I’m lying in bed a few days later, reeling a bit from the events of the last few days. The other night I left the house thinking I was going to maybe, possibly, potentially, hypothetically, start things up with BJ again, and yet somehow arrived home several hours later with a new fake boyfriend. The fake new boyfriend doesn’t stop the burning hole in my chest from seeing BJ like that with someone. I’ve seen him kiss other girls before, touch other girls before—but that one felt different. That one was almost exactly how I imagined whatever happened three years ago happened, and now I’ve seen it, with my own eyes. His eyes closed, head back, hand on her waist, his neck all stretched out and exposed—that’s the part that gets me. I don’t know why.
Fake-dating Tom England doesn’t make that stop playing on a loop in my mind and eating me alive, but fake-dating Tom England will level the playing field.
I don’t sleep around. I don’t judge girls who do, it’s just—it’s still something to me. I’ve only ever been with BJ. Not even with Christian. I’ve done other things; I’ve dated lots of boys since BJ. But I just never felt like that was the right thing for me. I never wanted to do it with anyone else. I haven’t figured out how to get past that feeling yet either. Feeling like it’s just something for me and him.
I wander downstairs for breakfast only to discover an extra body at the table. Our little neighbour, Sullivan Van Schoor—cute as a button, about fourteen years old. Blonde hair, olive skin, blue eyes. Originally from South Africa but has been here since she was three. Her dad is a tough as nails merchant banker who has a very intense gaze as South African men oft do. He’s a very hands-on father and she’s an absolute handful—so good for him and godspeed.
“Well,” Mars says, giving me a look. “Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence.” I give her an unenthused smile and go and sit next to my sister. Wasn’t expecting company but mercifully, I tend to look fantastic. I wake quite well. I believe it’s a combination of the amount of alcohol I consume preserving me, as well as living a fairly stress-free life that requires little to no manual labour. I’m wearing the Mimi Martine floral print, satin-jacquard pajama set from Morgan Lane which make me look extra brown, so extra pretty. I bat my eyes at Louisa, one of our house staff, as she pours me my tea.
“Sully.” I’m sure to flash her an extra dazzling smile on account of her mother telling me that Sullivan follows me on Instagram and thinks I’m ‘like totally beyond’. “What are you doing here?”
“Sullivan’s parents are in South Africa at the last minute,” Marsaili tells me. “Family emergency.”
She smiles over at me pleasantly. “My dad’s…sister’s… sons… might have gotten the same girl pregnant.”
“Ooh.” I lean in, intrigued. “Keep me updated on that one! Sounds like a page turner.”
“She’s staying with us a few days,” Marsaili tells me, passing my dad the marmalade even though he hasn’t asked for it.
“No BJ this morning?” my mother asks, cheerily. I shake my head, demurely. “Oh.” She looks disappointed. “Where is he?”
Sullivan looks over, waiting for my answer. She was probably hoping to spot him here this morning—and honestly, so was I—but here we are, old girl…
“How should I know?” I reach for a strawberry.
My sister gives me a peevish smile. “Because you have him on LoJack.”
“I do not.” I scowl. But wouldn’t it be great if I did?
“Are you fighting, darling?” my mother asks, tilting her head.
I breathe out, annoyed. “If you must know, yes.”
“Oh.” Mars sighs with faux-empathy. “What a shame.”
My father shoots her an amused look. Marsaili used to love BJ. So much. She used to chase him out of my bedroom with a wooden spoon when we were home from school for the weekends, but she loved him. She loved how he loved me. She trusted him; she wouldn’t let me go places unless BJ was going to be there. The disparity of it all now is a bit shattering.
Her fuse for him is tiny. It used to eat away at him, he spent forever trying to win her back, bought her flowers every day for months. One time he handed her a bunch of roses and she put them straight into the Insinkerator. I think he stopped trying after that.
I never told her he cheated on me. I suspect she knows anyway.
“Magnolia”—she starts, “I have a friend’s son who’s coming to town. I thought it would be nice if you’d show him around?”
I look over at her, confused. “Are you being funny?”
She frowns. “No.”
“Oh.” I frown. “Then—no.” I flash her a smile.
My father looks up.
“Please?” she pouts. “After all I do for you?”
