Page 34 of The Heir Apparent
The three of us sat on our bench as classmates drifted in and out of our orbit. We all looked over as Amira giggled and flicked that shining mane of perfectly curled hair over a shoulder. Rafe erupted into laughter at something she said, and Amira sipped delicately from her purple bottle, looking pleased with herself. The dance had started an hour earlier, but only Shells and nerds showed up on time. Most of the older kids partied in suites or hidden thickets before rolling in for the last hour, their mouths sticky from sugary vodka. Mum, who had grown up learning to make conversation with her father’s house staff, had been utterly determined that Louis and I would have none of Papa’s preciousness. While Astley was comprised of impenetrable cliques, Louis was already kingly in his benevolence. He wasas comfortable in the presence of the rugby boys as he was the scholarship students, gifting everyone with his slow smile, his genuine interest in their lives. He was the star around which every other celestial object revolved, including me, his dwarf planet.
“Lexi, are you going to come with us to New Zealand this summer?” Kris asked.
“New Zealand?”
“Yeah, it’ll be winter down there so we’re going snowboarding over summer break for a week,” he said. “Then a week in the Cook Islands to thaw out on the way back. It’ll be mad.”
“We’ll be in Scotland, won’t we?” I asked Louis.
Every year, Granny went north to her estate in the Scottish Highlands for what could loosely be described as summer. We shivered through chilly mornings stalking deer and fishing for salmon. The stone house was a fake gothic structure, with decorative turrets designed by our great-great-grandmother. It was impossible to heat, so we spent our summer crouched over radiant heaters and turning our electric blankets up as high as they could go. We struggled out of damp wellies and moist woollen jumpers that seemed to latch onto our skin with scratching, sucking mouths.
So a week in the Cook Islands did, in fact, sound pretty great. But it was unlikely Papa would ever allow it when the custody arrangement dictated that this was his summer with us. Never mind that he’d spent much of his time up the road at the estate he inherited from his own grandmother. No one ever mentioned her by name, but I knew that he went there to see Annabelle.
“It would just be two weeks,” Louis said optimistically. “I’m going to ask him tomorrow after the parade.”
“Just say you’re going to check in on a few members of the Commonwealth, mate,” Kris said.
Finally, Louis decided that the moment had arrived; it was time for us to descend The Mound and head to the dance. We whooped and hollered in the dark as we crossed the great lawn.Kris gave me a piggyback so I didn’t have to struggle through the wet grass in my shoes. Amira and Rafe dawdled far behind the crowd, ignoring the titters and whispers of their peers who looked back to watch the new romance bloom. In many ways, it was the last night of my childhood, when my biggest problems were the size of my thighs and the pile of assignments on my desk that would ruin spring holidays.
Like most Astley events, the dance was overdone, with a DJ brought in from London, a professional photographer in a fedora roaming the dance floor, and a slushy-machine station that was under heavy guard by three teachers to prevent vodka being added to the mixes. Boys were required to wear shirts and ties, though most rebelled against the dress code by zipping a hoodie over the top. Many of the girls had squeezed themselves into bandage dresses, but there were enough Preen power dresses—with their unflattering bubble hem and bra back straps—that I did not feel the odd one out. I danced with the girls from my boarding house, throwing my hands in the air in a perfect approximation of youthful joy, always keeping an eye on the photographer as he wandered from group to group, blinding them with the white haze of his camera flash. I knew that if I appeared sweaty or tired, I would look drunk, so I kept my movements light and surreptitiously dabbed my forehead with a paper napkin.
When the photographer approached us, I saw a glimmer of recognition in his face. His contract would stipulate that he could not sell his images to third parties, but he would anyway, claiming the photos that wound up in theDaily Postmust have been leaked by an Astley kid. The man nudged his fedora higher on his head and asked the girls to crowd around me, which they did eagerly, lining up with their hands on their hips like a row of teapots. I popped a knee slightly to give my body a flattering line and smiled as sweetly and soberly as I could.
“Alright, girls, lovely, thank you,” he said, revealing a gap-toothed grin.
“Hang on, mate, one more!” Kris shouted and loped over to sling his arm across my shoulder.
Amira, who had been grinding herself on Rafe’s thigh, hopped off and teetered over on her heels to tuck herself in beside me. Louis, who had been chatting to a group of Shells, ran over and threw an arm around her.
“Okay, mate, now you’ve got the shot of the century,” Kris boomed, and we all laughed as the photographer pressed down on the shutter and bathed our retinas in a dazzling flare.
It’s a photo that has been used by thePostagain and again, the four of us so young and beautiful and happy, the pale blue of my dress setting off nicely against the fiery red of Amira’s. Our teeth gleamed, our eyes twinkled. It would be the front page of thePostthat weekend, with shots of Mum and Papa at the parade bumped to page three. The headline would readInside the luxe lives of the royal twins, and the story would describe Amira and Kris as thefabulously wealthy and exotic siblings who befriended the prince and princess. Vikki would purchase copies of the photo and have them set in sterling silver Tiffany frames, one for each of us. After school, I never had the heart to display it, but it was always boxed up and taken with me when I moved from place to place. It was only in recent years that I finally noticed the thing everyone missed: Louis was at one end of the group, while Kris was at the other. Just behind my left shoulder, their fingers were gently clasped together.
The dance felt interminably long. Amira and Rafe sneaked outside, Kris and Louis were nowhere to be seen, and I finally succumbed to my hunger and ordered a hotdog from the stand, loading the bun with American mustard and relish and onions. I wolfed it down in three bites, knowing I’d hate myself as soon as all that dough and processed meat was inside me. But for a few moments, I finally felt anchored back to Earth. Hunger was like floating just above the surface of everything, the entire world hazy and bothersome below.
When the lights came on, the DJ told everyone they had fifteen minutes to return to their suites. I pulled on my coatand walked through the dark school grounds with a group of kids, who peeled off as they reached their boarding houses. As I passed the rifle range, I found Amira wandering across the grass with her shoes dangling from one hand and her hair wild.
“Where haveyoubeen?” I asked.
She grinned. “Nowhere. But I’m bloody freezing. I can’t find my coat.”
She was shivering in her dress, its right side damp and grassy.
“Did you leave it in the hall?”
She shook her head and rubbed her upper arms, trying to stay warm.
“I think it’s up on The Mound. Will you come with me, Lexi, please? I can’t lose another one. Mum will kill me.”
We walked quickly, trying to generate heat in our weary bodies. My shoes pinched my feet and my much-regretted hot dog burned my guts. In exchange for joining her up The Mound, Amira regaled me with the details of her hookup with Rafe—almost exclusively over the clothes, thanks in large part to the bandage dress that was impossible to push up or shove down.
“We’re going to hang out over spring holidays,” she said.
“You’ll have to ‘hang’ at your place, since his house is about to be repossessed.”
The Mound was more haunted than ever at midnight. The tree branches looked like knobby fingers reaching towards us and we gripped hands as a barn owl wailed overhead. As we reached its peak, we heard music playing, soft and tinny, like it was coming from one of those plastic travel speakers that never work well.
“Is someone else up here?” I whispered to Amira.
