Bill and I shake hands; he pumps my hand vigorously up and down. “Great to finally meet you! I loved your proposal—it’s a great idea! The DIY market is incredibly hot, and of course beauty—well, that’s a multibillion-pound operation. I think there’s a market for this. It’s just a matter of getting the word out! I have some thoughts.”
Unlike Robert, who’s a great listener, Bill loves to hear himself talk. I barely say a word during the hour-long meeting, but it doesn’t seem to matter—Bill clearly has it down to a science, and I’ve already answered a lot of his questions in our back-and-forth email exchanges. By the time Bill dismisses himself, downing a double espresso, smothering us both in hugs, and then literally running out of the room to his next meeting, we have a deal. Bill’s going to fund the app and set me up with his designer and developers. In exchange, he’ll help me create a company and will get 50 percent of it. I’ll be sole founder. My parents will have to review the paperwork, but I’m sure they’ll be thrilled.
During the meeting, I try to keep it together and seem professional. But once Bill leaves, I lose it. “Holy crap!” I say. “Is this real?”
Robert high-fives me. “I told you he moves fast. When he sees something he wants, he pounces. But you sure you’re okay with fifty percent?”
“Definitely. He’s putting up all the money. And I don’t know the first thing about apps. This is what he does.”
“That’s not true. You put the business plan together. You did the sketches, you know the DIY marketplace, you explained the competition to him. You’re selling yourself short.”
“Thank you,” I say. “But it seems like a fair deal. Fifty would be too much if I were a real company, but he’s only investing in an idea. It doesn’t cost me anything but time. He might lose money. And I’m just a seventeen-year-old kid. He’s like an actual businessman.”
Robert looks impressed. “You have done your homework. Okay, then, we need to celebrate. Oh, pardon,” he says, flagging down a waiter. “Deux verres de champagne, s’il vous pla?t. Perrier Jouet rosé.”
“I hope you just ordered something super expensive,” I say, joking.
“To you and your new app. What are you going to call it, anyway? You never said.”
“I was thinking about Selfsy,” I say shyly. “Like do it yourself, plus selfie, plus Etsy? What do you think?”
“It’s perfect. To Selfsy.” He grins at me as we clink glasses.
It feels so good to have somebody say they believe in me again. It makes me feel like a whole new world of possibilities is unfolding before me—and now it’s just up to me to grab them. It’s a great reminder that you can’t control what happens to you—but you can control how you react to it.
And I’m done feeling sorry for myself—it’s time to take charge of my life.
“Okay, down your champagne,” I say to him. “We have four hours before our flight home and I am dying to see the Eiffel Tower. Let’s go.”
A few weeks later, just before Libby’s birthday, India texts me after lunch. I’m walking through campus, leaving my graphic design class and heading back toward Colvin. Even though I’ve already submitted my graphic design project to high marks, I’m obviously still devoted to the app it spawned. Bill and I have daily phone calls or Skype sessions, moving forward at breakneck speed. He wants to release the app by June, to take advantage of the beginning of summer and people making a fresh start.
INDIA: Have you seen the Sun??
ME: No, why?
INDIA: Read this.
The headline of the link she sends me reads: “The Girl Dating Eds.” I dust some dirt and rainwater off a bench on the quad, sitting down as I begin to scroll: She turns nineteen this weekend, a public schoolgirl who loves tennis, photography, and reading, and doesn’t know how to ride horses. He turns eighteen soon, a public schoolboy who enjoys skiing, water polo, and rugby, and is never happier than when on a polo pony.
The article includes paparazzi photos of Libby and Edward, and describes Libby as “beautiful but also extremely introverted. Unlike the flashier girls in Edward’s set, Libby has her feet solidly on the ground.”
The Sun can exclusively report that before Edward dated Libby, he did briefly date one of those flashier girls—Libby’s little sister, Charlotte! A source on campus tells us that Edward and Charlotte were “never a real relationship,” and that it was merely “a few drunken snogs, sitting together in the dining hall, stuff like that.” By contrast, says the source, “He and Libby are the real deal.”
Watch this space. Rumors around campus are swirling that pretty Libby Weston has captured Prince Edward’s heart for good. Could this be your future queen, Britain?
ME: Are you in your room?
INDIA: Yeah.
ME: Be right there
Inside India’s room, we sit on the bed, talking about the article.
“How did they get this information?” I ask.
India looks around, as if the campus might be crawling with spies. “Somebody talked, of course.”
I reread the article, my eyes catching on the line about me. “And what the hell does this mean? ‘A few drunken snogs’? Piss off.” I feel grumpy.
“What would you have rather it said? ‘Edward dated Libby’s sister, Charlotte, first. Theirs was a torrid romance—one for the ages—which ended in tears and heartbreak when our fearless heroine Charlotte brutally dumped Prince Edward and nearly ruined him for all other women. It was only in the sloppy-seconds embrace of the lesser Weston sister that Edward’s broken heart was mended.’” She raises an eyebrow. “Something like that?”
“Exactly. Thank you for translating.”
India smiles, shaking her head at me. As she scrolls through the article again, her face turns serious. “It’s bad news for them.”
“Who, Libby and Edward? Why?”
“Now that it’s public, all bets are off.”
I don’t know much about the press, but I do know that they love nothing more than royal gossip. Libby’s fair game now. Maybe I am, too. I’m silent for a few moments, weighing the information. “I should reach out to her.”
“Are you ready to?”
These past three months must have been as awful for Libby as they’ve been for me. I think back to my mother’s prophetic warning to me that, by punishing Libby, I’d only be punishing myself. I think of Mum’s confusing, mysterious estrangement from her own sister. I think of all the wasted conversations and missed giggles between Libby and me. I think of these glamorous new friendships I coveted for so long—none of which will ever measure up to my sister’s.
Enough is enough.
“Yes,” I say, nodding. “I should have done it a long time ago.”
I go back to my room, pulling the E.T. stuffed alien out of the closet, along with my DIY supplies, some red fabric, and a little sewing kit. I measure the alien and the red fabric and then cut into the cloth, slowly and methodically turning it into something that resembles a jacket.
It takes me three hours, working all the way through dinner. I munch on some crackers in my drawer to sustain me.
Finally, I step back, admiring my handiwork.
The E.T. is now clothed in a little red hoodie, with a tiny white heart emblazoned on its chest.