“I daren’t suggest anything is outside the Queen’s jurisdiction,” Katie said.
I snorted from my perch on my living room sofa, where I was in pajama bottoms and a novelty London Underground T-shirt that read Mind the Gap. Dad had bought it for me when I moved back, as a way of bucking me up, and I tended to wear it whenever I needed extra Earl Porter go-get-’em mojo. Which I would require in spades, because Lacey had, metaphorically, definitely not minded the gap, and both tabloids and the more respectable broadsheets alike had leapt right on top of it. Even the London Times couldn’t resist LACEY PORTER IN PARISIAN DRUG SCANDAL, although at least it was below the fold.
After months of guilt, confusion, and worry, being standard-issue pissed at Lacey was almost a relief, because it was so uncomplicated. Even now, my blood runs hot when I think about the whole idiotic mess. (I keep imagining Eleanor in her nightgown and curlers, crunching her morning toast over the paper, clucking, “Are young people just stupider now?”) Tony’s reputation preceded him, but the drug he hooked my sister on was status: all his flash, and the attendant flashbulbs, and so she chose to be blind to the rest. They were attending the opening of his pop-up, Versailles, which was located in a Parisian townhouse tarted up like one of Louis XIV’s mistresses. Opening night encouraged regal fancy dress, so Tony had donned full Sun King regalia, and Lacey, drunk at best in the paparazzi shots and interior photos that eventually leaked, had gone as me in a brown wig, a fake emerald, and a green dress so similar to my engagement photos that I actually checked to see if mine was gone (it wasn’t). And after that debauched all-nighter, Tricky Tony, possibly the dumbest egomaniac alive, sped through Paris in a rented Maserati stuffed to the gills with cocaine and cash. When the gendarme booked him for speeding and got so much more, it was my sister in the front seat with him, my sister who got hauled off in cuffs, and my sister who spied the paparazzi and gave them an angry middle finger.
Paris might be out to get me. Porter women are zero-for-two there.
Marj broke the news once she hustled me safely into the car. My mother was already en route to Paris, and Marj ordered me to stay put in my flat, where the paparazzi had immediately descended in hopes of catching Lacey skulking to me in shame, or me leaving, either cocky and defensive or bathed in betrayed tears. I shut myself in, unable to sleep or relax or even eat, waiting for word about Lacey and hitting reload on my in-box, veering between being sure Nick was too busy—I imagined him shirtless and firing cannons, for fantasy’s sake—and being afraid he was too mad to talk. As was I: Beyond Marj and, quickly, my mother, to confirm she was safely in France, I kicked every call to voice mail and ignored a novel-length text from Clive explaining that while he was a novice to television, he would gladly stave off his nerves and defend Lacey’s honor and whitewash the situation in our favor. When I showed the text to Marj in the backseat of the car, she deleted it without a word.
“I have met Lacey Porter, of course. We went around town a bit,” Maxwell, son of Baron Something-Something, was now saying on the TV. The network must’ve begged Penelope Eight-Names to fork him over as a character witness. “Lacey is a bright young woman who I believe was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people.”
Holly frowned as best she could around her Botox. “That middle finger looked a bit defensive, though, wouldn’t you say?”
The photo flashed up on the screen. Lacey’s face was contorted with anger.
“Er. I really couldn’t say. She’s just, er, so bright…” Something-Something stammered, way out of his depth.
My cell phone rang.
“I’ve spoken to the embassies in Paris,” was Marj’s opening salvo. “She may be called back to testify, but we’ve managed to get her out without being charged as an accessory.”
I exhaled a breath I hadn’t even realized I’d drawn. “Thank you, Marj. We don’t deserve this. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
“We’ve told the press she’s under house arrest in Paris for a week, so that we can sneak her home with your mother.”
“Maybe we should leave her there,” I muttered, feeling my blood boil again.
“The Palace will not be doing anything further on Lacey’s behalf,” Marj said. “You understand.”
“I do.”
“And to that end,” she said delicately, “I’ve spoken to Her Majesty—”
I refreshed my email. Nothing.
“—and Her Majesty thinks it wise if your twin takes a much-diminished role in the wedding,” Marj finished.
I had, in an early morning fit of fretting, predicted this to myself. “Does that mean she can’t be my maid of honor?”
“Her Majesty believes a much-diminished role might be wise,” Marj repeated.
“So, that’s a no.”
“If that is how you choose you interpret it.”
“But if Eleanor says…”
“Her Majesty,” Marj said firmly, “has simply offered a gentle suggestion.”
Sometimes it was like we were all speaking in code.
“I’ll take her suggestion under advisement, then,” I said. “And do let her know I appreciate her, um, very reasoned counsel.”
“One more thing,” Marj said. “And you’ll not like it, Bex.”
My heart shuddered.
“No more Paint Britain for a while,” she said, and by giving it to me plain, for once, it felt like she was sympathizing with me. “You’d be besieged with questions about Lacey. It would hurt the charity and drive you potty.” She paused. “This is nonnegotiable.”
And just like that, the scrap of myself I’d fought for was yanked away. We rang off and I looked back up at the television in time to see news footage of my sister leaving a Parisian police station, surrounded by photographers. For someone who craved the spotlight, she didn’t seem to enjoy it much as she pushed through the melee, holding her purse in front of her face. Be careful what you wish for may be both of our epitaphs.
*