face it, will probably happen at some point—this little magical moment in time will soon be gone forever. Libby graduates in a few weeks, and then in a year she’ll be off to university. Time has a way of slipping away, and before I know it, we’ll be adults with jobs and kids and mortgages and horrible taste in music.

  Sometimes I wish we could go back in time to when we were little: the two of us together 24/7 in our tiny little house in Guildford, sharing a bedroom and staying up late into the night swapping stories. But we’re not little anymore: we’re all grown up now.

  It’s like that cheesy meme that everybody was sharing on Instagram a while back: The days go slowly. It’s the years that go fast.

  twenty-three

  After showering and changing into party clothes, I’m too exhausted to do anything more than slap on a coat of mascara and some red lipstick and call it a day. When I show up at the front gates, Georgie is already waiting, along with a couple of other girls from the team, Corrie and Kate.

  “Hiya!” I say. “Where’s Flossie?”

  Georgie raises an eyebrow. “Is she actually coming?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. She seemed like she could use cheering up.”

  “Today and every other day of the year.”

  I pull out my phone to text her only to find a message from Flossie waiting.

  FLOSSIE: Can’t muster up the energy. Going to drown my sorrows in mint choc. Have fun.

  “She’s not coming,” I say.

  Georgie has no such qualms. “Praise the Lord. I can’t with her acting like second place is something to cry about.”

  “Well, she has high standards, you know . . . ,” I say lamely.

  “You don’t need to defend her,” Georgie says. “We’ll still think you’re nice.”

  “Hiya!” says Libby, coming up behind us with Edward. They give everybody hugs, and Edward congratulates me again.

  Corrie and Kate giggle nervously after Edward says hi to them. It’s funny to see how excited they are about hanging out with him—was it really only the beginning of this school year that I felt the same way?

  We make the ten-minute walk to the outskirts of town, passing by all the shops on the high street. It’s just before dinner, and the narrow street is crammed with cars making the commute back from London.

  When a Sussex Park graduate bought the White Horse pub on the outskirts of town two years ago, all the students were thrilled—mostly because the owner turned a blind eye toward underage drinking. As long as we’re on our best behavior, students can order drinks, no questions asked. A couple of years ago, one of the waitresses told me that Elizabeth I once stayed there. After all, it’s not an English country pub if it doesn’t claim to have hosted distant royalty at least once.

  The main room downstairs is for beer and pub fare, like fish and chips. The side rooms have deep sofas and a strong Wi-Fi signal: during the day, it’s not uncommon to see students doing their homework over coffee, heads buried in laptops. At night, students and locals cram the sofas and the tall bar stools around wooden tables, sipping wine and G&Ts. Upstairs is where the action is, with a nighttime DJ who spins everything from old-school nineties music to brand-new Top 40.

  We settle into one of the sofas downstairs, ordering burgers and pasta and laughing as we go back over the day.

  “I still can’t get over the fact that teenagers can hang out in pubs here,” Georgie says. “I can’t even walk into a bar in California.”

  “But what if you’re hungry?” Edward asks.

  “Then you go to a restaurant. Restaurants are for eating, bars are for drinking, and never the twain shall meet.”

  “Do you think you’ll apply to university back in America or here in the UK?” I ask.

  Georgie groans. “Ask me next year. We still have at least six months before we have to grow up and start thinking about the future, right?”

  “You and Charlotte are lucky,” says Edward. “You don’t have to worry about anything until next year. Libby and I get thrown into the gap year soon.”

  “Have you decided what you’re going to do for gap year yet, Libs?” I ask.

  “There’s this photography course in Florence I’m kind of interested in,” she says, her voice trailing off. She and Edward exchange glances. “But maybe I won’t do it.” She clears her throat.

  I look at the two of them, alarmed. Libby’s not turning into a Stepford Wife, is she? This is exactly why I wanted to have it be just the two of us tonight—so we could deep-dive and gossip and catch up on everything. I make a mental note to ask her about it later. I don’t want her giving up on something she loves just because of Edward.

  How the tables have turned.

  Everybody is starving after the meet, so once our food comes, we all attack it.

  Just as I’m about to take my first bite, I look up and see Tarquin walking into the pub.

  “Ugh.” I poke Georgie, nodding discreetly in Tarquin’s direction. “Ten o’clock.”

  “Oh, great,” she says. “Lord McDouchey. Maybe he won’t see us.”

/>   “Fat chance.”

