“Okay, Dr. Freud.”
“You’re too preoccupied with money and status, Lotte.”
“Oh, come on. You know how kids at our schools work. There’s no money,” I say, holding my hand palm-down near the waist of my tennis shorts, “and there’s new money”—I gesture at our massive garden, full of roses and jasmine and hyacinths, as we walk through it toward the indoor terrace—“and then finally there’s old money.” I raise my cupped hand above my head to signal the upper limit. “You can pretend all you like that that stuff doesn’t exist. But it does.”
“That stuff isn’t as important as it used to be.”
“That stuff is always important. We’ve got to work twice as hard to prove ourselves to the kids with old money—while pretending we totally don’t care.”
Libby shakes her head. “I hope you’re exaggerating. I have no interest in proving myself to anybody—it sounds exhausting.”
I shrug.
“All I’m saying is, everybody loves you. You’re smart, you’re kind, and you’re gorgeous. I know you’d be just as happy hanging out with normal people as with royalty. And they’d all be lucky to have you. Don’t forget that.”
“Well, Prince Edward is royalty and he’s normal. So it’s a double bonus,” I say, butterflies working my stomach as I think about the possibility of hanging out with Prince Edward tonight. “But thank you. You should bottle that praise and release a motivational app. I’ll play it whenever I need a boost.” My eyes widen as I adopt a creepy voice and raise my arms like a zombie. “You’re smaaart . . . you’re gooorgeous . . . everybody looooves you . . .”
She laughs. “I’ll miss you when we go back to school.”
“Me, too.”
As we walk through the terrace and then inside the French doors leading to the sitting room, I think for the millionth time how nice it would be to have something lining the walls or dotting the bookshelves showing my success. Instead, the wood-paneled room is a shrine to my sister’s academic perfection, with her certificates, badges, and trophies on conspicuous display:
First Place, Year Ten Science Carnival.
National Achievement Award in Writing: Year Eleven.
Greene House Student Merit Award.
Libby Weston for the win!
Mum obviously realized at some point that turning our house into the Libby Weston Fan Club was a little weird, and earlier this summer two framed photos of me competing in field hockey and athletics suddenly materialized atop the baby grand piano by the brick fireplace.
Hey, at least they’re trying.
“Race you to the kitchen!” I say.
“Not if I get there first!”
We elbow each other while running into the kitchen, laughing as we try to beat each other to the fridge. The kitchen was last summer’s upgrade project; Mum had it gutted and remodeled to look like the prime minister’s kitchen, which was featured in House Beautiful magazine. The showpieces are the island, with a white marble countertop, and the huge Aga stove—two other things she’s been fantasizing about for years and finally was able to get after her business took off.
“Careful, you two!” Mum’s at the kitchen table, typing on her laptop with a buffet of documents laid out in front of her. A glass of white wine sits next to the computer. “I’ve been working on these all morning.”
“What’s the latest?” I ask, chugging water and standing at the counter while scrolling through my favorite beauty app, Viewty. I heart a photo of dip-dyed fringe, and then bookmark a picture of purple-and-silver smoky eyes, making a plan to try the look myself later. Libby pulls a chair out and sits next to our mother.
“We have a big order shipping next week. I’ve been reviewing the stock to make sure everything is organized.” She points a manicured finger at the screen. “See that? Not a bad day’s work for your ol’ mum, huh?”
I look up momentarily from scrolling through the photo feed, peeking over her shoulder before looking down at my phone again. “Holy crap! Harrods ordered your shoes? That’s sick! Way to go, Mum!”
“Thank you, Charlotte, but will you please put your phone away? You’re glued to it.”
“She’s on that app again,” says Libby. “I don’t know why you use it so much if you’re always complaining about how buggy it is.”
“Sorry,” I say. “But there’s nothing better out there.” I leave my phone on the counter, grab a banana from the fruit bowl, and sit down opposite her. Outside the picture windows, the sun blazes over the fields surrounding our home. When we first moved here, I didn’t like the thought of being so secluded out in the country, but now I love it. “You going to miss me tonight? Throwing a big party while I’m gone?”
“Dad is picking up a curry.”
“Do you think he knew when you got married that you’d never cook a day in your life?” I ask between bites of banana.
“I cook! Sometimes . . .”
“Well, why should women be expected to cook anyway, right?” I say. “So sexist. So antiquated.”
Libby laughs. “So says the girl who’s dying to become a princess.”
“I’d be a totally modern princess,” I say, raising my chin in mock haughtiness. “The royal family wouldn’t know what had hit them.”
“You’d throw Buckingham Palace’s first garden-party electronica concert.”
“And Snapchat from the balcony.”
“And Instagram photos of your outfits with the hashtag ‘princess pose.’”
“Ooh, look at you! Libby knows what a hashtag is! Somebody’s been brushing up on her social media.” The only thing Libby regularly uses is Twitter, so she can keep up with breaking news. As for me, Instagram is my drug of choice—I have over ten thousand followers, which thrills me—though I wish the number were even larger. Thanks to Mum’s shoe business, Soles, my collection is massive and my “shoes of the day” posts get hundreds of likes. “I wish you’d join Instagram, Libs. You’re such a great photographer—you’d love it.”
“Who’d want to see my boring photos?” she says. Mum and Dad bought Libby a professional DSLR last year—finally responding to years of subtle hints. True to form, however, Libby doesn’t like doing anything unless she can excel at it, and she’s too shy to share her photography attempts—even though I think they’re amazing.
“Um, earth to Libby. Boring people with your photos is the entire point of social media.” We giggle.
“None of my friends are on Instagram, anyway.”
“Ugh, Greene House. Lame. You really should move.”
We exchange a panicked look as I remember that Mum doesn’t know about the scandal yet. I quickly change the subject.
“I should probably start getting ready for India’s party. Can’t go looking like this.” I point to myself and pull a face.
“You’re beautiful without makeup, honey,” says Mum. “I wish you knew that.”