“So, how was everybody’s break?” India says, leaning forward and clasping her hands together. Her voice imitates a parental tone.
“Amazing,” says Flossie, taking a spoonful of frozen yogurt. “We went all over France. A week in Paris, a week in Saint-Tropez, and some time at Dad’s cousin’s place in Normandy. And then we went back to Denmark, of course, to visit Mummy’s family. We stayed at Amalienborg a few days and then went up to Gr?sten for a couple weeks.”
India told me once that Flossie’s mother is basically Danish royalty—her grandfather was the youngest son of a king, or something like that. Whenever Flossie travels to Copenhagen, they stay at one of the palaces—Amalienborg is where the king and queen as well as the crown prince and princess all live. Plus, Flossie’s double trouble: not only is her lineage impeccable, but she’s also from one of the richest families in England. Britain’s archaic succession laws mean, as an only child, her father’s title will go to her uncle. But even with the succession bypassing her, Flossie will still inherit millions.
“Girl, that sounds incredible,” I say.
“Thanks! It was.”
“What was the total?” Tarquin asks Flossie.
“Total?”
“Number of guys you snogged?”
She looks offended, taking two more bites before swallowing and answering. “None of your business.”
“Aww, c’mon, Floss. Give us the dirt—we want a bit of juicy gossip. We know you had some fun.”
Edward takes his hand off my knee and picks up a piece of bread, throwing it at Tarquin. It bounces off his freckled nose and falls on the black-and-white checkered floor. “Hey. Knobhead. You’re being a prat.”
Flossie brightens while Tarquin’s pale skin turns red.
“What about you, Oliver?” India asks, ignoring Tarquin’s wounded look. “I saw some great Snaps from you over the summer.”
“Oh, yeah!” Oliver says, his cheeks dimpling. “Mum has this major conference every year in San Fran, so we talked Dad into letting me go with her. I hit up the Mission, smoked a ton of ganja in the Haight, made friends with this old hippie dude who was in Vietnam. It was major.”
The idea of Oliver, the son of an army general, smoking weed in a park with an old hippie makes me giggle.
“You were in the Haight?” Georgie says in her flat California drawl.
“Yeah? Why?”
“I mean, isn’t it obvious?” she says, gesturing to the way he’s sitting. His back is ramrod straight, perfect posture, no doubt drilled into him by his stiff father. “You look like you’ve got a stick jammed up your ass.”
Surprisingly, he doesn’t look offended.
I laugh. “Looks like the American can say things the rest of us can’t.”
“It’s the only reason they keep me around,” she says. “I’m Georgie, by the way.”
“I’m Charlotte.” I look her up and down. Georgie’s face is open, her smile easy. I decide I like her. “Where are you from?”
“America. Or the States, as you Brits like to say.”
“Yes, but where in the States?”
She grins at my exaggerated voice. “LA.”
“From Hollywood,” says Alice, looking impressed. “Her dad is Omar Rogers.”
“Like, the film director?”
“Guilty,” Georgie says.
“Wow. That’s cool!” I hope I’m not too effusive—but it is cool. Omar Rogers has two Academy Awards, one for Best Screenplay and one for Best Director. Georgie’s mum must be Prudie Phillips—they look like twins, with the same creamy mocha skin and high cheekbones. Her on-again, off-again romance with Omar has been in all the tabloids for decades.
“Georgie’s dad and my mum are old friends,” says Edward. “We’ve known each other for years.”
“‘Old friends,’ is that what we’re calling them?” Georgie quips.
Pink spots appear on Edward’s cheeks. “Okay, they dated. Before Mum met Dad.”
“Madeline—Queen Madeline, whatever you call her now—was always the one that got away, Dad says.” Georgie mimes sticking a finger down her throat. “Believe me, you do not want to hear your sixty-five-year-old father waxing poetic about the glory days of his sexual prime—especially not with somebody who’s now queen. Gross.” Everybody laughs, even Edward.
“He dodged a bullet,” Edward says. “Mum’s a handful.” I’ve never heard Edward talk about his family before. “And what about you?” Edward says, turning to me.
“I spent all summer in Midhurst. Hippies in the Haight would have been a major improvement.”
“We did some damage together in London, though,” India says. “Especially at Selfridges.”
“Yeah, my dad wasn’t too pleased about that. He had a fit when he got the credit card bill.” Mum had to convince him that my six new dresses and several tops were “necessary” for school.
“Why?” says Flossie. “It’s not like he can’t afford it.”
“Um, right. But my dad is a bit old-fashioned. He’s proud of his background, wants us to understand the value of a pound—all that.”
She rolls her eyes. “Parents are so weird.”
“I don’t think that’s weird,” Edward says. “I understand wanting to instill values in your children. It’s nice, really.” He smiles at me and puts his hand back on my knee, squeezing it.
“If you say so,” Flossie says, looking glum.
The kitchen staff comes around to clear our tables, and Edward turns to me. “Want to go for a walk?”
I nod eagerly. He slips his fingers through mine and helps me stand up.
“Okay, guys. See you all later,” he says.
As he leads me through the dining hall, walking down the center aisle between the rows of tables, heads swivel. I haven’t been invisible to the Sussex Park campus, but walking hand in hand with Prince Edward at the height of the dining hall rush hour might as well be a coming out party.
On the way out of the dorm, a tall brown-haired guy I recognize from one of my classes last year smiles at us. “Hi, Edward. Hi, Charlotte,” he says in a northern accent.
“Hi!” I say, embarrassed I don’t remember his name. I read somewhere that people like you more when you say their name—it makes them feel recognized. I hope he doesn’t notice that I haven’t remembered his.
“Hey, Robert,” Edward says, as if reading my mind.
He’s cute. Not as cute as Edward, though—and his accent is a dead giveaway that he probably didn’t grow up playing polo and taking ski holidays in Switzerland.
“See you back at Stuart,” Robert says, giving us a wave as we exit.
“Friend of yours?” I ask.
“He’s the Stuart Hall prefect. Really decent guy. I like him a lot.”
We walk hand in hand through campus, the lampposts lighting our way as we cut around the back of the chapel and tread over the grassy hill sloping down to the hockey field. It’s warm for a September evening. The campus is always at its quietest during mealtime, and it’s easy to pretend we have the whole place to ourselves.
“My home away from home,” I joke as we walk across the hockey field.
My heart pounds as I realize we’re walking to the Oaks: the most remote, private, and dimly lit area of campus. Also known as Snog Point.
“So you’re really into hockey, huh?”
“I love it. I’ve played it since I was a kid.”