  “If it isn’t my favorite runners!” Tarquin calls from across the pub, walking toward us. He plops down at an open seat on the couch, slapping hands with Edward and giving Libby a kiss on the cheek. “Charlotte, please allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your stellar victory. I always knew you were more than just a banging bod.”

  I roll my eyes. “Gentlemanly as always. Do you know our teammates Corrie and Kate? This is Tarquin. I apologize in advance.”

  Tarquin looks at the coffee table in front of our sofa. “What’s this? Nothing to drink?”

  “We have drinks,” says Georgie, holding up a tall glass of Diet Coke. “See?”

  “I’m not talking about those kind of drinks. I’m talking about real drinks. You all just ran for your lives, and you’re celebrating like you’re a bunch of ninety-year-olds.” He motions for the server. “We’ll have a bottle of prosecco.” He grins at us. “My treat.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Why are you being so nice, Tark? You must want something.”

  He looks wounded. “Why must I want something? Can’t I just want to help you celebrate your victory?”

  “No.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “I knew it. What do you want?”

  “No, no, no. Not until after I’ve plied you with alcohol.”

  “Come on.”

  “Fine. This girl I’m trying to pull wants an internship at your mother’s shoe company. Apparently, she’s a ‘big fan.’” He uses air quotes as he says it, looking unimpressed.

  “Of me?”

  He rolls his eyes. “No. Of your mother.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, can you help?”

  “What’s that word we’re always talking about? The p-word?” Edward says to Tarquin. It takes me a second before I realize he’s being a little sarcastic. “P . . . puh . . . puh . . . pleeeeease?”

  Tarquin sighs. “Please can you help?”

  “That’s my boy,” says Edward.

  I shrug. “Maybe.”

  “Thanks, Lotte.” He throws an arm around me.

  “I didn’t say yes!” I say, shaking off his arm.

  “Yes, you did.” The prosecco arrives in a silver bucket with seven flutes. “I got it,” he says to the server, taking the bottle and smoothly uncorking it without a sound. “Keep ’em coming. We’ll need more than one.”

  After another hour of eating and drinking, we head upstairs, where a small crowd of locals and students has gathered for the DJ. The room is dark and smells like stale beer, but I’m feeling tipsy from the prosecco and don’t care. The DJ plays the latest Zayn single and we rush the dance floor. Tarquin returns from the bar with shots for each of us, and even Libby and Edward start dancing, whirling around the dance floor and laughing as they crash into each other.

  I text India:

  ME: Party at the White Horse! U should b here!!

  The next time I look at my phone, I see a reply text.

  INDIA: Having a quiet one in. Drink all the bubbly for me xxxxxx

  Tarquin comes over, grabbing me by the hand and swinging me in a circle.

  “Having fun?” he shouts into my ear, his breath hot.

  “Get off,” I say, pushing him away.

  He responds by breaking into a spastic dance. “Okay, if you don’t wanna dance with me, I’ll just have a party over here by myself.”

  Despite myself, I laugh. I must really be drunk. “Tonight has been so fun. I really needed a night like this.”

  “Good.” He pulls out his phone and then frowns. “Ugh. It’s late. I’ll leave you to it. I have to get up early tomorrow.”

  Libby and Edward dance their way over to us. Libby has always had a surprising amount of rhythm, but Edward is quite possibly the worst dancer I’ve ever seen. He pumps his arms back and forth over his head, slightly off the beat, looking like he’s slapping invisible high fives in the sky. It makes me think of Robert and his terrible dancing, and suddenly I wish he were here.

  “You leaving?” Libby asks.

  “What?” Tarquin shouts.

  “I said, are you leaving?” she repeats loudly over the music.

  “Yeah. Gotta get up early.”

  Edward starts rubbing his eyes, looking like a tired little kid.

  “I think that’s our cue, too,” Libby says, leaning in to give me a hug.

  The second Kate and Corrie see Edward leaving, they come over to Georgie and me to say good-bye. They look exhausted, and it’s my bet they simply wanted to hang out near Edward as long as possible. I hug them, feeling the euphoria that only two glasses of prosecco and a lemon-drop shot can bring.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me, kid,” says Georgie. “More shots?”

  As Georgie and I dance to Rihanna, I realize that I feel good for the first time in months. I feel like myself.

  I’ve gotten my life in order. I’m creating a cool app that might actually succeed. I broke a school record and am back on track for an athletic scholarship, assuming I keep it up next year. And Libby and I are speaking again. Hell, even Edward and I are speaking again.

  Sure, Libby’s replaced me with Edward—but that’s just part of growing up, isn’t it?

  We’re not little girls anymore.

