Chapter 3
PIPPA
Once again, I’m on the phone with Phoebe, my number one cheerleader and favorite—and only—sister. She offers encouragement as my parents’ driver drops me off at the Smythe’s home in Hampstead.
“Just no talking and walking or texting and walking. Pippa, do not text and walk. I repeat. Do not text and walk.”
“Don’t worry. I know better.” There are already numerous unfortunate stumbling, tripping, and falling accident reports on record.
Whereas my twin got the good luck gene and lives a charmed life, I got the stupid luck split in the DNA. That’s not to be confused with dumb luck, which is more of a matter of happenstance resulting in something positive. No, I experience misfortune and tough breaks, aka weird luck.
“Good luck, and maybe tonight you’ll find that special someone,” Phoebe singsongs.
Tucking away her good wishes and the comment about finding someone special, we get off the phone, prompting the driver to open the rear door for me. I get to my feet and then smooth my gown.
In the years since we were kids, I still love to dress up—though I don’t call anyone darling and I’m starting to think there’s no prince out there for me—figuratively speaking, of course.
Mum has tried to connect me with a viscount and a baron, but I want something real. Someone real.
Let me clarify. Once upon a time, I did find my prince, but he had no interest in making me his princess.
Nope. Early on, he designated me Pippag Thomzeg, aka the Hinnifin Hall ogre—that was the private high school we attended.
Apparently, after seeing me up close a few times, he decided that I was so hideous, he stopped looking my way, unless it was to embarrass me.
I would’ve accepted gnome status because then at least we could’ve been gnomies.
But alas, that was not meant to be. Instead, he was, and as far as I know, is still best friends with Freddie.
In case the folks in the back didn’t quite get that, the person who relegated me to ogre status and made sure I knew it, who also happens to be the subject of The Crush List, is best friends with my brother.
And the best man in Freddie’s wedding party.
Yes, it’s quite the pickle.
I could use a fairy godmother right about now because there’s no realm in existence wherein Chase will be my someone special.
But this begs the question, why, to this day, do I still consider my high school crush my primary prince whom I measure all other men against? Why is he the architectural design for the guy of my dreams? Let’s use GOMD for short—PP, for primary prince, doesn’t sound right.
My answer is simple. I don’t demand answers from my heart. Sure, I’d like to know why I can’t scrub away the crush like I’ll do later to my face full of makeup.
It’s not a matter of self-worth or being a glutton for punishment either.
Trust me, I’ve explored all the possibilities.
The theory I’ve always kept to myself is that there was an undercurrent between Chase and me.
Something just beneath the surface that neither one of us was brave enough to name and claim.
Either that, or I was caught in a rip tide and have been swimming against it ever since.
So here I am, arriving at the Smythe’s party and knowing that every guy I meet will be pitted against Chase.
It’s not like I want to compare them to a guy I haven’t seen in years.
(However, I do catch the occasional glimpse of him on sports television and social media.
We don’t need to get into the weeds about the definition of occasional either.)
I’d much rather satisfy my parents and my desire for a lasting partnership with one of their fancy pants suitors. But I can’t force love.
However, the one difference between make-believe and reality is that I’m not always the picture of grace and poise. Though I try. So hard. Grace is my middle name, for goodness’ sake. In a cruel twist of fate, I lack it in spades.
Pinching the skirt on my gown so the hem doesn’t get wet, I carefully climb the rain-slick steps of the opulent home of Lord Carlisle and Carling Smythe, my parents’ friends.
Today alone, I got nail polish in my hair, painting an unintentional streak of pink in my medium brown locks.
I was going to cut it, but it’s in the front and I feared the result would look like a three-year-old came at me with scissors and hacked off a chunk—like the time my brother decided to give me a haircut when we were four.
You know those dreams when you’re in front of the classroom naked? In middle school, I delivered an entire report on Queen Elizabeth with the back of my uniform’s pleated skirt tucked into my tights.
Then just the other day, I learned that my neighbor’s son, whom I’ve been calling Joey for two years, is actually named Timmy.
