Edward’s in there with Libby. She’s snuck him into her room.
I should just knock on the door. I’m sure she’d be happy to let me in. I’m sure Edward would leave. I’m sure we could bring this whole thing to a close here and now and put it behind us, and laugh about it someday like the whole thing wasn’t totally twisted. Like: “Pass the peas. Hey, remember that crazy time we boyfriend-swapped?!”
But hearing Edward’s voice, plus the realization that Libby has changed enough to be sneaking boys into her room, snaps me right back into that awful, confused, hurt place where I’ve been living for the past few weeks.
I walk back to my room, still clutching the stuffed alien.
Mum and I talk each Sunday, and every week she asks if Libby and I have made up yet.
Week after week, the answer is the same: no.
seventeen
“Valentine’s Day is the best holiday when you’re in a relationship, and the absolute bloody worst when you’re single,” says India.
We’re sitting on a bench outside the student center waiting for Flossie to meet us.
Valentine’s Day decorations have taken over campus—paper hearts on the walls, little stuffed Cupids decorating the dessert station in the dining hall, the annual Cutest Couple list in the student center. (Big shocker: Libby and Edward win. Vomit.)
“Cosign,” I say. “They’re all so smug. Even Georgie and Oliver are insufferable—I wish they would quit it with all those goo-goo eyes. I’ve had it up to here with everybody being so . . . cute.” I say the word like it smells awful.
At the far end of the quad, Libby and Edward are walking hand in hand. Edward doesn’t look in our direction—he’s probably pretending he doesn’t see us—but Libby gives me a pained, awkward look.
“I can’t stand them,” I say.
India nods. “I get it.”
“They don’t even try to make peace anymore,” I say. “Libby was apologizing to me twenty-four seven for weeks, and now—nothing. Glad she was willing to throw her sister under the bus at the first sign of a guy showing interest in her.”
India sighs. “Didn’t she leave that stuffed animal thing outside your door? You never said thank you. Libby’s nice, but she’s not Mother Teresa.”
“It was a stuffed alien.”
“Look, you’re all my friends. I don’t want to pick sides.”
“Okay, but forget the peace offering for a second. Don’t you agree that them dating is a little bit shitty?”
She puts her arm around me. “Yes. It is shitty.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling gratified. “That’s all.”
“You’re handling it well. Better than I would be.”
“Better than you? I can’t imagine you giving two flying figs if your girlfriend suddenly took up with one of your brothers. You’d just shrug and be like, ‘Such is life,’ and then order a glass of champagne and light a cigarette or something.”
India bursts into laughter. “So, basically, what you’re saying is that I’m a cliché from a foreign film?”
I laugh. “Sorry.”
“Let’s get the hell out of Dodge,” she says. “I need off this bloody campus.”
I give her a sidelong look. “What’s up with you?”
She sighs. “I don’t want to bore you with the details.”
“Girl trouble? Family stuff? Failing classes? I’m all ears. Misery loves company!”
“Classes?” She pulls a face. “Definitely not.”
“Okay, well, I’m here if you want to talk.”
“Thanks,” she says, glancing at her wrist as her Apple watch lights up. “Do you want to go into London this weekend? We could spend the night at my parents’ flat and get away from all these bloody lovestruck twits.”
“That sounds perfect.” It’ll be a good distraction: the thought of seeing Edward and Libby mooning at each other around campus makes me want to throw myself off a building.
I groan looking at the price tag: nine hundred pounds.
“India, I can’t. My parents will throw a fit.” We’re in Harvey Nichols, just off Brompton Road in London.
First we hit up Bond Street—India buying a new pair of shoes, three jackets, and a pair of cream-colored trousers—before walking several blocks to Harvey Nicks, as everybody calls it.
India frowns into a mirror, staring at her reflection as she tries on a pair of gold sunglasses. “Why?” she asks, swapping out the pair resting on her thin nose for black aviators.
I clutch the blue dress. “They hate it when I shop too much with their credit card.”
She sets the sunglasses down on a display case. “But your parents aren’t here now.”
“It’s too much.” Sometimes I think India, Flossie, and the rest think my family has more money than we do. We’re not poor anymore, but we don’t have generational money the way they do; India’s great-grandkids, for example, will never have to work a day in their lives. We have a nice house, go on expensive trips around Europe, and Soles is actually so successful that Mum and Dad are talking IPO. But when you’ve grown up worrying about money, it’s hard to shake that deep-seated financial insecurity.
And when you’re new money, you’re always jealous of those who are old.
“Fine, let’s go downstairs; this entire floor is overpriced anyway. We’ll hit the high street and get new dresses on the cheap for tonight. Nobody’ll know the difference, and even your parents can’t complain about one bloody dress from H&M.”
“Tonight? Where are we going?” We walk through the department store and get on a downstairs escalator.
“Alpine Haus. It’s brand-new, across from KP. Let’s stop by the flat, dress, run by Il Carpaccio for a bite, and then it’s up to High Street Ken.”
“Thanks for this. I needed a girls’ night desperately.”
She looks at me full in the face, patting me on the shoulder. “You’ve had a tough run these past couple of months. But you’ll figure it out. Now let’s find you something to wear and show those London boys what you’re made of.”
Four hours later, our arms are laden with shopping bags as we turn off the King’s Road in Chelsea, stepping around the slushy puddles of ice and melting snow pooling on the street.
I got carried away—between the dresses, the blouses, a new winter coat, several wool skirts, and a couple of pairs of shoes, I guess that I’ve spent at least two thousand pounds today. I try not to think about what my parents’ reaction will be when they open the credit card bill.
Oh, well. It’s not like they don’t actually have the money.
I follow India upstairs to the fifth-floor penthouse, the two of us scraping our Wellington boots against the mat outside her front door before stepping inside. The flat is cavernous and full of light.