Romancing the Throne

by Nadine Jolie Courtney

  “Stuff for the app. It has to be completed in order for us to submit for the App Store. I thought I’d work on it to calm me down. Take my mind off everything.”

  “And this?” she asks, sitting down on the floor next to me, picking up a notebook.

  “More of the same. An analysis of competitive apps I did last month for Bill.”

  “You sound like an econ major.”

  “Ha. I just tell him what I find, and then he’s the one who dolls it up and makes it all business-y and professional. But I am learning a lot about projections and all that stuff. Even if the app fails, it’ll be useful for university.”

  “You’re thinking of majoring in graphic design?”

  “Business.”

  “I see.” She pops right back up again, climbing onto my bed and swiping the open curtains shut. “There are photographers everywhere. Arabella says the headmaster hired special staff for the day to patrol the campus perimeter.”

  “I know. I reported one outside the dorm after lunch. Another one followed me to Stuart Hall. All because of that stupid article.”

  “All because of you, according to Twitter.”

  Something in India’s voice makes me pause. I stop, putting my phone down and looking her full in the face.

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it, India.”

  She doesn’t hesitate. “I know. I believe you.”

  “Flossie hates me now. And Edward wouldn’t even look at me. Seems like I’ve been axed for good.”

  She leans over, picking up a sheet of paper off the floor. It’s a loose-leaf page from Bill’s business plan. I pulled it out to read while writing down stuff about the apps that inspired me. India rolls the paper into a tube and then starts absentmindedly tapping it against her palm. “Seems so.”

  “And? What are you thinking?”

  She keeps tapping the paper against her hand, finally tossing it back onto the floor. “I’ve never seen Edward so upset.”

  “God, he’s such a stubborn asshat. How could he possibly blame Libby for this?”

  “He’s not angry. He’s hurt. And he doesn’t blame Libby.”

  The silence between us is deafening.

  Finally, I speak. “When Libby told me, I went off on this dumb speech about how she and Edward are perfect for each other. But I’m starting to feel like: screw it. If Edward’s so determined to blame me, if Libby is miserable, if the two of them are so damn busy throwing pity parties that they can’t communicate with each other—then why should I fix it for them? I’m sick of feeling like collateral damage.”

  India bites her lip.

  “And you guys know me—how could any of you possibly think I’d do that? It really hurt.” Now that I’m letting it out, I realize how bothered I am by my friends not giving me the benefit of the doubt.

  I expect India to roll her eyes at me for being dramatic, but instead, she’s looking at me like she really, desperately wants to say something. It’s not like India to hold her tongue. I pause, giving her a chance to speak. When she doesn’t say anything, I launch right back into my critique.

  “I know what everybody thinks—that neither of us had any business dating him in the first place. Two middle-class sisters from Midhurst dating the future king? What a joke. We were stupid enough to think we could play the game at all, let alone win it.”

  India’s eye twitches.

  “Obviously Edward just needs to be with somebody who sang nursery songs with him in Gloucestershire, who used to run around with him in diapers on the lawn at Cedar Hall, whose parents own zillions of acres and go to all the same boring charity luncheons as the Queen. Clearly, the only thing that matters in your world is being born into the right family. Screw the rest of us, right?”

  “You need to get over that. Nobody cares about where you were born,” India says softly.

  “Everybody cares.”

  “Okay, some people care. But those people are dinosaurs. Morons. The world isn’t like that anymore.”

  “Yes, it is. Flossie and Tarquin, and Oliver, and even David—the whole lot—they all play like they’re so egalitarian—hanging with us poor little Weston sisters, letting an American into the group—but when you really get down to it, they’ll always see us as outsiders.”

  “Yeah, but Edward’s not like that. He doesn’t give a toss where Libby came from—or Georgie, or you, for that matter.” India’s voice becomes more impassioned. She seems to be waking up from whatever daze she’s been in for the past few minutes. “He just wants to surround himself with good people. He wants to have a group of friends he can trust—and it doesn’t bloody matter where they came from.”

