Romancing the Throne

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  But maybe the worst part is that the piece spends several paragraphs praising how beautiful and smart I am, talking up Mum’s company, and complaining about how Edward was stupid to let me go. I feel a twinge of pride when I read the part about how the app works and why it’s poised to be the next big thing, but then immediately feel guilty.

  “‘An intimate source close to Charlotte Weston,’” Libby says, her voice trembling. “Who could it be?”

  My stomach sinks. All the positive press in the article totally makes it look like I traded private photos and insider information about Libby and Edward’s relationship in exchange for app publicity.

  It makes it look like I was the source.

  twenty-four

  “Libby,” I say. “You have to believe me. I’m not behind this, I swear. I promised Edward I would never talk to the press, and I meant it—not even for publicity.”

  Libby starts chewing on a cuticle. I reach over and slap her hand away from her mouth.

  “I know you would never sell me out.”

  Relief washes over me. “Oh, thank God,” I say. “Thank you for believing me.”

  “But Edward does think you sold us out to help launch your app,” she says. “He was beside himself: I’d never heard him like that. He kept saying over and over that trust is the most important thing, and if he can’t trust you, then he can’t trust me.”

  I stare at her. “And that’s why he broke up with you?”

  She looks down, picking at her cuticle. “His mum was having a fit about it. You know how close they are.” I can at least understand that. After marrying Edward’s dad, Queen Madeline spent years dealing with people selling her out from all sides—her own brother even wrote a book about her.

  “Right.”

  “He said that if you were willing to publish photos of us just to get publicity for your business, then he can’t have you in his life.” Libby crosses her arms against her chest, looking embarrassed. “He wanted me to choose. He said if I wanted him in my life, there was no place for you, too.”

  My heart sinks. “Oh, Libby,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

  A fresh wave of tears wells up in her eyes, a thin trail snaking down her cheek.

  “I can’t believe he dumped you over this. You had nothing to do with it, obviously. It’s temporary insanity. He’s not thinking straight.”

  “He didn’t dump me,” she says. “I dumped him.”

  I’m so shocked that I drop her phone on the carpet.

  “I told him”—she breaks into tears again—“I told him that there was no way you’d ever speak to a reporter, and if he couldn’t trust my word, then there were bigger issues in our relationship. And if he was going to make me choose between him and you, I’ll choose you every time. You’re my sister.” She sniffles and wipes her nose. I reach over to the Kleenex box on her bedside table and pluck one out, handing it to her.

  “You chose me over him?” I ask, my voice sounding small.

  “Of course I did, silly.” She puts her index finger to her lips, kissing it twice, and then holds her finger out toward mine. “Sisters forever, right?”

  I repeat the gesture, feeling like I might explode with love and gratitude. “Sisters forever.”

  I pull her back into my arms for another hug.

  “He’s an idiot,” I say. “If he’s willing to be without you for a single second, he’s an idiot.”

  “I didn’t think he’d take me up on it,” she says. “I thought he would believe me.”

  “Boys are stupid.”

  “He’s not stupid, though. He’s smart, and kind, and funny, and . . .” She stops, taking a deep breath to compose herself. “But it’s in the past. He was going to break my heart eventually, right? It’s not like we were going to live happily ever after. We’re too young.” Libby’s brave tone doesn’t match her hurt face.

  I hear a phone vibrating. “Is that yours or mine?” I say, searching on the floor for her dropped phone. I find it in a pile of uncharacteristically unfolded clothes and I glance at the screen.

  “It’s from Edward! It says, ‘Please, Libby.’”

  “He won’t stop texting,” she says sadly.

  “So text him back! It’s not over!”

  “It is over. Read them.”

  I enter her passcode—our childhood dog Leonardo DiCaprio’s birthday—and scroll through the text exchange from this morning.

  EDWARD: I can’t believe u threw me out.

  LIBBY: I can’t believe you wouldn’t listen to me, so we’re even.

