Page 70 of Royals
Mom can, though, and she reaches out with one leg, the toe of her shoe brushing my calf. “Be nice,” she says, and I set my cup on the little gilt-and-marble table next to us.
“I am being nice,” I tell her. “See, look.” I give her my best smile, the one that looks like I’ve been shot with a tranq dart, and Mom chuckles, shaking her head.
“You and your father, peas in a pod.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment.”
“You should.” Then Mom leans over and pats my knee, her teacup and saucer balanced in her other hand.
“You’ve been a real trouper through all of this, darling,” she tells me. “I know it hasn’t been easy. The papers and the pictures and the ball. That boy.”
Right.
That boy.
Miles and I haven’t really talked since we got back to the city. We did one quick stroll down the Royal Mile for Glynnis, but both of us had kept our hands in our pockets, and we’d hardly said anything to each other besides random comments on the weather, the shops, anything that was completely neutral and boring.
The headlines over those pictures had read “MILES APART?,” so Glynnis is not exactly thrilled with either of us at the moment. But after that day in the bothy, faking things with Miles just felt too weird, and besides, I was heading home soon anyway. The pictures from the park and the ball had done their job—no one was talking about me and Seb anymore, and just yesterday, there had been blurry shots of Seb and Tamsin up in the Highlands, kissing. (The headline there was “SEB LANDS GLAM TAM!,” which was kind of a weak offering in my opinion.)
Luckily, I’m saved from having to talk about “that boy” with Mom by Ellie swanning back into the room.
Smiling, El gestures for me to stand up. “Your turn!” she says brightly, and I blink at her.
“For my dress?” I ask, and there’s a flash of the old Ellie in her eyes as she smirks at me and says, “What do you think?”
Stupid question, okay, but I wish I’d been a little more prepared for this moment. I’d thought today was all about Ellie, notme.
“Oh, how exciting!” Mom says, clapping her hands a little, and I give her a wan smile as I rise to my feet, trying not to wring my hands or fiddle with the hem of my skirt. I look okay today—I’d known better than to wear jeans and a T-shirt to a fashion designer’s studio, and had picked out one of the “outfit pods” Glynnis had made for me, choosing a gray high-waisted skirt with a black sleeveless blouse and a gray-and-white cardigan. Bright colors would’ve been too conspicuous. And trust me, when I’d realized I was picking out an outfit for stealth, I’d had a moment of wondering just when something like that had become so second nature to me. I’ve only been here a month, after all.
“Angus,” Ellie says, pulling me toward the back of the room, behind a heavy velvet curtain. “She’s ready for you!”
“I’m not sure that’s actually true,” I say, but the man she ushers me to is grinning at me. He’s got bright red hair, brighter than mine was before I came here, and he’s shorter than I am. Wearing a black ruffled shirt and a kilt in neon colors, plus thesickestpair of black patent leather boots, he’s exactly what I’d expect a famous Scottish fashion designer to look like. He’snot, however, who I would have thoughtElliewould pick. Still, his smile is contagious, and when he takes my hands and holds both my arms away from my body, looking me up and down, I don’t even feel self-conscious.
“Oh, this will be adream,” he says, his brogue heavy, therin “dream” rolling over my ears like a wave.
The space here in the back of the studio is open and bright.The hardwood floors are ancient and scuffed, and the walls are exposed brick. There’s a long table against the back wall, covered in heaps of fabric, and I spot a few sketchbooks. There are also a few dress dummies standing guard, one of which is swathed in the Baird tartan, and I wonder if that’s part of Ellie’s dress.
And I really wonder what my dress will look like.
Sadly, there’s none of that this time, not even a hint of what colors we might be working with. Angus just measures me. And not just one time, either. He runs that tape measure out at least five times, checking and rechecking, making notes in a little notebook at his side. Occasionally he mutters to himself, but between his accent and the music blaring out of hidden speakers, I can’t make out what he might be saying.
By the time he’s done, I feel like I might as well be one of those dress dummies, but then he turns that bright grin on me again. “Excited?” he asks, and I don’t know if he means about the dress or the wedding itself, so I just give him the good old American double thumbs-up. “Super psyched,” I tell him, and he laughs, then leans forward to place a smacking kiss on my cheek.
“A dream,” he pronounces again. “Just like your sister.”
I don’t know if anyone has ever called me just like Ellie, and I’m not sure if I think it’s a compliment or not, so I shrug it off and say, “Nah, she’s got better hair.”
Angus laughs uproariously at that, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and his assistant, the lady who brought me tea, also chortles.
Not sure what to do with any of that, I give another awkward smile, then go out to find Mom and Ellie in the sitting room.
Mom is chatting with one of the assistants, and Ellie is finishing up her tea, sitting on the couch opposite from the chair where I’d squirreled myself away. She looks pretty sitting there, all in white, her blond hair caught in a low ponytail and draped over one shoulder. Even the way she holds her teacup is perfect.
The three of us leave the studio amid a flurry of cheek kisses and head down to the car that’s waiting in the alley behind the studio.
The car is there, just where we left it, but we pull up short as we see who’s standing beside the car. Leaning on it, actually.
Seb.
