I lean up on my tiptoes to give him one last kiss, then turn on my heel, running out of the maze and back into the house.
I’m not surprised in the least when, on the train back home to West Sussex the next day, I pull my buzzing phone out of my pocket to find a text from Edward waiting for me.
EDWARD: I can’t wait to see you again. Xx
four
Once I get home from Huntshire, I have only three weeks of summer left until school starts. The time crawls by at a snail’s pace. Even though Libby and I spend loads of bonding time together—she’s ecstatic because she finally manages to beat me at tennis—I can’t wait to get back to school so I can see Edward.
I don’t tell Libby that, of course.
On the first day of school, Dad drives Libby and me the fifteen minutes to the Haslemere station, lugging our bags onto the train and then giving us each hugs. Mum’s in London for the day on Soles business.
“Make good choices,” Dad says from the platform. “I’m too young to be a grandfather.” I can’t tell if he’s joking or being serious. Even though I’m convinced my father was born an old man, every once in a while he comes out of left field with a zinger that reminds me he’s a human being. Like Libby, he’s serious but can have a surprisingly wicked sense of humor.
“No promises,” says Libby.
I wave him off. “Tell Mum we love her!”
We ride to the Guildford station, giggling together while watching Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt on my iPad.
When the train arrives at Guildford, Libby and I hop off to transfer. She helps me with my giant suitcases. They were too big for the spaces above my seat—after all, I had to pack enough clothes, accessories, hair products, and makeup to get through the term until Christmas.
“Promise you’ll text me when you get to school,” she says.
“Don’t worry about it, Mum! You text me with the latest about Greene House, okay?”
“Deal. Love you!”
“Love you more!”
Soon, the town of Little Bookham looms through the train window as we pull into the station. I spot a gray, crumbling church spire in the distance, but the rest of the town is hidden under a thick canopy of trees. As the train pulls to a stop, I head to the gangway to retrieve my bags. A shuttle bus is waiting in the car park. Twenty minutes later, the bus drives through the massive wrought-iron Sussex Park gates, and I feel a flurry of excitement in my stomach. Home for another year—and this year is bound to be epic.
After everybody has arrived, checked into their dorms, and unpacked, the whole campus convenes at the chapel in the late afternoon for welcome remarks from Master Kent.
A long, narrow building from the 1700s, the chapel has magnificent Gothic arches, and red, blue, and gold stained-glass windows depicting scenes from the Bible. There’s a tranquil stillness inside, even when the building is packed to capacity with all eight hundred students and one hundred and seventy-five teachers. On each side, there are six graduated rows of pews, divided into sections for each year. The first years sit at the front of the chapel, under the watchful eye of their dormitory heads and prefects. The sixth form gets to file in last, taking up the pews at the very back.
Like students at most of the top boarding schools, we’re required to wear uniforms: navy suits with green-and-white ties for the boys, navy blazers or jumpers and pleated green-and-white tartan skirts for the girls. It’s meant to keep clothing from being a distraction—but, of course, some students look better in the uniform than others. I do my best to make my uniform more fun through the small details: shiny black ballet flats or high-heeled Mary Janes, the tightest jumper I can get away with, and smoky eyes or cool nail art I’ve discovered on YouTube or Viewty.
Even though I already did my hair and makeup at home this morning, I spend another forty-five minutes getting ready before chapel—I want to look extra hot when Edward sees me for the first time. It’s been almost a month of daily contact, and I can’t remember the last time I went to bed without a “good night and I can’t wait to see you” text from Edward loaded with Xs.
But once we see each other again in person, will the spell be broken?
As Master Kent strides to the lectern in the center of the stage, he flashes his thousand-watt smile at all of us. Donation bait, my mother once termed his Hollywood grin.
“Each year brings with it a sense of promise. It’s not just a new chapter. It’s an entirely new book, with the pages blank. It’s up to you to create your story,” the headmaster booms in his plummy tones. “What will you write this year? What symphony will you conduct? Which opus will you bring to life?”
I scroll through Instagram as the master talks, waiting for the welcome remarks to finish so I can meet up with India. Flossie has posted one of her yoga photos, so I like it, commenting: OMG! You’re so flexible!!
“Hi!” India says when I exit the chapel afterward. She gives me a big hug. “You look bloody fantastic. How was the rest of your summer? Your Snaps from Devon looked brill.”
I’m about to respond when my heart skips a beat. Standing behind India, looking edible, is Edward.
“Hi, Charlotte,” he says shyly. His cheeks have a faint pink tinge to them. Is he blushing?
“Hi, Edward,” I say, my own face feeling hot.
We step toward each other tentatively, embracing awkwardly. I brush my lips against his cheek.
As we stand in front of each other, India looks amused.
“You look great,” Edward murmurs.
“This?” I say in disbelief, gesturing down to my pleated skirt. I’ve tried to hike it up a little to show off my legs—I’m proud of how toned they are from all my sport. “I look like a Mennonite.”
He laughs. “It suits you.”
“Oh, stop playing coy,” India says, sliding her arm through mine and motioning for Edward to follow us. “You look gorgeous in the uniform, and you know it.”
The three of us head to the dining hall for dinner, walking down the long row between all the tables, known as the Catwalk. Two minutes later, the rest of India’s friends have shown up: Flossie, Alice, Tarquin, and Oliver from the party over the summer; their short, pasty friend David, who has a reputation as the sixth-form class clown; and a pretty, delicate-looking American named Georgie.
Prince Edward is in the center of the long wooden table—relaxed, laughing, and holding court. And I’m there on his left, his hand resting on my thigh under the table.
Is this really my life?
India and her friends always sit at the back table, underneath one of the three massive brass chandeliers that dominate the room’s gold ceiling and mahogany walls. I just hope they all still like me after they get to know me better. What’s that phrase? Familiarity breeds contempt.
I get a text from Libby soon after we’ve sat down to eat.
LIBBY: So? How’s it going?
ME: We’re getting married.
LIBBY: Yay! That good?
ME: It’s unreal. I’ll call you tonight after dinner xxx