  EDWARD: She sold us out. Doesn’t that mean anything to u???

  LIBBY: I told you ten times already that Charlotte would NEVER sell me out. It had to be somebody else.

  EDWARD: She needs publicity for her business. She’s the only person who had those photos.

  LIBBY: Then somebody stole them. I don’t know what to tell you.

  EDWARD: Please don’t do this.

  LIBBY: I’m not DOING anything! You’re the one who wants me to choose! It’s not fair.

  LIBBY: I can’t believe you don’t know me better than that. She’s my sister. You can’t make me choose.

  EDWARD: Looks like u chose already

  LIBBY: Guess so.

  EDWARD: Please, Libby

  It’s hurtful reading Edward’s texts. I thought he knew both of us better than that.

  “So, you see?” Libby says. “What am I supposed to say to that? I’m not dating a guy who asks me to choose between him and my family. That’s seriously messed up.”

  I nod. “Yeah. But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

  She looks sad. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “I’m proud of you. And I’m really sorry, Libs.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she says, gnawing on a cuticle again. For once, I don’t bother trying to correct her.

  The two of us sit in silence. I think back to my conversation with Edward in my room the night I discovered Libby was transferring to Sussex Park. When we started talking about privacy and photos, his entire demeanor changed. I realize I’ve never told Libby that story.

  “Something happened with me and Edward right before you got here in the fall.”

  She looks wary. “Okay . . .”

  “We were in my room, hanging out or whatever”—obviously, I gloss over this part—“and I tried to take a selfie of the two of us. He freaked out and got really cold—almost rude. It was like he became a totally different person.”

  “He’s over-the-top when it comes to the press and his privacy.”

  “No, I know. I’m just saying—clearly somebody set me up. If we can find out who it was, he’ll have to believe you and then he’ll know we didn’t betray his privacy, right?”

  “Yeah, but what then? So he apologizes? We get back together—and then he loses it the next time a story appears in the press about him? When does it end?”

  “It can’t be over,” I say, feeling a flash of frustration as my competitive juices kick in. “Somebody set us up. We can’t take this sitting down. You and Edward are perfect for each other.”

  “The perfect guy wouldn’t ask his girlfriend to reject her family.”

  “Okay, true. But the perfect girl wouldn’t dump her boyfriend without showing empathy. She should at least try to understand where he’s coming from. Right?”

  Libby looks unconvinced. “Empathy’s a two-way street.”

  “Look, Edward thought you were the one person in the world he could be safe with. You’re, like, in on all the state secrets—he’s breaking all the rules for you, right? So, he feels betrayed and he’s not handling it perfectly. But it doesn’t mean you should end it forever. If it’s a solid relationship—a real relationship—you fight and you fix it and you become stronger. It doesn’t mean running away.”

  She looks out the window. “Maybe it does.”

  I throw up my hands in frustration. “What do I know? The only two people who are in this relationship are you and Edward. I
can’t read his mind—even if I can kind of read yours.” At this, she smiles a little bit. “But it seems like you make each other better. You guys just fit. I think you have two options. You can just walk away and be sad and say, ‘Boo hoo, oh, well, I guess it just wasn’t meant to be,’ and cry into your Weetabix. Or you can say, ‘Hey, idiot. You’re wrong and here’s why. I’m the best thing that ever happened to you. Wise up and stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself. And, by the way, my sister is awesome.’”

  Libby starts laughing. “Is that a direct quote? Should I take notes?”

  “Something like that,” I say. “Use your Libby words. Make it pretty.”

  I skip my classes, spending the entire morning with Libby huddled together in her bed under the covers and watching old episodes of The Vampire Diaries on Netflix. I can’t pay attention to Elena and Damon, though—I’m too busy trying to figure out who’s behind that article.

  At lunchtime, I drag myself out of bed.

  “I’d stay here with you all day, but I’m starving. If I don’t have a sandwich, I might literally die. Do you want to come with?”

