Chapter 7
PIPPA
Instead of an important and wealthy businessman, billionaire, or another potential fiancé, a tall, elegant woman with fair skin and dark hair smiles as my mother and I approach. She must have an eligible brother or cousin—someone Mum wants me to cozy up to.
“This is my daughter, who I was telling you about earlier. Pippa, meet Abigail Smythe, she’s Carlisle and Carling’s daughter.
” Mum angles her hand to the side of her mouth and whispers, “Pippa had a run-in with a tray full of drinks.” She then discreetly points at the lower half of my dress, hidden by the scarf.
My cheeks warm. While Phoebe is tall, has creamy skin, and silky red hair like Abigail, I’m average in every way.
I’m of medium height, build, and have medium brown hair.
I’ve always been in the middle. Not the pretty one, but not ugly either.
Nothing striking about me or hideous—unless you ask Chase Collins.
He might disagree, given the whole Pippag Thomzeg ogre thing.
I did well in school, but wasn’t the smartest. My job is decent but not necessarily my dream—that would be a candle-making studio and shop where visitors can design their own scents.
Of course, I’d also have a custom online order option along with the ones I’ve created for sale.
Mum sets up this little playdate for me to chat with Abigail. This is where I gird myself with my personalized rules for socializing while counting down the seconds until I can return home to Ted Lasso and candles.
With a wave, Mum glides away. Either the Smythes have a son I don’t know about and she expects him to join us, or she wants to keep me from fleeing while she scouts out my future fiancé.
Soon, several other women circle around while Abigail tells a lively story about her recent trip to Greece, where she met an oil tycoon and spent a week on his yacht touring the nearby islands.
Sounds fun, and I’m thankful she has the social grace to carry the conversation, but I don’t desire an extraordinary life. I just want to be happy, have a family someday, and be weird luck-free.
More than anything right now, I wish Phoebe were here.
Or Freddie. I’d even take my dorky brother who thinks he’s a hotshot.
On the outside, my twin is suave and smooth like Chase.
But on the inside, I know the truth. He’s an ooey-gooey melted marshmallow.
Too bad the same couldn’t be said for his best friend.
Freddie is an extrovert and Phoebe is an omnivert, and together, my siblings always make things fun. Phoebe knows just what to say to help me feel less awkward and out of place.
It isn’t that I don’t belong—since birth, my parents groomed me for the kind of life Abigail described, which is the one my mother desires for me.
But the idea of living on display like that makes me imagine a dress rehearsal, wearing a costume that doesn’t fit and playing a role that wasn’t written for me, instead of being the star in my own silent picture.
I’m desperately craving quiet right now.
“You’ve been to Greece, haven’t you, Pippa?” Marlow asks.
I stop myself from flinching as public enemy number one inserts herself into the conversation.
Like a bat, she flew in on silent wings.
After plastering on a smile, I refer to my guidebook of rules to play nice.
Not that I’d purposely be mean. More like I’d cower under her queen bee rule, then go home and cry.
However, I tried that and it doesn’t work.
Instead, I summon the powers of maturity and patience. “I have been to Greece. Several times.”
“When was the first time?” Marlow asks leadingly.
Instead of acting daft and doing my best to dodge what I know is coming, I jump into the gladiator ring. “Ah, yes. You’d be referring to the high school trip. Legendary. Yet another reminder of an unfortunate event,” I mutter the last part.
Marlow’s forehead ripples as if not expecting me to call out my embarrassment when, for so long, I avoided it at all costs.
“High school senior year trip to a small island with two goats and no sunscreen.” I shrug like it was no big deal.
“I didn’t know you knew each other,” Abigail says to Marlow and me. “Everyone, this is Philippa Thompson.”
“You can call me Pippa.”
Marlow giggles. “More like Poo-pa.”
I won’t roll over and ignore Marlow’s baiting me into embarrassment, but I cannot help the reflexive blaze that flames across my cheeks at the reminder of that nickname.
