“Well, she has high standards, you know . . . ,” I say lamely.
“You don’t need to defend her,” Georgie says. “We’ll still think you’re nice.”
“Hiya!” says Libby, coming up behind us with Edward. They give everybody hugs, and Edward congratulates me again.
Corrie and Kate giggle nervously after Edward says hi to them. It’s funny to see how excited they are about hanging out with him—was it really only the beginning of this school year that I felt the same way?
We make the ten-minute walk to the outskirts of town, passing by all the shops on the high street. It’s just before dinner, and the narrow street is crammed with cars making the commute back from London.
When a Sussex Park graduate bought the White Horse pub on the outskirts of town two years ago, all the students were thrilled—mostly because the owner turned a blind eye toward underage drinking. As long as we’re on our best behavior, students can order drinks, no questions asked. A couple of years ago, one of the waitresses told me that Elizabeth I once stayed there. After all, it’s not an English country pub if it doesn’t claim to have hosted distant royalty at least once.
The main room downstairs is for beer and pub fare, like fish and chips. The side rooms have deep sofas and a strong Wi-Fi signal: during the day, it’s not uncommon to see students doing their homework over coffee, heads buried in laptops. At night, students and locals cram the sofas and the tall bar stools around wooden tables, sipping wine and G&Ts. Upstairs is where the action is, with a nighttime DJ who spins everything from old-school nineties music to brand-new Top 40.
We settle into one of the sofas downstairs, ordering burgers and pasta and laughing as we go back over the day.
“I still can’t get over the fact that teenagers can hang out in pubs here,” Georgie says. “I can’t even walk into a bar in California.”
“But what if you’re hungry?” Edward asks.
“Then you go to a restaurant. Restaurants are for eating, bars are for drinking, and never the twain shall meet.”
“Do you think you’ll apply to university back in America or here in the UK?” I ask.
Georgie groans. “Ask me next year. We still have at least six months before we have to grow up and start thinking about the future, right?”
“You and Charlotte are lucky,” says Edward. “You don’t have to worry about anything until next year. Libby and I get thrown into the gap year soon.”
“Have you decided what you’re going to do for gap year yet, Libs?” I ask.
“There’s this photography course in Florence I’m kind of interested in,” she says, her voice trailing off. She and Edward exchange glances. “But maybe I won’t do it.” She clears her throat.
I look at the two of them, alarmed. Libby’s not turning into a Stepford Wife, is she? This is exactly why I wanted to have it be just the two of us tonight—so we could deep-dive and gossip and catch up on everything. I make a mental note to ask her about it later. I don’t want her giving up on something she loves just because of Edward.
How the tables have turned.
Everybody is starving after the meet, so once our food comes, we all attack it.
Just as I’m about to take my first bite, I look up and see Tarquin walking into the pub.
“Ugh.” I poke Georgie, nodding discreetly in Tarquin’s direction. “Ten o’clock.”
“Oh, great,” she says. “Lord McDouchey. Maybe he won’t see us.”
“Fat chance.”
“If it isn’t my favorite runners!” Tarquin calls from across the pub, walking toward us. He plops down at an open seat on the couch, slapping hands with Edward and giving Libby a kiss on the cheek. “Charlotte, please allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your stellar victory. I always knew you were more than just a banging bod.”
I roll my eyes. “Gentlemanly as always. Do you know our teammates Corrie and Kate? This is Tarquin. I apologize in advance.”
Tarquin looks at the coffee table in front of our sofa. “What’s this? Nothing to drink?”
“We have drinks,” says Georgie, holding up a tall glass of Diet Coke. “See?”
“I’m not talking about those kind of drinks. I’m talking about real drinks. You all just ran for your lives, and you’re celebrating like you’re a bunch of ninety-year-olds.” He motions for the server. “We’ll have a bottle of prosecco.” He grins at us. “My treat.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why are you being so nice, Tark? You must want something.”
He looks wounded. “Why must I want something? Can’t I just want to help you celebrate your victory?”
“No.”
“I need a favor.”
“I knew it. What do you want?”
“No, no, no. Not until after I’ve plied you with alcohol.”
“Come on.”
“Fine. This girl I’m trying to pull wants an internship at your mother’s shoe company. Apparently, she’s a ‘big fan.’” He uses air quotes as he says it, looking unimpressed.
“Of me?”
He rolls his eyes. “No. Of your mother.”
“Oh.”
“So, can you help?”
“What’s that word we’re always talking about? The p-word?” Edward says to Tarquin. It takes me a second before I realize he’s being a little sarcastic. “P . . . puh . . . puh . . . pleeeeease?”
Tarquin sighs. “Please can you help?”
“That’s my boy,” says Edward.
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Thanks, Lotte.” He throws an arm around me.
“I didn’t say yes!” I say, shaking off his arm.
“Yes, you did.” The prosecco arrives in a silver bucket with seven flutes. “I got it,” he says to the server, taking the bottle and smoothly uncorking it without a sound. “Keep ’em coming. We’ll need more than one.”
After another hour of eating and drinking, we head upstairs, where a small crowd of locals and students has gathered for the DJ. The room is dark and smells like stale beer, but I’m feeling tipsy from the prosecco and don’t care. The DJ plays the latest Zayn single and we rush the dance floor. Tarquin returns from the bar with shots for each of us, and even Libby and Edward start dancing, whirling around the dance floor and laughing as they crash into each other.
I text India:
ME: Party at the White Horse! U should b here!!
The next time I look at my phone, I see a reply text.
INDIA: Having a quiet one in. Drink all the bubbly for me xxxxxx Tarquin comes over, grabbing me by the hand and swinging me in a circle.
“Having fun?” he shouts into my ear, his breath hot.
“Get off,” I say, pushing him away.
He responds by breaking into a spastic dance. “Okay, if you don’t wanna dance with me, I’ll just have a party over here by myself.”
Despite myself, I laugh. I must really be drunk. “Tonight has been so fun. I really needed a night like this.”