Dad grabs me by my other hand, firmly weaving his way through the throng of photographers and escorting the two of us safely inside.
The space is gorgeous: the main room is dominated by a massive circular wooden and marble bar underneath a giant crystal chandelier, surrounded by wooden stools with red leather seats and opposite a mirrored display of all the alcohol bottles. The decor has been completely redone for the party. The artwork lining the cream-colored walls has been taken down, instead replaced with giant blown-up images of the app’s landing page, user screen grabs, and DIY details like a bouquet of flowers made from strings of candy and a chandelier made of ribbons. The wooden tables lining the perimeter of the room feature paper inserts depicting beauty-shot screen grabs from the app’s beta users, with giant floral bouquets artfully placed behind the bar and on a few tables.
Once we’re inside, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale in a puff. “Jesus! How do people deal with that?”
“You’d better get used to it!” says Bill, coming over from the bar. He engulfs me in a big hug. “Hi, you!” He turns to my parents. “And you must be Charlotte’s mum and dad. I’m Bill!” He pumps their hands enthusiastically, flagging down one of the roving waiters and offering my parents glasses of champagne.
“So you’re the young man who bet big on our Charlotte,” Dad says, looking him up and down.
“I believe in taking chances—that’s how I got here. When I see someone with potential, I pounce. Most people have it wrong. You’re not just betting on an idea; you’re betting on a person. And the second my brother, Robert, told me about Charlotte, I knew she was going straight to the top.”
“Robert?” my mother asks, turning toward me and smiling.
I blush.
“I’ve never had so many journalists beg for an invite!” continues Bill. “Selfsy is all people can talk about. I’ve already had calls from prospective investors letting me know they’re paying attention. We’re on track for a million downloads by the end of the month—one million!”
“Is he always this intense?” Mum whispers to me as Dad and Bill discuss my business plan.
“Worse. He’s practically comatose right now. But, hey, it works.”
“Oh, believe me,” Mum says, “I’m not complaining.” Even though we’re only fifteen minutes late—for this, you’d better believe I spent two hours getting ready—the room is already packed. I look around, not recognizing anybody.
“So, who are all these people?” I ask Bill.
“Come and find out.” He takes me around the room, introducing me to tech journalists from the Guardian, the Independent, The Times, the Daily Mail, and all the other top papers. Online writers from magazines I wouldn’t expect, like Cosmo, Tatler, and Vogue, are there, too, plus a mixture of tech bloggers, style bloggers, and society writers from places like Grazia and Heat. I spot party fixtures like Spencer Matthews from Made in Chelsea, Marissa Hermer from Ladies of London, Poppy Delevingne, and even Kate Moss, who looks shorter in person than I expected and has her daughter, Lila Grace, in tow. If I could get her to use the app, that would be a huge coup. There are only a few photographers allowed inside—the rest wait outside on the pavement, shouting at each new celebrity who arrives.
As we glide from reporter to reporter, giving quotes and answering questions about the app, I look around the room, soaking it all up. The longer I’m here, the less overwhelmed I feel.
I’m in my element. I belong.
Bill was right. It really does feel like all of London has shown up for the party.
“Now,” says Bill, taking me to a corner of the room, “I have somebody you’ll want to meet.”
Sitting on a red leather chair away from the bustle is a blond woman. I look at Bill, confused. Am I supposed to recognize her?
“This is Tabitha Reynolds,” says Bill. “From the Sun.”
Now I know who she is.
“You wrote the piece on me,” I say.
She stands up, extending an arm. “It’s nice to meet you, Charlotte. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” I look warily back and forth between her and Bill.
“You two have a lot to talk about,” says Bill. “Come find me when you’re done.”
Tabitha sips a cup of tea. Next to her saucer sit a reporter’s notebook, pen, and an iPhone.
“Do you mind if I record this?” she asks.
“I’d really rather you not.”
“Okay, then—off the record?”
“Off the record.”
“My editor is very interested in you—she loved your story. Ex-girlfriend of Prince Edward, sister to Edward’s new girlfriend, app entrepreneur at the tender age of seventeen, and gorgeous, to boot. It writes itself.”
“As we all saw,” I say warily.
“We could create a good working relationship moving forward, you and me. You’re still young; you’re building your reputation. If your sister goes the distance with Edward, you’ll want a friendly reporter on your side. And if she doesn’t—you’ll want to make sure somebody still cares about you. And about the app, of course. Future apps, too.”
I have a sense of where this is going. I put my hands up. “Let me stop you right there. I don’t want any part of some insider situation. If you want to write about the app again, that would be brilliant. But I’m not trading information about Libby or Edward to get it.”
She nods. “I thought you’d say that.”
“Good.”
“I respect it.”
“Thank you.”
“But you can’t blame a reporter for trying.”
“I guess not.”
“Will you tell Edward that my offer stands? He knows how it works: he needs a friend to help get his messages across. Now that he’s eighteen, he’s fair game—he’ll have to pick a reporter at some point, and I’d like it to be me.”
“I don’t think he’ll be interested.”
“You’d be surprised,” she says, standing up. “Look at his mum. The Daily Mail wasn’t getting all those exclusives by accident, you know.”
“Are you saying the Queen was feeding stories to the press? To the Daily Mail, of all places? I find that a little hard to believe.”
A smile plays on her lips. “You’ve entered a strange world. It’s all hard to believe.” She reaches out her hand, shaking mine. “I wish you much luck. You’re a clever one. I admire that.”
She starts to walk away, heading back toward the party.
“Wait!” I say.
She turns. “Yes?”
“We’re still off the record, right?”
“Yes.”
“How did you get those photos of me? And the article. Who talked?” I’m curious to hear her side of it. As far as I know, Flossie and Tarquin fled campus immediately following their final exams, and nobody’s seen or heard from them since. Alice and Flossie were so close for so long—I’m sure I could text her to find out the latest, but I can’t help but remember how everybody but India was so quick to disbelieve me. I’m not Edward—I’m not going to cut people out willy-nilly.
But I won’t forget, either.
“You know I can’t tell you that. A reporter never reveals her sources.”