I’d rather be Pippag Thomzeg. As if the spaghetti sauce incident and being stranded on a remote Greek island weren’t enough, there was another episode in high school that kept me home for three days afterward.
It was around that time that I created my book of rules to help me navigate social situations, deal with feeling perpetually awkward, and not always blurt the first thing that comes to mind, even if it’s honest and innocent.
“What was that?” Abigail asks, confused.
“Tell everyone the story. It’s rather charming.” Marlow titters.
I press my shoulders back, trying to maintain a shred of dignity, because the Poo-pa incident all but stole it from me.
I stuffed it in a shoebox and duct taped the thing shut, then buried it in the backyard—symbolically speaking.
I haven’t thought about Poo-pa in years—ironic that I saw Marlow and then fell into a server, and it looked like I’d peed on my yellow gown. ..and now this.
Abigail and the other women lean in, eager for the scoop.
Despite being hapless, I do my best to appear like I have my act together—and that’s just it. Five-eighths of the time, it’s an act. I’m performing. Did you hear that, Broadway? You missed out on some major talent. Kidding. I’ve never had theatrical aspirations.
After siphoning off an internal sigh, I tell the Poo-pa tale with gusto, owning it, rather than letting Marlow humiliate me.
Abigail gasps. “Someone put an unwrapped chocolate bar in the back pocket of your skirt?”
The three other women—Olivia, Chelsea, and Samantha—tilt their heads as though unsure why that’s funny.
“Go on. That’s not even the best part,” Marlow coaxes.
Dr. Gundry would be very upset if he saw me grinding my teeth right now. “It was a lovely spring day and our class took a trip to the Royal Botanic Garden during Heritage Week.”
“It was hot in the greenhouse and the chocolate melted in her back pocket and looked—” Marlow can no longer contain her forced laughter. At least, I think it’s forced, because I don’t understand why she’d think it’s so hilarious after all this time.
The other four women wrinkle their noses to varying degrees.
Marlow snorts and all but slaps her thigh with a guffaw. “You can imagine what it looked like. From then on, everyone called her Poo-pa.”
“You were the one who called me Poo-pa, Marlow.” My tone is tight.
“That’s awful,” Abigail says.
“But why would you keep an unwrapped piece of chocolate in your pocket?” Marlow asks.
“I didn’t. I don’t even eat chocolate. I’m allergic.”
In unison, the women make a woeful sound as though that’s the real tragedy.
I agree, ladies. I agree.
“She walked around like that all day.” Marlow titters.
I cock my head. “Considering you were my partner for the project Mrs. Constantino assigned, you could have told me.”
“I didn’t notice.” Marlow shrugs and wipes away a fake tear of laughter. “Oh, and there was the time you got locked in that pigpen on the farm we visited. See? Poo-pa.” She hoots.
“Right.” I huff. “Anyway, ironically, I’ve been obsessed with scents ever since and make my own candles.” I go on to tell them about my candle side hustle.
“But you know who did notice what a mess she was?” Marlow interrupts my description of my new biscuit-scented candle idea.
“And that is where the woeful tale of Poo-pa ends.” I shake my head, not wanting to relive the mortifying moment that followed.
As if on cue, my phone vibrates in my sparkly clutch. I glance to see that it’s a text from Phoebe. She sends several more in rapid succession before I have a chance to read the first.
Phoebe: Abort the mission.
Phoebe: Clear out while you can.
Phoebe: Seriously, Pippa. LEAVE NOW!
Phoebe: Text when you’ve reached safety. This message will self-destruct in five seconds.
By studying in the library, my sister must mean she’s watching old Mission Impossible reruns. She lives for spy and espionage films, especially the ones involving fancy technology.
I glance up, bewildered by what she could mean, but all I see are my new friends in the foreground and my parents in the background, talking animatedly to a man with his back to me.
He wears a dark blue suit. I use Marlow for cover because if Mum is chatting up Mr. Marriage, I can’t let her see me over here.
Phoebe must’ve gotten intel on who our mother has in mind, and it’s time for me to scram.