“He is a lot lighter now,” I said. “I wish they’d done it years ago.”
The film of sadness that covered Nick might never wholly disappear, but it did diminish. He talked about Emma more. His insomnia had ebbed. And, perhaps because he was finally rested, he even relaxed about the press. And then just as quickly as the tide turned in him, he rode it out of town: His Navy frigate, HMS Cleveland, deployed that January just two weeks after the Emma interview did. It was hard not having him around in those euphoric days when all we wanted was to be privately obnoxious about calling ourselves affianced, and it meant that I was left alone to find my footing.
I was telling a very sympathetic Cilla this when Joss blew into the flat like a tornado. She’d missed two buttons on her shirt, and mascara had run all over her face.
“It’s over,” she wailed, flinging herself into a chair with such force that Cilla’s tea spilled. “The store. It’s gone. It’s all gone.”
The bigger surprise was that Soj had lasted this long. But as foolhardy an enterprise as it seemed, Joss never saw it as a passing fad. In fact, her design aspirations may have been the only real constant in her life, especially because her impatient parents—whom she saw as faithless—had essentially closed her out of theirs.
“I knew we were losing money, but I didn’t realize it was that bad.” She sniffled. “I told Hunt we could still get a shirt on Bex, but—”
“I think your style is too edgy for Bex’s new position,” Cilla said tactfully.
“Doesn’t have to be,” Joss said. “People change. Hunt changed. Turned me out on the street and crawled back to his wife.” She sniffled savagely. “Good luck having two hours of sex with a man who thinks he’s so bloody innovative just because he likes nipple clamps. That’s so three years ago, you stodgy old bastard. God, Viagra is the worst.”
By the time Lacey joined us, looking elegant in a gray and black L.K.Bennett dress that I realized with a jolt was one of the finalists for my engagement shoot, the three of us had hammered out a plan for Joss to stay with me until her subletters moved out, and run Soj from her maisonette.
“And maybe we can collaborate on something for you,” Joss said, brightening.
“I will try,” I said. “I don’t get a lot of…”
“You picked out what you’re wearing today, didn’t you?” Lacey asked, watching me as she poured cream into her tea.
“Well, sure. To go to Marks & Spencer, and then here,” I said.
“Were you photographed?” Lacey pressed.
“I don’t think so.”
Wrong. The press would briefly dub me Princess Penny Pincher. I had just needed socks.
“So you have some freedom,” Joss prompted.
“It depends,” I hedged.
“On what?” Lacey asked.
I felt like she was increasing the target on my back rather than helping erase it.
“On whether my twin sister has already stolen what I was supposed to wear,” I said as good-naturedly as I could manage.
Lacey looked at herself. “This? I thought you didn’t want it.”
“Yes, but Marj needs to return it,” I said. “What’s mine can’t be yours if it isn’t actually mine to begin with.”
Lacey bit her lip. “I’ll pay for it, then. It’ll look great with the booties I got for when Tony takes me to Paris.”
“Tony the Drug Dealer?” Joss asked, the thrill of gossip cutting through her depression.
“That was all extremely exaggerated,” Lacey said smoothly.
When the New Year dawned without any sign of Freddie, Lacey had glommed onto Tony. He’d evaded jail time for Club Theme’s alleged extracurricular activities, but I still thought he was crooked, and I’d hoped Lacey would figure that out and tire of him. But instead, they’d been in the paper with increasing frequency. The press now compared the members of the old Ivy League instead of coupling us; every time Lacey got dinged for her hair or her tan or the length of her skirt, she redoubled her efforts (and possibly her credit card bills) to look flawless the next time. Barnes and Marj were grumping about it to me, but I was not about to dive into Lacey’s personal life.
“Mind that Tony,” Cilla warned Lacey. “He’s all about the game.”
Lacey waved her off. “He’s changed, Cilla,” she said. “He’s so driven, and he knows absolutely everyone. He wants to take Club Theme overseas, and wants me to help.” She turned to me. “You and Nick can come to the opening! It would be great PR.”
That made it the second time in under a minute that someone had traded on our relationship to ask me to do something for their own personal gain.
“Let’s talk about happier things,” Cilla interrupted smoothly. “I haven’t had this much insider dish on a royal wedding since my fourth cousin Ramona objected to that obvious farce in Liechtenstein. When does the planning start?”
“I’m sure a binder for it was born the same day Nick was,” I said. “He’s on the ship until summer, so the ceremony probably won’t be until next year. Marj started listing off all the details we need to lock in between now and then, but I blacked out somewhere around choosing which carriage we’re going to ride in afterward.” I grinned at Lacey. “My maid of honor will have her hands full with me.”
“Of course,” Lacey said. “When I can,” she added, not entirely meeting my eyes. “I might be up for a promotion at Whistles, and this Paris trip—”
“Lacey,” I said. “I can’t pick out a dress and a tiara and wedding shoes without you. I can barely pick out my own jeans.”
Lacey looked uncertain. “The Palace might not let me weigh in that much.”
I thought back to everything Freddie said about feeling like the spare, and about how much Lacey and I had already lost this year. I would hold on tight if it killed me.
“I’ll make them,” I said wildly. “You’re my sister. This is our adventure. Period.”
*
“What is the difference between a baron and a baronet?” Lady Bollocks asked, pacing in front of me, tapping her riding crop in the palm of her hand.
“The last two letters,” I joked.
Bea cracked the crop onto my coffee table. I pitied her horse.
“I am not doing this for my health,” she said. “Who is the premier marquess in the peerage?”
“Um.” I rubbed my forehead. “Hereford. No! Shoot. That’s the viscount. Dammit.”
“How do you pronounce this honorable surname?” she asked, handing me a piece of paper that read Crespigny.
“Wait, aren’t you going to tell me any of the other answers?” I asked.
“No,” Bea said, poking me with the crop. “Because you ought to know them like breathing. Figure it out. I am not here to coddle you. Now name the heraldic tinctures.”