“But I don’t want that,” I said stubbornly. “I just had a boyfriend. Now I want to have irrational fun.”
“Okay, but if Nick starts dating someone first, you’ll wish you’d tried harder to replace him with someone real,” she said.
“Nick’s dating life isn’t my concern.”
Lacey actually laughed in my face, although not unkindly. “Every ex-girlfriend says that, and no ex-girlfriend ever means it.”
“You don’t care about Freddie and Petunia,” I pointed out.
“Persimmon,” Lacey corrected me. “And that’s different. I’ve technically never been his girlfriend.” She smiled. “The clock’s about run out on her, though, and the guy I’m seeing is dullsville, so the timing finally might be right pretty soon.”
She stopped. “Oh, shit. I hope you know I’m not—”
“I know,” I said. And I did. It was awkward that my brutal breakup was a romantic opportunity for my twin, but she’d stepped back when I’d asked, and now it was my turn.
Lacey hugged me. “Let’s just try and enjoy having the Ivy League back on the prowl. You and me again. The package deal.”
Soj turned out to be a retro-punky black-and-neon space that felt like Betsey Johnson crossed with old-school Madonna in a way that confirmed Joss once again had absorbed whatever her boyfriend was into—in this case, Tom Huntington-Jones’s lost youth. I sensed the Ivy League headlines writing themselves as Lacey and I posed for pictures outside Soj, which I wished were not obligatory, because Lacey had been right about my pants. I should never have worn them, because no one else in the press line bothered: not the soap stars, the socialites, nor Special Sauce, the girl group whose hit “Dip It” was blaring both inside and outside the store. Not even Penelope Six-Names, a woman who’d willingly dressed as a llama last week on national television.
Inside, we rescued Cilla from a conversation with Six-Names and her new boyfriend, and made our way to Clive and Gaz, near a display of bikinis with the Universal No symbol stamped someplace scandalous. Gaz had his arm around a petite, bobbed brunette in a prim shirtdress.
“You all remember Philippa,” Gaz said.
“Brilliant. It’s the Ivy League,” Philippa said, but she was glaring at me. “Daddy said your beach holidays singlehandedly made this happen.” This sounded like an accusation.
“Oh, I’d say his hands had a lot to do with it, too,” Lacey said sweetly, tucking her arm protectively through mine. We all glanced over to where Tom was peacocking with Joss. They were in matching snug leather trousers and identical platinum bouffants, like they were members of a Duran Duran tribute band rather than business partners. Philippa let out a guttural yawp; a tattoo artist set up between the jumpsuits and the tube tops was sketching the word guns on her father’s right bicep, as he and Joss nuzzled.
“I am going to stab that bitch,” Philippa said, stomping across the room.
“Bit crackers, that one,” Gaz said. “Always on at me about my family landholdings.”
“I did warn you,” Clive said.
“There’s no future in it, anyway,” Gaz said. “She said curry makes her teeth hurt.”
“Blasphemy,” Cilla said heartily. “You are a magician with curry.”
Gaz looked delighted, unlike Joss, who was currently getting the business end of Philippa’s rage.
“Poor Joss,” I said.
“Poor nothing,” Clive said. “She got Sexy Bexy in her clothes again. Mission accomplished.”
I groaned. “But I regret these jeans.”
“You need a drink,” Lacey advised, scanning the room for the bar and then charging off in that direction.
“This party has a very unusual guest list,” Clive said, raising an eyebrow at two girls with half-shaved heads loitering near the handbags, whom I suspected were former fashion school classmates of Joss.
“Yes, that’s right, only poncey society to-dos for you now,” Gaz said. “No one with fewer than three surnames allowed.”
“Can’t complain. It’s been ripping for my career,” Clive said, drawing himself to his full height. “I’ve managed to use my connections without severing any of them. I’m hoping the Recorder won’t be able to resist giving me a Man About Town column, if the Mail doesn’t jump on me first.”
“I bet they will,” I said. “I told you things would turn around for you.”
“I really should do an anonymous one with all the dirt I wish I could print, if it wouldn’t get me ostracized,” he said. “For example, from the rumors I’ve heard, there’s a certain pug—”
Clive was interrupted by a flurry of flashbulbs outside the store, and then my shell-shocked sister pawing through the crowd.
“He’s here,” she hissed. “Hide your pants.”
The whole room slowed down the instant I saw Nick. He was exactly as I remembered—kind face, piercing blue eyes, hair slightly tousled. As if he’d just rolled out of my bed.
“Oh, aces,” Joss said, coming up behind us. “I suppose he did actually say maybe, but that usually means no.”
Lacey and Cilla appeared to be wrestling with which of them would sock Joss first. I opened my mouth to say it was fine—it had to be, I had no choice—but then a blonde walked in beside Nick and took his hand. Ceres Whitehall de Villency looked like a gleaming golden angel in a leather pencil skirt and a sexy white top. I looked like a hobo, and I felt like a fool.
“I can’t,” I heard myself whisper.
Clive heard, too, and roared with laughter as if I’d just said something amazing. “Come with me,” he leaned down to whisper. “We can be on a flight to Paris in thirty minutes.”
“Yes,” I whispered back. “Take me.”
Bad choice of words.
*