  I look at India in surprise. In the year we’ve been close friends, I think that’s the first time I’ve heard her raise her voice.

  “What’s got you all riled up?”

  “Believe it or not, I’m annoyed, too. Flossie came to lunch today and said she knew it was you, and everybody automatically believed her, just like that. They’re sheep.”

  “You’re only realizing that now?” I say. “Edward’s the shepherd. You’re all just the flock.”

  “Except Edward’s sleepwalking on the job. He’s miserable over Libby.”

  “He should be.”

  “I was trying to get Flossie to see reason, but she wouldn’t.”

  “I’ll go talk to her,” I say. “Flossie’s loyal. I’ll get through to her.”

  She nods. “I’m starting to realize that maybe our friends aren’t as loyal as I’d thought. There’s a traitor somewhere in our midst. Good luck rooting them out.”

  “What do you want?” Flossie asks, crossing her arms. I’ve knocked on her door and am standing outside her room a few hours after our showdown in the dining hall.

  “I want to talk, Floss.”

  “I don’t think there’s much to say.”

  “Come on,” I say. “You know me. You know I would never do that.”

  We stare each other down.

  “Fine,” she says, opening the door wide. “You’ve got five minutes.”

  I walk inside, sitting down on her bed.

  “So,” she says, looking at me like I’m a bug. “How’s the app? Seems like your social media following has shot through the roof. That’s quite the coincidence.”

  “It. Wasn’t. Me. You think that’s my MO? Selling out my sister? Getting on Edward’s bad side? How dumb do you think I am? I thought you knew me a little better than that.”

  Her face darkens. “Well, I’m sure you’ve had thousands of downloads, no?” I nod. Bill’s been sending me a flurry of texts all day—we now have more than sixty thousand people on our mailing list.

  “You’re right. Nobody knew who I was before today, and now the entire damn country knows me and Selfsy.”

  “Lucky girl,” she says. “Going straight to the top—isn’t that what you really wanted all along?”

  “By throwing my sister under the bus? By betraying my friend? No.”

  “I thought you came here to apologize, not to argue.”

  “But I didn’t do anything. I don’t have anything to apologize for!” I feel like I’m talking in circles. Why is Flossie refusing to believe me?

  She sighs. “I don’t think we have much more to say here, Charlotte. I wish you luck with the app. Really, I do. But I think this is all for the best. Our group doesn’t respect traitors.”

  “Ugh!” I feel like stomping my foot in frustration. “I need a cigarette,” I say, as much to myself as to her.

  “Denial isn’t very becoming of you,” she says. She opens the drawer next to her bed and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, handing me one. “But, here. Knock yourself out.”

  “Libby doesn’t smoke, you know,” I say, trying to make small talk while I figure out how to get through to Flossie.

  Flossie rolls her eyes as she places a cigarette between her own lips. “It’s so irritating.”

  “I think it’s smart. We’re all going to quit someday—like, I
’m not going to be thirty and smoking—but for Libby, that someday never has to come.”

  “Okay,” Flossie says, shrugging. “That’s nice. Whatever.”

  When she goes back into the drawer for a lighter, I catch a glimpse of something at the bottom of her drawer. It’s a small stack of square photos, piled on top of one another.

  They’re Polaroids.

  Oh. My. God.

  Suddenly, everything becomes clear.

  It’s Flossie. She’s the leak.

  “What are those?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “In your goody drawer. Are those Polaroids?”

  Flossie slams the drawer shut. She takes the unlit cigarette out of her mouth and tosses it on the table. “I don’t know. Probably. Look, Charlotte, this is getting old. You should go.”

  My eyes narrow.

  “I want to see them.”

  “You’re acting crazy. I want you out of my room, now.”

  “Show. Me. The. Photos.”

  Flossie takes a step toward me, as if trying to scare me into backing down. “If you don’t get out of here, I’ll call campus security.”

  I stand my ground.