Phoebe says we should write a book titled The Misadventures of Pippa Thompson. According to her, I have the same spunky attitude and tendency to get into predicaments as Pippi Longstocking. All I’m missing is the red hair. Considering the pink streak, I’m well on my way.
Struggling with second thoughts about whether to continue or turn back, I instantly make myself look like an overly friendly fool—or someone being swarmed by bees—when I wave at a complete stranger emerging from a limo.
In my defense, she looks just like someone from my old job.
Even from this distance, I can tell the woman squishes up her nose.
One of my rules is to always wave at people I recognize so they don’t think I’m rude. Guess I overdid it this time.
“Do not fall. Do not fall,” I mutter to myself as I near the top step.
The valet holding an umbrella over my head gives me a side-eye of concern and then grips my elbow with his free hand.
With a polite smile, I say, “Sir, unless you want to risk going down with me, I recommend you let go. I’ve been known to take down larger men than yourself.”
It’s not that I’m especially clumsy or accident-prone. Okay, I am. I’m also unfortunate. The good luck fairy did not sprinkle her magic dust on me when I was born.
The situation was more like Maleficent casting an evil spell, but I’m well past sixteen and the thing still hasn’t lifted.
For instance, I’ve been pooped on by birds seven times and counting. My dog really did eat my homework in primary school. I’ve lost passports, keys, sunglasses, and even an elephant once. If lightning is going to strike, I’ll be the target—though that hasn’t happened yet. Thank goodness.
As the doorman greets me. I step over the threshold and then draw a deep breath.
The warm aroma of candle wax fills the air along with expensive perfume and cologne, custom-made suits, handmade leather shoes, gems and diamonds displayed in gold and platinum settings—the scent of wealth.
I should make a candle and name it, What it smells like when I’d rather be at home.
“My luck is bound to change,” I whisper. That’s been my mantra for months after I listened to a podcast about the power of positive affirmations.
I’ve considered seeing a life coach, a dating coach, and a how-to-avoid-calamities coach. I could also use a manual called An Introvert’s Guide to Dating. That would be helpful.
Live classical music plays pleasantly in the background. The swish of gowns and polite laughter nudges me into the gathering as I smile at several vaguely familiar faces while looking for my parents.
Sometimes it’s hard to know whether I recognize them from real life or society pages and tabloids. The team members of the Boston Bruisers regularly make the gossip rounds, especially on social media. And no, I don’t stalk Chase. I just like to stay informed. Go team!
Earlier today, news started circulating that some of the players had mooned the coach and his daughter or niece or someone.
So far, it’s a lot of speculation. Even at the speed of the internet, sometimes there is a delay in gossip getting across the pond.
Then again, that sounds exactly like something Chase would do, so no surprise there.
Phoebe kept me on task as I got ready today and wouldn’t let me peek at the #BruiserButt scandal.
Now, I have something to look forward to later.
It’s not that I want the world to see Chase’s backside, though everyone has seen it in uniform and it’s a spectacular sight.
It’s just that part of me wouldn’t mind seeing him getting knocked down a peg to the level of us mere mortals.
This is conniving of me, but that would also mean we’d be on a level playing field, as it were.
At least this is what I tell myself to shield my fragile heart from the reality that our love was never meant to be.
It was the classic case of the ordinary, slightly geeky girl falling for the super popular, cute guy and the joke turned out to be on her when something terribly embarrassing happened.
But she never saw him again. Except there’s one catch.
She never quite got over him. And there’s a hitch too, he also happens to be her brother’s best friend and the best man at his wedding—if Freddie actually goes through with it.
I’m beginning to have my doubts. Or perhaps it’s just wishful thinking.
Oh, and in case you missed it, her would be yours truly.
I’ve only been here five minutes, and I’m already having a social meltdown because the wedding reception is sure to be a lot like this event.
There are too many people and I’m having too many thoughts.
The place between my skin and my bones feels like it’s getting a constant low-level charge of electrical current and last I checked, that’s not a good thing.
