“I’m not a snob. I just understand how the world works. People like us don’t end up with people like you.”
I’m shocked. I’ve always thought Flossie was wary of me, but she seemed to thaw eventually. Now it’s clear that she was harboring a secret grudge the whole time.
“Except they do,” I say. “First me, then Libby . . . but never you, unfortunately.”
She glowers at me. “Whatever. Eventually, it became plain that I had to act. I asked Tarquin what he thought, and he agreed.”
“Tarquin?”
Flossie smiles.
“Oh. Right. All the drinks at the White Horse. You needed a decoy to make sure I wasn’t in my room.”
“Nobody ever said you weren’t clever.”
“Why make it look like I planted the story?” Keep her talking.
She takes a deep drag of her cigarette. I want to reach over and smack it out of her smug little mouth. “You should be thanking me. I gave you ten thousand pounds of public relations in a single article. Plus, obviously, Edward thinks you can’t be trusted now. And since he’s realized Libby isn’t good enough for him, he’s free to date someone better.”
“Someone like you.”
She rolls her eyes, not responding.
“Mmm,” I say, satisfied. “Cool. But you probably should have thought it through. Libby and I have never been closer, and you’re about to bring Libby and Edward closer, too.”
She snorts. “There’s no way he’ll take her back.”
“Oh, didn’t you hear? She dumped him. Not the other way around. He’s been begging her to take him back.” The shocked look on her face is immensely satisfying. “If you didn’t have your head so far up your arse, you’d see that Edward is lucky to have Libby—and he knows it. Once he hears what you’ve had to say”—I pull out the phone from my pocket, still recording—“I have no doubt they’ll reconcile and be back on by tonight.”
Flossie’s eyes widen as she sees the phone. She lunges for me, swiping at my hand. “Give it to me.”
“No.”
“Give it!”
“Screw you, Flossie.”
“That’s illegal. You can’t use it as evidence. I didn’t know you were recording me.”
“Well, thank God we’re not in court. I’m not suing you. I’m just taking it to Edward so he knows who he can trust. Whether he decides to keep you and Tarquin around is up to him. I don’t give a toss about that.”
She looks stunned. “It’s illegal,” she repeats weakly. “I’m calling my lawyer.”
“Go for it. I bet he’ll tell you stealing is illegal, too. And I’m sure your parents will be thrilled when we’re all in court. They don’t mind having your family’s name dragged through the mud, right?”
“How dare you,” she says with all the force she can muster.
I shrug. “If you weren’t such a snob, maybe you’d see that I only wanted to be your friend. You can’t treat people like you do. It doesn’t matter who your family is.”
“You can’t go up against me. You’re nobody,” she says passionately.
“You’re wrong, but whatever. I don’t care what you think anymore,” I say. “Have a nice life, Floss. Good luck on the way down.”
I stub my unsmoked cigarette in Flossie’s ashtray and then walk out.
On my way to Stuart Hall to find Edward, I pull out my phone, texting Robert.
ME: I’m heading your way. Need to tie up some loose ends first, but when I’m done, I’d love to see you . . .
ROBERT: Can’t wait. I’m in my room whenever you’re ready.
I climb the steps of Stuart, my heart pounding as I walk down the hallway toward Edward’s room.
I knock. Across the hallway, Simon swings open his own door.
“Hi, Simon.”
If menacing looks were an Olympic sport, Simon would win gold.
“Edward’s going to want to hear this, trust me.”
He crosses his arms but doesn’t say anything.
Edward opens the door. When he sees it’s me, his face falls.
“Oh. You.”
He has dark circles under his eyes, as if he hasn’t slept. He scratches his chin, which has a slight layer of stubble, and I think: he’s just a guy. To the rest of the world, he’s Prince Edward, who appears on the cover of magazines and lives in palaces and is the son of the King. But in reality, he’s just an eighteen-year-old guy who is heartbroken because a friend has sold him out and his girlfriend has dumped him.
I think back to the beginning of the year, when the two of us were at the edge of the field, sneaking kisses and laughing at each other’s jokes. I remember how he took my hand in his and called me sexy. How we stood outside Colvin Hall kissing until our noses were red and our lips were chapped. How I felt like the luckiest girl on the planet, because not only was I dating somebody, that somebody was Prince Edward.
And now we’re here.
“Before you slam the door in my face,” I say, holding up my phone, “I have something you need to hear.”
I press play.
twenty-six
Can I be honest?
My happiness over Libby and Edward reconciling is nothing compared with the jubilation I feel heading to the splashy London launch party for my app. Because of all the PR Selfsy got following the article, Bill hired one of the top PR firms in London, who insisted we capitalize on the press with a launch party. Bill has rented out Beaufort House in Chelsea, a members-only club popular with aristocrats like India. He’s all about “making noise” and “being disruptive”—two phrases he majorly overuses—so he’s spared no expense with the party and has invited an army of press.
After I played Flossie’s confession for Edward, he was stunned. He asked for my forgiveness and begged me to convince Libby to give him another chance. In the past, I might have felt satisfaction at Edward begging me to do anything. This time, I was simply happy to help my sister.
Libby and I spent a couple of weeks together at Wisteria after the school year ended, but now she’s at Cedar Hall in Gloucestershire to visit Edward. She texts me happy updates, sending photos of the two of them riding horses and fishing behind the house, and keeps a running tally of surreal dinner conversations with Edward’s parents. (You know: the King and Queen.) So, things are going very well.
Mum, Dad, and I take a black cab from Victoria Station to Beaufort House, pulling up outside the four-story brick venue and stepping out into a hail of flashbulbs.
“Charlotte, this way!”
“Charlotte, look over here!”
“Charlotte, Charlotte!”
The flashes are blinding. There are so many photographers crowded outside on the pavement that it’s hard to make my way to the door. I still can’t believe they all know my name.
“Take your mum’s hand,” Dad says.