  She pulls out her phone, shaking it menacingly. “If you don’t get out of here, I’ll call the press.”

  It couldn’t be Flossie. It doesn’t make any sense. She would have absolutely nothing to gain by selling Edward out.

  And yet I know with every fiber of my being that she’s the leak.

  I have only one shot to get this right. I pull my phone out of my pocket and start jabbing at it with both my thumbs, pretending to send a text. In actuality, I’m opening my voice memos app. I press record, praying this works, and shove the phone back into my bag.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, sounding panicked.

  “I texted India to come over. We’re sorting this out here and now.”

  Flossie takes a step back uneasily, as if she’s not sure what to do.

  I’m not sure what to do, either. I need to get Flossie talking—something I can play to Edward as proof of her betrayal.

  “India will be here any second,” I say. “One word from me and she’ll see the photos in your drawer herself. India’s smart. She’ll know that it was you, not me.”

  Flossie’s eyes narrow. She licks her lips. Finally, she says, “It’s your word against mine. I’ll tell India you planted them to set me up.”

  “So it was you.”

  She seems to be regaining her confidence. She reaches back for the cigarette on the desk, actually lighting it this time. “Congratulations. We have a winner.”

  “But why, Flossie? Why throw me under the bus like that? I thought we were friends.”

  She shrugs. “It’s not personal.”

  “It’s entirely personal.” Now that we’re talking plainly, I decide to go for broke. “You contacted the Sun about me. How is that not personal?”

  “I didn’t. They contacted me. I said no, at first. Obviously. I’d never talk to the press about Edward. But then I thought about it. The more I considered it, the more I realized I would be doing Edward the biggest favor of his life.”

  “I’m sorry, you considered this doing Edward a favor?”

  “Oh, please. He was making a fool of himself. First you, then Libby? What’s next—he’s going to take up with the gardener’s daughter at university?”

  “You’re a snob.”

  “I’m not a snob. I just understand how the world works. People like us don’t end up with people like you.”

  I’m shocked. I’ve always thought Flossie was wary of me, but she seemed to thaw eventually. Now it’s clear that she was harboring a secret grudge the whole time.

  “Except they do,” I say. “First me, then Libby . . . but never you, unfortunately.”

  She glowers at me. “Whatever. Eventually, it became plain that I had to act. I asked Tarquin what he thought, and he agreed.”

  “Tarquin?”

  Flossie smiles.

  “Oh. Right. All the drinks at the White Horse. You needed a decoy to make sure I wasn’t in my room.”

  “Nobody ever said you weren’t clever.”

  “Why make it look like I planted the story?” Keep her talking.

  She takes a deep drag of her cigarette. I want to reach over and smack it out of her smug little mouth. “You should be thanking me. I gave you ten thousand pounds of public relations in a single article. Plus, obviously, Edward thinks you can’t be trusted now. And since he’s realized Libby isn’t good enough for him, he’s free to date someone better.”

  “Someone like you.”

  She rolls her eyes, not responding.

  “Mmm,” I say, satisfied. “Cool. But you probably should have thought it through. Libby and I have never been closer, and you’re about to bring Libby and Edward closer, too.”

  She snorts. “There’s no way he’ll take her back.”

  “Oh, didn’t you hear? She dumped him. Not the other way around. He’s been begging her to take him back.” The shocked look on her face is immensely satisfying. “If you didn’t have your head so far up your arse, you’d see that Edward is lucky to have Libby—and he knows it. Once he hears what you’ve had to say”—I pull out the phone from my pocket, still recording—“I have no doubt they’ll reconcile and be back on by tonight.”

  Flossie’s eyes widen as she sees the phone. She lunges for me, swiping at my hand. “Give it to me.”

  “No.”

  “Give it!”

  “Screw you, Flossie.”

  “That’s illegal. You can’t use it as evidence. I didn’t know you were recording me.”

  “Well, thank God we’re not in court. I’m not suing you. I’m just taking it to Edward so he knows who he can trust. Whether he decides to keep you and Tarquin around is up to him. I don’t give a toss about that.”