I give her a confused look. “Yeah but—you’re employed to do it?”
My mother stifles a laugh.
“Magnolia”—my father starts—“it would be nice—”
“Oh, Harley.” I call him that just to annoy him. “I wish I could. But I don’t really think my boyfriend would find it appropriate.”
“Boyfriend?” Mars repeats, frowning. (“Don’t say BJ, don’t say BJ.” Under her breath.)
“Not him.” I flick my eyes impatiently. “A different boyfriend.”
“How many do you have?” my sister asks, and I shoot her a look.
“Boyfriend who?” Bushka asks, frowning from the other end of the table. She yells it so loudly and with such reckless abandon for societal norms, I can’t help but smile.
“Tom England,” I yell back. It’s unnecessary to yell but it is worth announcing. My father looks up from his phone, intrigued.
Bridge looks at me with pinched eyes. “You’re dating Tom England?”
I glare over at her. “What do mean ‘you’re’ like that? Yes me—of course me. Who else is he going to date?”
“I don’t know.” My sister shrugs uselessly. “Like, Kate Middleton.”
I stare at her blankly for a second. “Um, I think she’s taken, Fridge—”
“Tom England?” my father interjects. “As in, Gus’s mate?” I nod. “Dead brother?”
I give him a look. “Billionaire, philanthropist, pilot, dreamboat but sure okay, go with ‘dead brother’ as your mental tag.”
“Gus hasn’t said anything?”
I flash him a terse smile. “He doesn’t know.”
“Who’s Tom England?” Sullivan frowns.
“He was to my generation what BJ is to yours,” I tell her sagely.
“And you’re with them both?” Her frown deepens.
“Yes! I mean—fuck—”
“Magnolia,” Marsaili sighs. “Don’t say fuck.”
I look her in the eyes defiantly. “Ебать.”
“Don’t say it in Russian either.” She rolls her eyes. “So, sorry—just to clarify—the same Tom England you followed around like a lovesick school-girl for an entire weekend at Ascot?”
“The very one.” I flash her a look like the cat who got the very fancy cream. Mars sits back in her seat as though she doesn’t quite know what to do with the information.
“Blimey,” she says and sighs. “BJ must be on the brink.” My father smirks, pleased.
“Hmm?” I feign confusion. “Who’s that now?”
Marsaili rolls her eyes.
“BJ Ballentine?” Bridge starts. “About yay high?” She waves her hand in the air. “Good hair. Great mouth? Love of your life?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I chime.
“You may or may not have lost your virginity to him in the back of Dad’s Maserati?”
Our father looks over at me, head pulled back, eyes wide. “What’s that now?”
“She’s kidding!” I glare at my sister. Throw a grape at her when no one’s looking. “Of course she’s kidding!” I shake my head quickly. “Harley, I would never. Ever. Never.”
He gives me a long-suffering look before turning to Bridge. “Which one?” I subtly pinch my sister under the table to silence her, but it doesn’t work.
“The white one with the black roof.”
“Not my MC20!” he cries, pained. Sullivan Van Schoor is watching on, eyes sparkling with the delight of it all.
“I wouldn’t! I didn’t! She’s kidding!” I glare at her, pinching her harder. “She’s joking! She’s just—not very funny—we all know that—rubbish comedic timing.” I elbow her.
“I’m kidding,” she begrudgingly says.
Marsaili watches us with pinched, suspicious eyes.
The consensus, by the way, is I did not lose my virginity in the back of my father’s Maserati. There was arguably a hint of penetration but BJ was so distracted by the fact that Marsaili could walk out and see us that he kept ruining it so we waited and that’s a different story for a different day.
“Tom England. Wow.” My mother sits back, lost to the thought. “His mother’s a bit boring though, isn’t she?”
“Charlotte England?” I blink “I mean—no? I think she’s just a regular… mother? Goes to lunches, runs charity events, gardens a bit, has a couple of small dogs she focuses too much on…”
My mother eyes me suspiciously. “Sounds boring.”
“As opposed to, say, calling your eldest daughter at three in the morning because you’re locked in a horse stable with the Marchioness of Milford Haven.”
My mother points at herself. “Not boring.”
Bushka yells from the other end again, “Is Tom England Tom England like I am Bushka Russia?”