  “I’m not hungry,” she says. “Wait, actually—bring me some fruit?”

  “I’ll bring you an entire bucket.”

  I stop by my room to change quickly into the uniform and then walk out of the building clutching my phone.

  “Smile, Charlotte! How does it feel to sell out everybody close to you for fame?”

  I turn around and see the camera lens, long and menacing, before I see the tiny man behind it hiding in the bushes. The clicks come fast and furious—click, click, click, click, click, click, click—the lens rapid-fire snapping before I have time to move.

  “What are you . . . ? Stop!”

  I look around wildly for protection, but there’s nobody in sight. Nobody but me, and a short, wiry man with a ponytail who seems hell-bent on getting a photo of me looking upset. He steps out from behind a tree, still hiding behind the camera, click, click, click, click, click.

  “Did it hurt when Edward dumped you for your sister?” he calls.

  I’ve watched enough Sky TV documentaries about celebrities like the Kardashians to realize that he’s trying to coax me into a reaction for a dramatic, high-paying photo. Adrenaline rushes through me—what a low-life scumbag, preying on a teenage girl for a photo paycheck. I want to sneer back, “Does it hurt when you wake up in the morning and you’re still you?” but I know the worst thing to do would be to show any emotion at all. Instead, I plaster a stony look on my face, throw my shoulders back, and march forward, my head held high. I ball my hands into fists so that he won’t see they’re shaking. As soon as I get to the dining hall, I’ll report him. When I leave, I’ll sneak out the back.

  As furious and panicky as it makes me, it also gives me a little insight into what Edward must have been dealing with his entire life. No wonder he’s so paranoid about his privacy.

  The sound of the camera fades into the distance—the photographer no doubt hiding to score another photo later—and I finally feel safe enough to look down at my phone, turning the ringer on.

  Oh, shit.

  I have forty-seven text messages, fifteen Kiks, six WhatsApp messages, a voice mail from Bill, and three missed calls from my mother. One of the texts is from Robert.

  ROBERT: Bill just called me. I saw the article. You okay?

  I shoot him a quick text back.

  ME: Yeah. Paparazzi just found me but I survived. Can we meet up later?

  ROBERT: Absolutely. Just tell me when and where. Whatever you need.

  ME: Thanks x

  I open Instagram. I’ve gained more than twenty thousand new followers in a single morning. There are so many comments on my last photo—a random selfie of me before track practice—that they blur together. They’re all from strangers:

  @EmmaBlaineSmith Ohhhh shiiiit ur sis is gonna b sooooo mad!!!!!

  @kittykatzmeow1294 @yellowjackfever93 did u see this? this is the article from sun today I was talking about. She dated prince Edward before her Sister

  @Planet_Ging_Love Is this article 4 real? U sold out your sister for publicity?

  @bdkanon6807 Hii Charlotte!!!! Signed up for ur mailing list!! Can’t wait 2 download ur app it sounds so cool!!!

  @MadisonGreen99 Never seen a person more self-absorbed than her. And her family is no better. Social climbing trash. Prince Edward had better run.

  @apps4u76969 Want to gain more followers? Follow us here! You’re guaranteed to get one hundred new followers PER DAY!

  @Minimeeee she is gorgeous and ur all just jealous

  @Minimeeee u wish u could all be with a prince like charlotte n b so smart her app is dope charlote i love u pls follow me back pleeease

  @Lollipop21marine Seriously, you are disgusting. It’s people like you who make Prince Edward and the other royals feel like they’re living in a cage.

  @tm_marie22 Lb first

  @kraykke You’re a pathetic social climber. Hope you enjoy all your new Instagram followers, because you will never be queen.

  If the comments weren’t so horrendous, I might laugh. Who are these people?

  But even though I know that they don’t know me, don’t know the truth, and obviously don’t know what the hell they’re talking about, finding myself as the target of a social-media firestorm hurts. I should still be riding high from the triumph of my track win. Instead, I feel sick to my stomach reading all the hate and anger directed at me through my phone. It’s like somebody has scraped the bottom of the Internet barrel and dumped the sludge on my photo feed.

