The first time I applied makeup, I felt transformed. I’m sure it had more to do with my age—thirteen—than my actual self-esteem, but I was going through a rough acne patch and felt like a total ugly duckling.
Mum had started Soles the year before, and it took off like a rocket. Suddenly, we were rolling in money. We moved from a small two-bedroom town house in Guildford—where Libby and I shared a bedroom—to a six-bedroom house in Midhurst, a quaint town dotted with Tudor architecture. Overnight, we upgraded not just our house but our lives: now we could afford vacations, new clothes instead of hand-me-downs from cousins, a car for each parent, and, of course, boarding school. Not everybody was happy about the transition. Even though I invited my old friends over for sleepovers all the time, they dropped me soon after we moved. I think they were jealous of the fact that we suddenly had money, but they said I was up my own bum. I cried every night for two months—Libby came home from school three weekends in a row her first year at Greene House just to comfort me. While it was hurtful and confusing, it also made me determined to surround myself with people who admired success, instead of resenting it.
To cheer me up, Mum let me tag along on her first Soles photo shoot. The makeup artist showed me some tricks, and everybody agreed I looked a million times better after she plucked my brows and applied mascara and lip gloss. Even my dad said I looked pretty when Mum and I got home from the shoot—and he never focuses on looks. Soon after, Mum bought me all the makeup that the artist recommended, and I left for my first day at Sussex Park a few months later fully made up: armor on.
I’ve never forgotten that lesson. People say it’s what’s on the inside that counts—but you’re fooling yourself if you think they ignore the outside, too.
“You’re certain Prince Edward will be there?”
Libby groans. “Not you, too, Mum.”
“It’s very exciting!” Mum says defensively, taking a sip of wine. “Your father and I have spoiled you both. Sending you to top schools has paid off. You don’t know how lucky you are. Not everybody is a classmate of the future king. Most people will never run in those circles.”
“He’s just—”
“—a boy,” I say, finishing my sister’s sentence. “We know, we know. But come on, Libby. Has that all-girls school turned you to stone? Even your feminist heart has to beat a little faster thinking of a prince as hot as Edward.”
She smiles. “I never said he wasn’t hot.”
“Thank you! That’s all I ask. Just a little acknowledgment that your sister has made it to the big leagues.”
“How many people are expected at India’s?” Mum asks.
“From what I heard, her parties are small. Only about twenty people.” I don’t tell my mum that India’s parties are also notorious for teenage debauchery. Last year, the entire Sussex Park campus was abuzz for weeks with talk of Flossie Spencer-Dunhill’s drunken skinny-dip with Tarquin Sykes in the Huntshire pool.
I know Libby’s right: it’s kind of embarrassing that I’m this excited about gaining India’s friendship. Even with my self-esteem at an all-time low when I was younger, I’ve never been a wallflower, and I have a ton of acquaintances at Sussex Park. But my old friends—mostly hockey teammates—graduated last year, and after India’s best friend, Byrdie Swan-Grover, graduated, India tapped me for friendship. Being part of India’s group is a stamp of approval that guarantees major social access—the kind of approval I’ve been dreaming about ever since leaving my old school. I’m cool with India’s friend Flossie, who plays hockey, and with Alice Hicks, who’s in a few of my classes. And, of course, India and I have been friendly since we sat next to each other in English class my first year and instantly bonded when we realized we both thought manufactured pop groups were totally lame. But the rest of her clique is a mystery. India’s small circle is the best of not just Sussex Park but of English society in general—and Prince Edward is smack dab in the center of it.
Why wouldn’t you want in on that?
“So, do you really think India means to set you two up?” Mum asks. “Surely she was joking.”
“I don’t know.” I shrug, trying to play it cool. I’m trying to keep my hopes in check, since boys like Edward tend to only date girls like India—the upper-class kids like to swim in the same pond, recycling the same few options over and over. “I guess we’ll find out.”
“It’s incredibly exciting,” Libby says magnanimously, reaching over to squeeze my hand.
I poke Libby in the ribs playfully before picking up my phone again. “Right? It’s huge. He’s very private. Not just anybody gets to hang out with him.”
“Nana’s going to lose her mind. Have you told her, Mum?”
“I may have mentioned in passing that you were going to a house party he would be at . . .”
“Ha! I bet the two of you had a forty-five-minute conversation all about it,” Libby says. “Where she immediately decided they would become a couple, started daydreaming about a spring wedding, and plotted out exactly what she’d say to the King and Queen when she met them.”
“Ugh,” I say. “No pressure or anything.”
Mum laughs. “Guilty.” The wineglass rapidly empties. “Nana kept repeating the importance of her rules.”
“Oh, God, Nana’s Rules for Dating,” I groan. “How many times did you have to hear that when you were growing up?”
“You’re better off not knowing.”
“Rule Number One,” repeats Libby. “Never let a boy know you like him.”
“Rule Number Two,” I say. “Always play hard to get.”
“Rule Number Three. Let him see you surrounded by other gentlemen,” she counters.
“Rule Number Four. Don’t give away the milk for free,” I laugh.
“Because women are cows, and barnyard metaphors are so progressive,” Libby says, shaking her head. “She’s so special.”
“She’s truly from a different time,” Mum says. “Can you imagine what a nightmare it was trying to date with all that rubbish in my head?”
“As long as Lotte doesn’t compromise her goals,” says Libby, suddenly serious. She looks at me. “This is a big year for you. You need to keep your marks up and focus on hockey, too. You’re so great at it—you could get a scholarship! Don’t get distracted by boys.”
“Oh ye of little faith. Like I can’t juggle boys and books?”
“Yeah, but he’s not a normal boy—he’s a prince.”
“Whatever. Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to.”
She rolls her eyes, smiling at me. “Well, then, promise me one thing: Treat him like any other guy, okay?”
“Relax,” I say. “I’m a big girl. I can handle myself just fine.”
“I know you can.” She’s silent for a second, and then breaks out into a grin. “And if you can’t, your big sister will be your attack dog.”
“Atta girl!”
We each kiss our index finger twice, holding them out until they touch.