“No.” Bridget smiles at her gently. “That’s his surname.”
“He is very British though,” I offer.
“He’s almost like a prince,” my mother inserts.
“Like the purple rain?” Bushka clarifies. We’re all silent.
“Yes.” I nod. It’s just easier sometimes. “Anyway.” I look at Marsaili. “I have a boyfriend now and it’s new. I wouldn’t want to rock the boat—”
“Of course.” Mars rolls her eyes. “Who would want to upset The Artist Formally Known As Prince?”
“Sugar, Miss?” Louisa offers me for my tea.
“No, I’m fine.” I smile up at her.
“She needs two,” Marsaili tells her, and I scowl at her.
“Do not,” I say, pouting. “It’s not a two-sugar cube kind of day.”
“You’re fighting with BJ,” Marsaili reminds me, but all the sugar cubes in the world can’t fix us, I’m afraid.
I nod. “But I have Tom England now, and I believe all the sugar in the world resides in his—”
“—Don’t say lips, don’t say lips,” my sister chants under her breath.
I give her a look. “—Little finger. He is an excellent kisser though.”
My father groans.
“Why are you and BJ Ballentine fighting?” Sullivan asks quite suddenly. My whole family sort of freezes; perhaps because we’re British and we only ever talk around our feelings? Perhaps because it’s a rude question?
“Err.” I blink. I guess the fight made its way to the papers. “Why?”
“I know you fight a lot,” she tells me.
“Well.” I tilt my head considering it. “No, I wouldn’t say a lot—”
“You’re always photographed growling at each other in public.”
“Right, well, yes,” I nod, “he can be irritating.”
“I have your relationship timeline here on my phone.” She flashes it to me. “Loose Lips did an article on it.”
“Oh dear god,” Mars says under her breath. “Can I get a copy of that?” my father asks.
I reach for it and Bridge and I peer down at it. Photos of me and BJ taken both from our Instagrams and from moments we didn’t know we were being watched, a few paparazzi photos—a lot of dates. Some of them are actually completely bang on. They’re wrong about our break-up date, wrong about why. They think it’s me. I would have never unless he forced my hand.
It’s not all true. It’s not all not true either.
“Lots of fights,” Sullivan reiterates.
“Yes.” I glance up at her, distracted. “Lots.”
She sighs, frustrated. A Queen’s College girl. Confidence levels are sky high.
“So,” she presses, “is there a reason?” My face falters a bit. “It’s just, Loose Lips is running a contest—whoever submits the juiciest piece of gossip wins a Chanel 19 Flapbag in the multicoloured houndstooth. I already have it in black so Daddy won’t buy it for me—but I need it.” She gives me puppy dog eyes.
I sigh. Anything for Chanel, right? It’s practically charity to throw her a bone here. I can’t imagine how I’d feel were someone to ruthlessly cut me off from Chanel products.
Plus, I’m still level 5 cross at BJ for what happened the other day, and there are only 5 levels.
“He cheated on me,” I announce. I probably shouldn’t have said it, I think as soon as I do.
Sully’s jaw drops.
“A long time ago,” I clarify to my plate of eggs. I can’t really meet anyone’s eyes. “But that’s what we’re fighting about.”
“When?” my mother blinks, looking a bit sad.
I give her a look. “When we broke up.”
She frowns. “Which was when?”
Marsaili rolls her eyes at her, annoyed that my mother doesn’t know the answer herself. “When she was nineteen.”
Sullivan is typing speedily on her phone when she glances up. She’s beaming and says, “Well, I’m definitely winning the bag now.”
10:34
Marsaili
Tom England.
I can scarcely believe it.
I know!
Fun right?
Very.
Just… Curious is all. You’ve not mentioned you were spending time with Tom England.
So what?
So, nothing.
Just, the last time Tom England passed you a napkin you practically wrote a soliloquy about it.
🙄
I’m very private these days.
Two days ago, despite my insistence to the contrary, you shared a very graphic story about you and the ex toyfriend on a boat in Lake Como.
I did that for you!
Because you don’t have so much going on.
Like, when was the last time you had sex?
When was the last time you had sex?
Marsaili, that’s so terribly rude.
How vulgar.
