“That’s funny. Well, you’d better get a major finder’s fee if you lead him to Snapchat 2.0.”
“Tell me about it. But the point is—he’s done it on his own, no money from Dad. It might seem like the cards are stacked against us because we’re not aristocrats, but it’s not like that anymore. Anybody can rise to the top.”
“Yeah, well, you’d think we robbed a bank and crashed society the way my mother gets treated sometimes.”
“She grew up poor?”
“She grew up okay, actually, but her family was originally working-class—totally bottom of the barrel,” I confess. “But my father came from a good enough family.”
“Why should you feel embarrassed because of that?” He looks at me sidelong. “I think you’ve been hanging out with the wrong crowd for too long.”
“You mean India and her lot?”
“Yeah. And Prince Edward, too.”
I flush. “I’m not hanging out with him anymore.”
“I heard about him and your sister. I’m sorry. That must have sucked.”
My face falls. “You have no idea.”
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. You broke all our hearts when you were off the market.” He laughs self-consciously.
“Well, I’m back on the market now,” I say flirtatiously, putting Libby out of my mind again.
I feel a tug on my elbow. It’s India. Her makeup is starting to slide down her face. “Come with me,” she demands.
“Girl talk,” I say apologetically. “See you later?” I race off hand in hand with India.
“Where have you been?” she asks. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“I’ve been talking to Robert,” I say.
She shrugs. “Anyhow. Guess who’s here?”
“Who?”
“Clemmie Dubonnet!”
Clemmie Dubonnet is the hottest supermodel in the world right now. She’s only eighteen years old, but she’s already been on all the big magazine covers. She just broke up with her girlfriend, an American TV actress.
“Oh, yeah? That’s cool.”
“She hasn’t seen me yet. How do I look? Is my makeup okay?”
It’s not like India to get so excited over a celebrity. I look at her strangely. Is she saying what I think she’s saying? Is Clemmie the reason she’s been so mysterious?
I look her up and down. She’s beautiful as ever, but the alcohol is taking a toll on her fair complexion. Her eyes look bloodshot and her long, thin hair is appearing a bit stringy.
“You’re looking a little worse for wear,” I say honestly. “Can I help?”
I reach into my handbag, pulling out some makeup blotting wipes, lip gloss, and a comb. I spend a couple of minutes freshening India up, and when I’m done, she looks much better.
“Thanks,” she says, giving me a big, long hug. “You’re amazing, Charlotte. I knew you’d have a few tricks.”
It occurs to me that India, who barely wears makeup and just rolls out of bed looking fabulous, probably doesn’t know what to do the .01 percent of the time when she appears anything less than perfect.
“Good luck with Clemmie,” I say.
She looks startled for a minute, like she’s been caught out, but then she laughs. “Thanks. I’ll need it.”
We go back out into the club from the bathroom and I look for Robert. I find him standing by the DJ, dancing spastically. He’s thrusting his forearms and closed fists in the air, one at a time, which has the result of looking like he’s pantomiming being locked in a box.
“Oh my God,” I say. “You are the worst dancer.”
He laughs. “I know. Careful, I might infect you.”
The DJ throws on old-school Madonna and a roar goes up from the crowd.
It’s only when India reappears that I realize Robert and I have been dancing and laughing for hours. It’s nearly three a.m.
“I’m getting a cab with Clemmie,” she says. Her hair looks like a rat’s nest.
“Where the hell are you two going at three in the morning?”
“She says there’s an after-party?” She points vaguely off into the distance, swaying.
“I don’t see her. Where?”
“Over there,” India says, looking irritated. Clemmie stands by the bar, frowning into her phone and shooting us little looks.
“And where am I supposed to go? I’m staying at yours, remember?”
India sways a little. “With Robert?”
“India looks smashed,” Robert whispers into my ear.
“Tell me about it. She wants to go home with Clemmie Dubonnet. I don’t think it’s a good idea—she’s wasted.”
“Isn’t Clemmie a lesbian?”
I shrug. “So’s India.”
“You should take her back—it’s late. Can I help?”
“Agreed, and thanks. Let’s go.” I turn to India. “Come on. You can text Clemmie from the cab and say you’ll see her tomorrow. But right now, you’re coming with us.”
Together, we take India upstairs, each one of us holding an arm. Robert helps her maneuver the steps, and he hails us a cab once we’re upstairs and outside on the street.
“Where are you headed?” he asks me.
“Chelsea. Onslow Square.”
“Take them to Onslow Square,” Robert says to the cabbie, handing him a wad of cash. “What’s your number?” he asks me. “I’ll text you so you have mine. Let me know when you’re back home safely.”
We exchange numbers, and I wave at Robert as the cab turns around the corner.
I look at India, who’s giggling in the seat next to me as she jabs at her phone.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
She puts her phone in her lap. “Fine. You and that boy were so dramatic about it.”
“You’re wasted!”
“I’ll be fine.”
“What did you say to Clemmie?”
“I just texted her that you were jealous and I had to take you home.” She starts giggling again. “Gotta keep her on her toes. So, did tonight take your mind off things?”
“Yes.”
As the cab drives through the circular around Buckingham Palace, the gold windows blazing with light, I think of Libby yet again. I wonder what she’s doing right now. It’s been a month since we’ve had a proper conversation. Suddenly, I have an impulse to be truthful.
“Can I be honest?” I ask.
India looks at me, her eyes a little bloodshot but her gaze steady. “Yeah. Everything okay?”
“I’m lonely.”
“Oh.”
“I miss Libby.”
“Well, obviously.”
“Plus, our group is all weird now. I miss half of our meals. I was betrayed, but I feel like nobody gets it or really gives a crap about it. It’s just like, ‘Oh, well, Edward and Libby are dating now! That’s life!’ None of them text me to check in. Nobody ever really asks how I’m doing with it. I just sort of feel . . . forgotten.” The drinks must have gone to my head more than I realized. India and I don’t usually deep-dive on our feelings like this.
She gives my hand two quick pats. “I don’t like to hear that.”
I turn back toward the window, feeling lonelier than ever. India’s great, but she’s not Libby.