“St. George’s Hall,” says Flossie approvingly.
St. George’s Hall is spectacular: a long, rectangular room, easily wide enough to house a jumbo jet. It’s laid with a red carpet that runs the entire length of the hall. On one side of the room, there are gigantic portraits of monarchs in stately robes, and every few feet, a marble bust sits on an intricately carved base. The wood-beamed ceiling is dotted with crests in reds and blues and greens and blacks. The walls are up-lit in a soft peach, suffusing the entire room with an otherworldly glow.
“Just so you know,” Georgie says to me, “your skin looks amazing.”
“Even the beauty lighting is better for royals,” I joke.
My eyes do a quick sweep of the grand hall, trying to take it all in. Everybody is dressed to kill, with the women in glittering ball gowns and the men in bespoke tuxedos. There’s the prime minister in the middle of the room, holding court and sipping a martini. I spot the queen of the Netherlands talking to the crown princess of Denmark. Prince Michael and Princess Verena, Edward’s aunt and uncle, look gorgeous as always, laughing with a group of admirers surrounding them. And is that . . . ?
“Stop. Everything,” says Georgie. “David and Victoria. Three o’clock.”
Sure enough, David and Victoria Beckham are in the corner of the room, their heads together in conversation.
God, I wish I could Snapchat this. Instead, I pull out my phone to take a photo of the room, texting it to Robert.
ME: I’ve died and gone to heaven
ME: P.S. Windsor Castle smells like money and blind ambition
Almost immediately, the ellipses go as he texts back.
ROBERT: Steal a painting and let’s pawn it on the black market. One of the Stuarts. Nobody cares about them.
I giggle at his response, putting my phone away. I’ll text him more later. Suddenly, the crowd in front of us parts and there stand the guests of honor, Edward and Libby, ready to greet the arriving guests.
When I see Libby, I’m stunned into silence.
Gone is the dowdy sister I grew up with. In her place is a glamorous, perfectly groomed bombshell.
Libby’s hair is straight, long, and glossy, cascading over her shoulders in fetching sheets. Her smoky eyes are expertly rimmed with kohl. Her lips look fuller, glossed to a pink shine, and when she talks and smiles, her teeth are a dazzling shade of Hollywood white that could only have been achieved artificially. I peer at her skin: Is Libby wearing foundation?
I don’t know what’s more stunning: her hair and makeup or her dress. It’s a teal chiffon gown with a plunging neckline, bejeweled ribbon belt, and lace cap sleeves. She looks almost as tall as Edward—she must be wearing heels. This fact alone nearly sends me into shock.
I take in the waxed brows, the manicured nails, the Oscars-red-carpet-worthy outfit, and the high heels, and my head spins. I can’t believe the towering girl standing in front of me is the same shy, nerdy sister I’ve known my entire life.
But what really amazes me is her poise. Libby holds court as if she’s to the manor born. Her shoulders are down, her back is straight, her smile genuine as she greets a parade of guests.
When I’ve seen her around campus the past few months, she’s looked like normal old Libby. Tonight is different—it’s not just her appearance, but her demeanor. She appears literally transformed.
She looks every inch a princess.
As we enter the room, the people ahead of us approach Edward to pay their birthday respects. India, Georgie, and the rest of us follow the crowd, making our way toward the couple one step at a time.
Georgie grabs my arm in a panic. “We’re not supposed to curtsy to him, are we?”
“No. Crap. I don’t know.” I turn to India. “Do we need to curtsy?”
Flossie stifles a giggle.
“Not if you don’t want to, no,” says India.
“But by all means, curtsy away,” says Flossie. “I beg you.”
When India and Flossie go up to Edward and Libby, they hug them each in turn. Thank God I wasn’t first. How humiliating would it have been if I’d curtsied after all?
Finally, it’s my turn to greet them.
“Happy birthday, Edward,” I say. We lean in for a stiff hug, giving each other a quick pat on the back like we’re rugby teammates.
“Hi, Charlotte. Thank you for coming.”
“Charlotte!” Libby says. “You made it!”
“Hey, Libs. Thanks for the invite.”
We stare at each other awkwardly.
“Oh, come here,” she says, giggling.
We collapse into each other’s arms, hugging tightly in the middle of the room for several long seconds.
I pull back but she grabs my hands, clinging to me.
“You look amazing,” I say.
“You look amazing.”
“I love that color on you.”
“Your dress is gorgeous!”
“Did you do your makeup yourself?”
“I did!” She beams. “I’ve learned a few tricks.”
“Your hair . . .” I reach out, running my fingers through it. It’s shiny and silky.
“A gloss treatment, a Japanese treatment, and an arsenal of styling products.” She touches it self-consciously. “I had it professionally blown out earlier today in Windsor. There’s no way I could have done this myself.”
“We have so much to catch up on,” I say.
Edward clears his throat. The two of us look at him, startled.
“Thank you so much for coming, Charlotte,” Edward repeats, sounding shy. He gives me a little smile. “I’m sorry to be rude, but we need to keep the line going. Otherwise my PA, Helen, will have my head.” I wonder if that’s the old woman with the owl eyes standing off to the side, shooting us dirty looks. “Can we catch up later by the drinks?”
“Sure, no problem. And, um, again, happy birthday to you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” He smiles at me again, and then turns to the right of me, slipping back into HRH mode. “Davina! Hello!”
“I should probably . . . ,” Libby says, gesturing toward the long line of people behind us waiting to greet Edward.
“Oh. Okay. Yeah. Cool. I’ll just be over there.”
I walk back toward my friends, Libby’s polite laughs echoing behind me as she strikes up a new conversation with one of Edward’s guests.
Flossie hands me a glass of champagne. “Here. You look like you need this.”
“Yeah, that was intense. Thanks, Floss.”
“What did he say to you?” asks Alice. She suddenly seems several inches shorter. I look down to see that she’s in bare feet.
“Alice! Where are your shoes?”
“Eh.” She swats her hand through the air as if batting away an insect. “I can’t stand heels.”
“She kicked them off underneath a table,” says David, jerking his thumb toward a white tablecloth nestled into an alcove against the wall. He looks jealous, like he wishes he could do the same with his monkey suit.
“But what did he say?” repeats Alice.
“Not much. We just said hi to each other, and he said thanks for coming.”
“So everything’s back to normal?” asks Flossie.
“It seems so. Normal-ish. At least we’re on speaking terms again.”
Flossie nods. “At least.”
“And Libby?” Alice asks. “You’re all good?”