The hardwood floor is covered with faded Oriental rugs. Three large floral sofas anchor the sitting room, which connects to an open kitchen opposite the front door and a hallway to the left. The right side of the sitting room has sliding glass doors leading to a wraparound balcony with views of leafy Onslow Square below. I know I shouldn’t be surprised that India has a place in Chelsea—and clearly renovated, to boot—but I’m still impressed. Most families we know have been priced out to Fulham.
“Should I take my boots off?” I ask, looking for a slipper bin near the door.
She shrugs, leaving her wellies on as she walks over the rugs to the kitchen. “Only if you want to.”
Another one of those invisible little class markers: my mother would be having a heart attack at the idea of mud tracking around her expensive carpets. Old money likes it when toys lose their shine.
“This place is awesome.” I walk around the apartment inspecting everything. Libby would love it here—she’s always dreamed of a flat in Chelsea. I pick up a wooden frame displaying a photo of the extended Fraser family, gazing at the tanned, smiling faces. “How often do you come here?”
India tosses her bags on a sofa and walks to a wooden cabinet in the far corner. She opens a bottle of Tanqueray and pours two generous glasses.
“Not often enough. Whenever I go out in London. Once every couple of months? My older brother uses it when he’s visiting from New York.”
She hands me a glass and we cheers, knocking the drinks back. The metallic-tasting liquid trickles down the back of my throat, making my insides glow.
India gives me a quick tour of the four-bedroom flat. Her parents are usually traveling or in residence at Huntshire, her older brother works at a fund in New York, and her younger brothers are all at Harrow, so India often has the whole place to herself when she’s in London. Her bedroom is cold and surprisingly modern, decorated in shades of silver and blue, with a renovated walk-in closet and adjacent, state-of-the-art bathroom cluttered with designer perfume bottles.
“Make yourself at home,” India says. “I’m taking a quick shower. We have a reservation at Il Carpaccio at eight thirty—you’ll love it. It’s just Italian, nothing to write home about, but you don’t go to a restaurant in London for the food, do you?” she laughs.
After a hearty—and despite India’s description, delicious—Italian dinner, we’re holed up at a table at Alpine Haus, drinking spiked fruit punch from giant jugs. I’m wearing a skintight red minidress over tights; India’s in a more demure blue-and-white printed silk dress that falls to her knees, one of her newly acquired goodies. Despite the cold, we each wore a single black peacoat over our dresses—the alcohol and the dancing will keep us warm.
“Are we here all night?” I ask, my eyes darting from person to person as I check out the scene. The bar is full of pretty, well-dressed people: the type of social pioneers whose coolness christens a place and makes it an official hot spot.
“I had been thinking Maggie’s after,” India says, leaning back against the leather seats and surveying the crowd. “But I heard this is the new place to be. And Maggie’s has gotten really strict with IDs. So many places in London are a drag about underage drinking now.” She rolls her eyes and sighs wearily. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture India in middle age, ruing estate taxes.
“So, tell me,” she says. “Now that we’re alone, just you and me and all these strangers: How are you?”
“Not bad.” I’ve barely thought of Libby all day. I’ve been too consumed with the brilliance of London: Hyde Park, Big Ben, the King’s Road—the whole charming, gorgeous, frantic city mine for the taking. It’s so different from the quiet sameness of Sussex Park, where it’s impossible to forget your problems.
“Good. You’re handling it well. Someday we’ll all look back and laugh.”
“I don’t know about that.” A waitress walks by with a bevy of shots on a tray, designed to look like chemistry experiments. “What do you think? Shots?”
India smiles. “You read my mind.”
We knock back several shots of something yellow, and then switch to tequila on a dare by India.
“Whew!” India looks unsteady in her seat and already a bit worse for the wear. She always goes from sober to drunk instantly, which is disconcerting. I’m not in the mood to babysit tonight. She bops her head around. “Dance?” We bounce up and elbow our way onto the tiny dance floor.
I’m dancing, losing myself in the music, when I hear my name. I look up to see Robert.
His eyes are wide. “Hi. You look bloody amazing,” he says in his distinctive northern accent.
“Robert!” I throw my arms around his neck. He smells delicious, and I nestle myself in the crook of his neck for a second. “Your cologne is yummy. You smell divine.”
“Oh, thanks,” he says, blushing and looking pleased. “What are you girls doing here?”
“We fled Sussex Park for Valentine’s Day. Thought we could have some adventures in town. What about you?”
“Same. Some of my friends and I came down for the weekend, and this place is supposed to be the cool spot.”
“Ooh, a prefect sneaking off campus for some underage drinking. I like it.” I lean in. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Robert blushes. “Deal.”
We spend the next couple of songs dancing, wheeling each other around the dance floor in a blur of laughter. He’s good fun and, judging by the puppy-dog looks he keeps sending my way, has a bit of a crush on me. It’s very flattering. He’s not a bad-looking guy at all.
“How’d you hear about this place?” I ask, standing with him at the bar after we take a break from dancing.
“My dad,” he says, blushing again. “Is that a lame answer? He’s friends with the owner.”
“What does your father do?” My right foot is starting to feel slightly pinched in my heels, so I lean on Robert’s arm for balance.
“He owns one or two restaurants in London. The Dominion?”
“Your dad owns the Dominion? My parents love that place. They go there for their anniversary every year.”
“Yeah, I basically grew up at the restaurant.”
“Don’t they own a few other places?”
“Yeah. L’Espace, Warden, Sui Generis, All Spice, Matisse, a few others . . .”
“So one or two places isn’t quite accurate. He’s major.”
Robert laughs. “I suppose he is.”
“Color me impressed. I had no idea.”
“Well, it’s not me,” he says. “It’s just my parents.”
“That’s not a very English attitude,” I joke. “Especially at our school. You’re completely defined by what your parents do.”
“But it shouldn’t be like that. I spent summers in the States as a kid—my mum’s sister is married to an American in San Diego. Nobody cares what your parents do. They care about what you’re doing. My brother is the perfect example of that.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s he do?”
“He’s an angel investor. Like a venture capitalist—those guys who invest in Facebook and stuff like that. He does small tech startups.”
“He must be loaded.”
Robert shrugs. “He does all right. He’s always looking for the next big thing. He’s obsessed with the idea of finding another Zuckerberg.”