A server interrupts my hamster Habitrail of thought when she offers me a sprig of something green wrapped in a thin white veiny thing, topped with a single piece of shredded carrot—at least that’s what I think I’m looking at.
“Do you have anything more filling?” I ask politely.
The server moves on to the next guest. I could go for a shortbread biscuit right about now. My friend Gemma recently perfected her recipe and I cannot get enough of the buttery goodness.
When my sister Phoebe and I were eleven and thirteen, respectively, meaning Freddie was also thirteen, our parents hosted a similar function with all the finery and fuss of the London elite.
While he took advantage of the opportunity to be the star of the show and Phoebe loved how fancy it was, I didn’t understand why the appetizers were so plain—turns out no one wants bad breath, food stuck in their teeth, or greasy fingers.
So, they stick to little bites of bland, dry items that identify as food but are more likely little leftover chunks of chalk that are too small to write with.
Before I learned about the whys and wherefores of appetizers, I concocted a plan to swap out all the catered foods for things people would actually enjoy: pizza bites, pigs in a blanket, and crisps—the kitchen staff didn’t keep much in the way of kid-friendly food on hand, so I had limited options to work with.
Needless to say, it didn’t go over well.
“What I’d give for a mozzarella stick,” I say to another server who offers what could only be described as a small, shriveled golf ball on the end of a toothpick.
Mozzarella sticks were a rarity during my childhood, but a favorite. Pizza and pasta too—just not spaghetti with marinara sauce. It’s no surprise that I crave comfort foods when feeling out of my element.
There will be biscuits later!
Even though I’ve been attending these posh parties since I was old enough not to have a temper fit, I cannot get used to all the hobnobbing, as Phoebe said. I mean, what’s the point?
My parents insisted the Smythe soiree is a good networking opportunity—also known as a chance to meet my future husband.
“You were always a sucker for sauce,” says a voice that sounds as pleasant as a dentist’s drill—my jaw still tingles from my recent visit to Dr. Gundry’s office.
I startle and knock into a man carrying a tray of tall glasses filled with bubbly liquid. “Sorry. My apologies.”
I extend my hand to steady the tray, but I step on the hem of my gown and pitch forward into the server.
Luckily, the wall behind him braces us both from falling backward, but it doesn’t prevent the liquid from spilling all over, you guessed it, me.
For better or worse, it misses the top of my sequined bodice but makes a splash below the waist.
Mortification colors my cheeks red, because aside from the stir I cause, it looks like I wet myself.
And there to witness it all stands my high school mortal enemy. Dressed in deep purple velvet, Marlow lurches a low and mean laugh.
“Hello,” I say evenly as I fold my hands in front of the damp skirt of my gown. “What brings you to the Smythe’s this fine evening?”
I’m an etiquette teacher and practice what I preach, even though I’d rather say something snarky to the woman who’d been there for a particularly painful stretch of my weird luck during high school. Of course, she seizes the opportunity to remind me of the sauce incident.
It’s strikingly similar to the present situation with my gown. However, the sauce incident differed in that I somehow sat on a plate of spaghetti in the dining hall. The school uniform involved a khaki skirt, which made it look like I was woefully unprepared for my monthly cycle.
You’d better believe I added Look before you leap and sit to my book of rules.
I’m pink-faced from knocking into the server.
Meanwhile, Marlow’s angular features have an orange-ish hue, like she had a close encounter with sunless tanner.
“Have you been eating a lot of carrots? I hear that helps with Vitamin K deficiency.” I clear my throat, not sure where this lands among my guidelines for being polite.
“Wouldn’t want to see you bruise easily, because of the deficiency.
” I’m rambling and should stop now. I don’t mean to imply that I want to punch her. I’m not violent. Promise.
“Darling, is that you?” my mother’s voice tinkles, coming to my rescue.
Relief sweeps through me because my mother is an expert handler of spotlights. At the moment, this works to my benefit. Not so much when she’ll take to the stage as Lady Libby the Love Liasson later.