“Um, I’m here to eat . . . ,” I say, looking from person to person to gauge their reactions. Oliver and David are avoiding my eyes, while Georgie and Alice have sad looks on their faces—like they’re disappointed.
Tarquin shakes his head. “Is anybody actually surprised?” he says. “You’re all daft if you didn’t expect this.” He crumples his napkin into a ball and throws it onto the table.
“What are you talking about? You were like my best friend two days ago. You practically begged me to help you with that girl.”
“Your services are no longer required.”
I stand at the edge of the table, not sure what to do.
I can’t read India’s expression. What’s worse, Edward refuses to look at me.
“You think your shit doesn’t stink,” Flossie says. “We know it was you.”
“Except it wasn’t.”
Georgie looks at me hopefully, like she wants to believe me.
“Says you. Who else could it be? It was like a publicist planted that article for you. I looked at your Instagram—you’ve gained like fifty thousand followers today.” I don’t think it would help matters much to correct her by saying it was only twenty thousand.
“It wasn’t—”
“Bye,” says Flossie. “Leave.”
“Are you serious?”
“And are you deaf? There’s no room for you in Edward’s life. We’ll stand behind him—his real friends.”
“But—”
“Get. Out.” Flossie stands up. “If you don’t leave, we will. Right, Edward?”
He doesn’t say a word. It’s as if the conversation isn’t happening. His head is to the side, his eyes averted. I am, so it seems, dead to him.
“Okay, forget it.” I put the tray on the table, removing my sandwich and an apple for Libby. “Whatever.”
When I hear people talk about how they wish they could trade places with somebody else, I never get it. My life, up until this point, has been pretty bloody great. But now, for the first time, I understand. I would give almost anything in the world to not have to deal with the fallout from this stupid tabloid gossip.
“Good riddance,” I hear Flossie say as I walk away.
twenty-five
I’m on the floor of my room later that afternoon, surrounded by Apple paperwork I’ve printed out in the library for the app, when there’s a knock at the door. At first I assume that it’s Libby, finally rousing herself from bed and looking for some distraction. Or maybe it’s Robert, since he seems to be one of the few people who don’t hate me.
I called Bill back after lunch, and needless to say, the article thrilled him. Apparently, we had thousands of people sign up for the Selfsy mailing list to be alerted when the app drops. He said, “You can’t buy that kind of publicity!” about five times and told me he’s been fielding phone calls from PR firms dying for Selfsy’s business.
“I’m coming in, so you better be dressed.” It’s India.
The door swings open. She stands there, looking concerned.
“You’re still talking to me?” I ask warily.
She doesn’t respond, shoving her hands into the long cashmere cardigan topping her uniform. Instead, she nudges the papers with the tip of her ankle bootie. “What’s all this?”
“Stuff for the app. It has to be completed in order for us to submit for the App Store. I thought I’d work on it to calm me down. Take my mind off everything.”
“And this?” she asks, sitting down on the floor next to me, picking up a notebook.
“More of the same. An analysis of competitive apps I did last month for Bill.”
“You sound like an econ major.”
“Ha. I just tell him what I find, and then he’s the one who dolls it up and makes it all business-y and professional. But I am learning a lot about projections and all that stuff. Even if the app fails, it’ll be useful for university.”
“You’re thinking of majoring in graphic design?”
“Business.”
“I see.” She pops right back up again, climbing onto my bed and swiping the open curtains shut. “There are photographers everywhere. Arabella says the headmaster hired special staff for the day to patrol the campus perimeter.”
“I know. I reported one outside the dorm after lunch. Another one followed me to Stuart Hall. All because of that stupid article.”
“All because of you, according to Twitter.”
Something in India’s voice makes me pause. I stop, putting my phone down and looking her full in the face.
“I didn’t have anything to do with it, India.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “I know. I believe you.”
“Flossie hates me now. And Edward wouldn’t even look at me. Seems like I’ve been axed for good.”
She leans over, picking up a sheet of paper off the floor. It’s a loose-leaf page from Bill’s business plan. I pulled it out to read while writing down stuff about the apps that inspired me. India rolls the paper into a tube and then starts absentmindedly tapping it against her palm. “Seems so.”
“And? What are you thinking?”
She keeps tapping the paper against her hand, finally tossing it back onto the floor. “I’ve never seen Edward so upset.”
“God, he’s such a stubborn asshat. How could he possibly blame Libby for this?”
“He’s not angry. He’s hurt. And he doesn’t blame Libby.”
The silence between us is deafening.
Finally, I speak. “When Libby told me, I went off on this dumb speech about how she and Edward are perfect for each other. But I’m starting to feel like: screw it. If Edward’s so determined to blame me, if Libby is miserable, if the two of them are so damn busy throwing pity parties that they can’t communicate with each other—then why should I fix it for them? I’m sick of feeling like collateral damage.”
India bites her lip.
“And you guys know me—how could any of you possibly think I’d do that? It really hurt.” Now that I’m letting it out, I realize how bothered I am by my friends not giving me the benefit of the doubt.
I expect India to roll her eyes at me for being dramatic, but instead, she’s looking at me like she really, desperately wants to say something. It’s not like India to hold her tongue. I pause, giving her a chance to speak. When she doesn’t say anything, I launch right back into my critique.
“I know what everybody thinks—that neither of us had any business dating him in the first place. Two middle-class sisters from Midhurst dating the future king? What a joke. We were stupid enough to think we could play the game at all, let alone win it.”
India’s eye twitches.
“Obviously Edward just needs to be with somebody who sang nursery songs with him in Gloucestershire, who used to run around with him in diapers on the lawn at Cedar Hall, whose parents own zillions of acres and go to all the same boring charity luncheons as the Queen. Clearly, the only thing that matters in your world is being born into the right family. Screw the rest of us, right?”
“You need to get over that. Nobody cares about where you were born,” India says softly.
“Everybody cares.”