India, Edward, Libby, and I hang back from the rest of the group. David and Tarquin run around like drunken fools, chasing up behind Flossie and Alice and hoisting them over their shoulders. Georgie and Oliver are ahead of everybody, walking arm in arm. I’m not sure if they’ve hooked up yet, but it’s clearly heading in that direction, which makes me smile. Sometimes opposites just attract.
The sexual tensions in our group are always shifting. It seems everybody has a crush on somebody else from week to week: one week it’s David lusting after Alice; the next, he has his sights set on Flossie. Now that Flossie seems resigned to the fact that she’ll never have Edward, her radar has turned back toward Tarquin; she’s constantly laughing at his inane jokes. They’ve already made out a few times, and they’re perfect for each other—they’re both convinced they’re the most wonderful people on the planet and that everybody else is beneath them.
Everybody—girls and boys alike—is a little bit in love with India, although she only dates girls, of course. I don’t know anybody who isn’t attracted to that sort of burning confidence. It doesn’t hurt that she’s gorgeous and nice.
As we make our way back onto campus, the group immediately settles down and starts to break apart, everybody blowing kisses and quietly saying their good-byes as they tiptoe back to their halls of residence. I notice Georgie and Oliver sneaking off together toward Snog Point.
Now it’s just Edward, Libby, and me.
“Tarquin fancies you,” I say.
“Does he?” she giggles. The wine seems to have gone to her head. She winds her arm through mine as we walk down the sloping hill toward Colvin. “Should I be interested?”
“No,” Edward says firmly. “He’s fun for a laugh, but I’d never date him.”
“Yeah, he’s a total wanker,” I say. “And thank goodness. I’d be so embarrassed if you dumped me for Tarquin.”
Edward laughs.
“Then why are you all friends with him?” Libby asks.
Edward shrugs. “I’ve known him since we were kids. We grew up together with India and Flossie. If I were just meeting him now, I don’t think we’d be mates.” The Gloucestershire set is nothing if not tight-knit: just a few titled families running in the same circles over and over.
We walk back through campus. The oak trees look gauzy in the moonlight.
“What was that Indian restaurant you were talking about at dinner, Edward?” Libby asks.
“Maharajah.”
“I love a good curry.”
“Yeah, that place is one of our favorites,” I say.
“Why don’t we all go next week?” Libby says. “I’m dying for some popadams.”
“How about Tuesday?” I say.
Edward nods. “Works for me!”
“It’s a date!” Libby says.
The three of us reach the crest of the hill and say our good-byes. Edward hugs Libby and then gives me a quick peck on the lips.
“Bye!” Libby waves at him, reminding me of a happy toddler waving bye-bye.
She links her arm through mine again as we walk to our residence hall.
“You’re right, Charlotte,” she says. “He’s lovely!”
“I knew you’d get along! You just needed to give him a chance. What’d you talk about?”
“Mostly polo—I had no idea it was such a dangerous sport. Did you know that people die every year?”
I nod. “Those horses go almost fifty miles an hour, I think. It’s crazy.”
Libby shakes her head in wonder. “It sounds a bit strange, considering we grew up in the shadow of Cowdray, but I’ve never paid much attention to polo.”
“Because you were too busy being a nerd,” I say, poking her in the ribs playfully.
She swats my hand away. “He said that we could go see a game with him soon, if you want to. He’s very passionate about it.”
“Sure.” I shrug. “That sounds like fun.”
“You don’t mind if I tag along, do you?”
“Of course not.”
“It’ll be fun,” she giggles.
“You’re smashed!”
“Maybe a little. I only had two glasses of wine. Barely that. But I’m not used to drinking.”
As we enter the residence hall, closing the front door gingerly behind us, I put my finger to my lips.
“We need to be quiet,” she says loudly. Her voice reverberates off the marble.
“Shh!” I whisper in a panic. “Don’t . . . say . . . anything.”
We tiptoe up the stairs. When we reach the second floor, Libby accidentally stumbles, calling out “Damn!” as she trips.
I grab her by the hand and pull her after me, sprinting down the hall to my bedroom and shutting the door. In the hallway, I hear McGuire’s door open. It’s several seconds before it closes again.
“That was close,” I say, my heart pounding. “You should sleep here tonight.”
“It’s only one floor. I can make it.”
“You smell like a wine cellar. It’s not worth it. Let’s have another slumber party.”
“Ooh!” She smiles. “Let’s do that!”
We start getting ready for bed.
“How do you wear all that makeup all night?” she groans. “I’m dying to get this slop off my face.”
“Try these.” I toss her a packet of makeup remover wipes. “Perfect when you can’t be bothered to wash your face.”
She rubs the wipe all over her face.
“You look like a Jackson Pollock painting. Here.” I take another wipe and gently tissue the eyeliner, mascara, and foundation residue off her cheeks. “Much better.”
“Thanks, Lotte,” she murmurs, pulling the covers down and crawling into bed. She scooches next to the wall.
“You’re still in your clothes! Aren’t you going to change?”
But Libby is already snoring lightly.
I smile at my drunken sister, changing into a T-shirt and boxers before climbing into bed.
nine
“Weston!” Coach Wilkinson blows her whistle. “Get your ass over here!”
I run over to the sidelines, sweating through my jersey.
It’s a bright, clear Tuesday in late October: the type of blustery day where it’s warm in the sun but freezing in the shade. Running all over the field during practice has exhausted me. I started the practice with several layers this morning at six thirty a.m. Now, I’m in only a T-shirt and shorts, and I’m boiling.
She places her hands on her hips. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
Coach Wilkinson comes from America. She married a Brit she met while backpacking through Europe after college, and then she stayed. I’ve seen enough American telly to know that her accent must have softened over the years: it’s not as harsh and flat to my ears as most American accents. She kind of sounds Canadian. But she’s still a dyed-in-the-wool, born-and-bred, flag-waving American. This is never clearer than on the hockey field. I think she gets off on yelling at us.
“I’m sorry?”
“Do. You. Think. I’m. An. Idiot.”
“No. Why?”
“Well, that’s music to my ears. The way you’re pussyfooting around out there, it’s like you think I haven’t noticed how lazy you’ve been all morning.” She adjusts her visor.
“Um . . . I’m sorry? I’m not sure why you’re upset.” I hate people yelling at me.
“You’re not sure why I’m upset? How about your time around the track this morning? You added six seconds. Or the fact that you were late to practice?”
“I’m very sorry. Like I said, my alarm didn’t go off this morning, and then I needed to run to Powers Hall to turn in a late paper—”
“Quit it with the excuses. There are no excuses in real life. Either you win or you fail. Do you want to be a winner or a failure?”