Chapter 9
nine
ASTRID
London shopping was divine—like nothing I’d ever seen before!
The gorgeous, expensive clothing racks filled me with their colours, textures, and glamorous fits. I remembered attending a polo match with Alexandra before she married Rick, where we’d fawned over the British royals and their Norwegian cousins. They were glamorous, elegant, and impossibly well-heeled. I wanted people to say the same about me. At the time, I rarely got to choose anything I wore. Hell, I rarely got to leave the house! With newfound freedom, I longed to reinvent myself.
“Travers,” Amara said. “Hot new brand.”
“What?” I asked.
She nodded at the dress in my hands. “That’s the designer.”
Amara picked up the tag, displaying the 800-quid price tag. I baulked.
“So spendy.” I set it down and backed away.
She picked it back up.
“What? You have about 100k in Hermes luggage sitting in your room waiting to be unpacked. You own a Birkin bag. Darling, you are a princess . Live a little!”
I grimaced. I understood more about political economy than I did about my pocketbook or the cost of things. I have an allowance now, but I have never spent it. It came as a grant from the estate. My sister doled it out to all over the age of 18. That meant me for now. Beyond that, Rick and Alexandra spoiled us mercilessly as if we were their own. The bag was a going-away present.
My friend urged, “Try it on! You know you want to!”
I relented. “Fine, sure.”
The dress was beautiful. It was a nice red hue. The soft fabric felt lovely against my skin. It looked made for me. My curves had never been hugged so well. Yes, I had to buy it.
“What would I wear it for, though?” I asked.
“A date. You’ll have one eventually!”
“As if!” I giggled. “A date? Meh.”
“Don’t be so glum. The musician was a shithead?—”
“And the Dickish Duke,” I muttered.
“Ah, yes. What ended up happening there? Last I saw, you were laughing with that politician’s son.”
“Politician’s son? Amara, you should talk!”
“No, his dad is a Tory,” Amara pulled a face. “Rich prat, but has a sense of humour about himself.”
“Jeremy?”
She nodded.
“He’s fine. He was nice to me when I needed a friend.”
“I could think of two dozen reasons why.”
I rolled my eyes. “I dunno. The dress makes my tits look more impressive than they have reason to be.”
“What? Nah!” Amara pulled on the bodice a bit. “They look fine.”
“They look better than fine!” I giggled. “But that’s the point. Is it… false advertising?”
“Are push-up bras a fake-out?” Amara asked.
I shrugged. “I dunno. I grew up comparing myself to everyone in my family—my sisters, anyway. And I’m outclassed. ”
“They’re fine. You know what my mother always said?”
“No?”
Amara smiled. “Comparison is the thief of joy. Buy the dress. Feel pretty.”
“Fine, Amara. You’re right! I have a right to feel beautiful sometimes.”
The staff held our bags as we took tea in the fabulous cafe off the mezzanine floor. Amara was in good spirits, telling me everything I didn’t understand about tea. Neandia was a hub of coffee culture, so I’d never even thought about it. In England, there were rules .
“You seem so cultured,” I said. “I’m out of my depth. Go easy on me, okay?”
“You’re fine! And c’mon, darling. Cultured?”
Unsure how much to disclose, I worried. If I told her how awful my early years were or how much I suffered as a teenager, would she ever want to talk again?
“What’s wrong?” Amara asked.
I took a deep breath. “Growing up… I didn’t have a normal childhood. Amara, my grandmother kept us locked up. She decided everything for us—what we ate, who we spoke to, and what we wore. She prohibited us from doing most things. I wasn’t allowed to even go to school from when I started secondary school until I started uni. And even then… I wasn’t allowed to make friends.”
“What?”
“I know it sounds mad.” I flushed beet red.
“I’m sorry. So, you’re a little behind on life achievements, but that doesn’t mean anything. We’re both very clever, and I’m not one to give up. You must work twice as hard to catch up on friendship, debauchery, and uni life. You’ll have to embrace living four whole years in one.”
“Sounds daunting.”
“Think of it as a fantastic reinvention. Who is Astrid Dechamps? The possibilities are endless!”
I considered that question but had no answer.
“This will be our year—the year you say yes to everything. The year you make friends, live a little, and dress spectacularly, okay? And I’m here to help you.”
I longed for Amara’s words to ring true.
“I am so grateful to have you as my life concierge,” I giggled.
“That is what girlfriends are for. I’m honoured. And I will have so much fun corrupting you.”
I beamed. I wanted a ride-or-die, and now, somehow, I thought I had one! I hoped this would be the year—our year!
As I tucked my clothes away in my closet—finally organising my life properly—I saw how far I’d come. I had new threads and a lot of hope. Sorting through a line of dresses I’d brought from home, I grimaced. They felt dowdy now. I hung up the first one before shaking my head.
No, they weren’t for me. Old Astrid liked dresses that hit below the knee. New Astrid wanted body con dresses that hit well above, and she wasn’t about to apologise. She liked reds and blacks and deep purples rather than pastels and florals. Astrid was big, bold, and unapologetic. I was going to live my life now by my own rules.
I still wasn’t entirely sure who Astrid Deschamps was or what she needed to become her fully realised self. What I did know was what I wanted. I wanted to be smart and lauded for my intelligence. I knew I could prove that over the coming semester. I was proud of my academic nature.
What I wanted and needed beyond that was love and acceptance. That meant having solid friends I could rely on and—maybe—a boyfriend who supported me. Jeremy’s interest piqued my curiosity. I didn’t like to admit how badly I wanted social connection. Seeing Alexandra and Rick happy planted this seed of hope that I, too, could find a man who would love and protect me as I deserved—someone like the book boyfriends I grew to love.