  On the Monday morning after my track race, I wake to my phone ringing at seven a.m. The only person who would call me this early is Bill—I hope everything’s okay with the app. We’re supposed to submit to Apple next week.

  It’s Libby.

  “This better be good,” I groan.

  On the other end, all I hear is crying.

  “Libs? Are you okay?”

  More sniffles.

  “Libby, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

  Through choked sobs, she manages to speak. “Edward and I broke up.”

  “What? You’re in your room, right?”

  She sniffles. “Yeah.”

  “Don’t move. I’ll be up in ten seconds.”

  I bolt from my room without even changing my clothes, running up the stairs and down the hall to Libby’s room.

  Clothes are strewn across the floor. In the far corner of the room, Libby lies faceup on the bed, eyes open. She’s staring up at the ceiling, not blinking. Her nose is red and her eyes are puffy. It looks like she’s been crying for hours.

  I slowly approach, like I’ve seen people do with skittish horses.

  “Libby?” I say soothingly

  Libby sits up, her face crumpling when she sees me. I sit on the bed next to her and give her a hug as she cries into my shoulder. Soon, my shirt is soaked from her tears.

  After a few minutes of crying and clinging to me, Libby pulls away, rubbing her hands back and forth over her eyes.

  “What happened?” I ask tentatively.

  She reaches over and picks up her phone from the bedside table. “Here,” she says, handing it to me.

  It’s an article in the Sun—and I’m in it. Three photos are blown up on the front page: the half-naked Polaroids of Edward and me from Huntshire, the ones he gave me after we broke up. Alarm bells sound in my head. How did they get those photos? I’m the only one who should have had them.

  The screaming headline makes my stomach twist:

  “Charlotte the Tech Wiz: Prince Ed’s Ex-Girlfriend Taking Tech World by Storm.”

  What the hell?

  I scroll through and read as quickly as I can:

  Launching soon, and poised to be the hottest app launch in ages, Selfsy was created by Charlotte Weston, a seventeen-year-old classmate of Prince Edward, and sister to Edward’s girlfriend, Libby Weston . . .

  . . . now constantly seen with his demure girlfriend, Libby—but he dated her gorgeous sister, Charlotte, first!

  . . . naughty schoolboy Prince Edward was involved in a love triangle between the Weston sisters, as the Sun previously revealed . . .

  A source close to the Weston sisters reveals . . .

  . . . Libby was Edward’s special g
uest at his eighteenth birthday party last month . . .

  . . . Charlotte’s following in the footsteps of her entrepreneurial middle-class mother. Jane Weston yanked herself up by the bootstraps, literally—her online shoe company, Soles, is rumored to be worth over 100 million pounds . . .

  . . . suddenly, the family found themselves swimming in money, but despite hobnobbing with royalty and millionaires, they haven’t lost their middle-class touch and pride themselves on remaining humble . . .

  . . . Selfsy eliminates the search troubles of other DIY apps . . .

  . . . only proves that clever, popular Charlotte was more suited to being a royal girlfriend than shy wallflower Libby . . .

  . . . can exclusively reveal their pet names: Bumble (that’s Libby) and Moose (that’s Edward) . . .

  . . . our insider tells us Edward is worried about becoming king, spending hours each weekend in London holed up in secret meetings at Buckingham Palace . . .

  . . . sexy Charlotte’s Instagram account is addictive—click here to follow!

  . . . sign up at SelfsyApp.com to get on the mailing list and be alerted when the app launches.

  Other photos in the piece include a long-lens paparazzi shot of the three of us in town holding ice cream cones, Libby and Edward sitting on a bale of hay at my birthday party, a photo from my Instagram of me mugging for the camera at Donatella one night last fall, and a paparazzi shot of me in the car outside Windsor Castle before Edward’s birthday, wearing India’s gold gown and displaying a stunned, deer-in-the-headlights expression.

  How the hell did they get all these?

  I scroll back to look at the three Polaroids again. Seen through a public lens, they look really bad. Edward and I were just being silly that night, but if I were a stranger looking at them, they suddenly don’t seem so innocent. I still think the one of me on Edward’s back is cute, although Edward’s eyes are a little blurry, so he looks wasted. The one of us hugging isn’t terrible. But our photo with the beer bottles is especially bad: I look like I’m giving the rim a blow job while Edward grabs me from behind and pulls my bum into his torso. I’m in a bikini and he’s in swim trunks, so there’s a ton of skin showing. It’s beyond suggestive—suddenly our playing around almost looks pornographic. He’s all about controlling his public image, so he must be furious these were leaked.