  She looks stunned. “It’s illegal,” she repeats weakly. “I’m calling my lawyer.”

  “Go for it. I bet he’ll tell you stealing is illegal, too. And I’m sure your parents will be thrilled when we’re all in court. They don’t mind having your family’s name dragged through the mud, right?”

  “How dare you,” she says with all the force she can muster.

  I shrug. “If you weren’t such a snob, maybe you’d see that I only wanted to be your friend. You can’t treat people like you do. It doesn’t matter who your family is.”

  “You can’t go up against me. You’re nobody,” she says passionately.

  “You’re wrong, but whatever. I don’t care what you think anymore,” I say. “Have a nice life, Floss. Good luck on the way down.”

  I stub my unsmoked cigarette in Flossie’s ashtray and then walk out.

  On my way to Stuart Hall to find Edward, I pull out my phone, texting Robert.

  ME: I’m heading your way. Need to tie up some loose ends first, but when I’m done, I’d love to see you . . .

  ROBERT: Can’t wait. I’m in my room whenever you’re ready.

  I climb the steps of Stuart, my heart pounding as I walk down the hallway toward Edward’s room.

  I knock. Across the hallway, Simon swings open his own door.

  “Hi, Simon.”

  If menacing looks were an Olympic sport, Simon would win gold.

  “Edward’s going to want to hear this, trust me.”

  He crosses his arms but doesn’t say anything.

  Edward opens the door. When he sees it’s me, his face falls.

  “Oh. You.”

  He has dark circles under his eyes, as if he hasn’t slept. He scratches his chin, which has a slight layer of stubble, and I think: he’s just a guy. To the rest of the world, he’s Prince Edward, who appears on the cover of magazines and lives in palaces and is the son of the King. But in reality, he’s just an eighteen-year-old guy who is heartbroken because a friend has sold him out and his girlfriend has dumped him.

  I think back to the beginning of the year, when the two of us were at the
edge of the field, sneaking kisses and laughing at each other’s jokes. I remember how he took my hand in his and called me sexy. How we stood outside Colvin Hall kissing until our noses were red and our lips were chapped. How I felt like the luckiest girl on the planet, because not only was I dating somebody, that somebody was Prince Edward.

  And now we’re here.

  “Before you slam the door in my face,” I say, holding up my phone, “I have something you need to hear.”

  I press play.

  twenty-six

  Can I be honest?

  My happiness over Libby and Edward reconciling is nothing compared with the jubilation I feel heading to the splashy London launch party for my app. Because of all the PR Selfsy got following the article, Bill hired one of the top PR firms in London, who insisted we capitalize on the press with a launch party. Bill has rented out Beaufort House in Chelsea, a members-only club popular with aristocrats like India. He’s all about “making noise” and “being disruptive”—two phrases he majorly overuses—so he’s spared no expense with the party and has invited an army of press.

  After I played Flossie’s confession for Edward, he was stunned. He asked for my forgiveness and begged me to convince Libby to give him another chance. In the past, I might have felt satisfaction at Edward begging me to do anything. This time, I was simply happy to help my sister.

  Libby and I spent a couple of weeks together at Wisteria after the school year ended, but now she’s at Cedar Hall in Gloucestershire to visit Edward. She texts me happy updates, sending photos of the two of them riding horses and fishing behind the house, and keeps a running tally of surreal dinner conversations with Edward’s parents. (You know: the King and Queen.)

  So, things are going very well.

  Mum, Dad, and I take a black cab from Victoria Station to Beaufort House, pulling up outside the four-story brick venue and stepping out into a hail of flashbulbs.

  “Charlotte, this way!”

  “Charlotte, look over here!”

  “Charlotte, Charlotte!”

  The flashes are blinding. There are so many photographers crowded outside on the pavement that it’s hard to make my way to the door. I still can’t believe they all know my name.

  “Take your mum’s hand,” Dad says.