  I’ve been tagged in an Instagram post. I know I’m probably going to regret it, but I can’t stop myself from clicking on it.

  It’s a screen grab of a tweet. The tweet says, “A little birdie told me that Charlotte Weston is the ‘secret’ source behind @theSUN article about her new app.” The person who screen grabbed it and then tagged me on Instagram has posted only one word of commentary: #Obviously.

  I open the Twitter app and search for the tweet.

  It has 418 likes and has been retweeted 793 times.

  My head is pounding. Mum calls again, but I press divert. I need sustenance before I can deal with her—before I can deal with any of this.

  She leaves a message. I don’t listen to it.

  I walk into the dining hall apprehensively. I’m expecting heads to swivel, glares darting in my direction. But nobody really looks up. Everybody is too busy focusing on their food, their friends, their own personal dramas to pay me any attention as I load up my tray. I’ll report the photographer later.

  But then I arrive at my table, and it’s a very different story.

  “What are you doing here?” Flossie asks, her eyes narrowing.

  “Um, I’m here to eat . . . ,” I say, looking from person to person to gauge their reactions. Oliver and David are avoiding my eyes, while Georgie and Alice have sad looks on their faces—like they’re disappointed.

  Tarquin shakes his head. “Is anybody actually surprised?” he says. “You’re all daft if you didn’t expect this.” He crumples his napkin into a ball and throws it onto the table.

  “What are you talking about? You were like my best friend two days ago. You practically begged me to help you with that girl.”

  “Your services are no longer required.”

  I stand at the edge of the table, not sure what to do.

  I can’t read India’s expression. What’s worse, Edward refuses to look at me.

  “You think your shit doesn’t stink,” Flossie says. “We know it was you.”

  “Except it wasn’t.”

  Georgie looks at me hopefully, like she wants to believe me.

  “Says you. Who else could it be? It was like a publicist planted that article for you. I looked at your Instagram—you’ve gained like fifty thousand followers today.” I don’t think it would help matters much to correct her by saying it was only twenty thousand.

  “It wasn’t—”

/>   “Bye,” says Flossie. “Leave.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “And are you deaf? There’s no room for you in Edward’s life. We’ll stand behind him—his real friends.”

  “But—”

  “Get. Out.” Flossie stands up. “If you don’t leave, we will. Right, Edward?”

  He doesn’t say a word. It’s as if the conversation isn’t happening. His head is to the side, his eyes averted. I am, so it seems, dead to him.

  “Okay, forget it.” I put the tray on the table, removing my sandwich and an apple for Libby. “Whatever.”

  When I hear people talk about how they wish they could trade places with somebody else, I never get it. My life, up until this point, has been pretty bloody great. But now, for the first time, I understand. I would give almost anything in the world to not have to deal with the fallout from this stupid tabloid gossip.

  “Good riddance,” I hear Flossie say as I walk away.

  twenty-five

  I’m on the floor of my room later that afternoon, surrounded by Apple paperwork I’ve printed out in the library for the app, when there’s a knock at the door. At first I assume that it’s Libby, finally rousing herself from bed and looking for some distraction. Or maybe it’s Robert, since he seems to be one of the few people who don’t hate me.

  I called Bill back after lunch, and needless to say, the article thrilled him. Apparently, we had thousands of people sign up for the Selfsy mailing list to be alerted when the app drops. He said, “You can’t buy that kind of publicity!” about five times and told me he’s been fielding phone calls from PR firms dying for Selfsy’s business.

  “I’m coming in, so you better be dressed.” It’s India.

  The door swings open. She stands there, looking concerned.

  “You’re still talking to me?” I ask warily.

  She doesn’t respond, shoving her hands into the long cashmere cardigan topping her uniform. Instead, she nudges the papers with the tip of her ankle bootie. “What’s all this?”