Chapter Text
You have to pick the places you don’t walk away from — Joan Didion
“Col! Get up!” Anthony yelled through the door, emphasizing his point by banging the frame several times. “Brunch is in an hour.” Colin groaned, blinking several times in the sunlight.
“We have tea and coffee,” Kate, his brother’s fiancée, called. Fuckity fuck, both of them? He must have been loud coming home last night. “And carbs! Can I bring anything up?”
“I’m good,” he finally croaked. “And no — I’ll be down in two ticks.”
“If I don’t see you or hear the shower going in five minutes I will come in,” Ant threatened, but their footsteps retreated. Col turned back into the pillow for another moment of sleep, when he heard another, even louder, bang on the door, and he yelped. “Up. Now,” Ant commanded.
“Fuck you,” he mumbled, but sat up. Nine AM was truly an unholy wake-up hour.
Then he remembered that it was not just brunch, it was Ant’s birthday brunch, and he grinned quite stupidly.
Fifteen minutes and a shower later, he wandered downstairs — through the first-floor reception rooms, still slightly out of sorts after a cocktail party Friday night, then down to the kitchen on the ground floor — whistling lightly as he followed the sounds of his hosts’ voices.
“— I have to work late Monday night; there’s a client pitch with a deadline Tuesday —”
“— That’s fine, I have polo practice then; we could do dinner after —”
“—Oooh, yes. Don’t forget I have that early-morning flight to Brussels Wednesday —”
“— EU testimony right? And Edwina plays that night, what time is the match? And are you home for dinner, I’m meeting Harry and you should join, he loves you —”
“Yes EU, match starts around half past eleven, and I can’t, my flight doesn’t land till ten — Col! You made it.” His sister-almost-in-law exclaimed as he entered, turning to him with a smile over her laptop. Ant, beside her at the long marble island, looked a bit irritated at the intrusion. Ant was always irritated if you interrupted his time with Kate, though — which was precisely what made it so fun to do so. Bonus points if you could mock him, as well.
They were both dressed casually, Kate in a light summer dress from The Row, one of Ant’s BG zip-ups, and all her hair under a Mets cap; Ant in his usual uniform of button-down and BG Patagonia vest, shorts and loafers. He could just tell their smug, lame arses had been up for hours, probably rowing and walking the dog and kissing over cucumber smoothies.
“Morning,” Col chimed merrily, giving them no further ammunition after that wake-up. “Aligning our diaries for the week, are we, your lordship, your ladyship? All of your busy, busy days juggling your many duties?” He dipped into a curtsy, earning a smile from Kate.
“Yes,” Ant replied, with an unimpressed eyebrow raise, as Kate rose to pour Col some tea. “Love, did you get Hy’s footy match down? It’s twenty of five on Friday, should be over by dinner with your parents if you want to come.”
“I think so! Check it please?” Kate asked from the infusion kettle. Ant leaned over to peck at her laptop. “Col, did you have fun last night? What did you get up to?” She opened the fridge as well, pulled out a plate of leftovers from the Friday shindig. Kate’s most middle-class habit — keeping food in the house — was honestly his favorite thing about her.
“Club in Brixton with Fife and Cavendish,” he replied, with a yawn. Sliding into an empty barstool, he asked, “So where did you take Ant for a birthday dinner?” Ant’s thirty-fifth was tomorrow, and Kate had arranged a whole slew of his favorite activities the last several days: dinner with close friends and family Thursday at Bridgerton House; the smallish cocktail party for his uni and polo mates and work associates here on Friday; last night, something just the two of them. Next weekend, Kate had arranged a getaway to Venice, though that was a total surprise — Col only knew because she had asked him for recs, then swore him to secrecy. Kate was scary — it was why Ant liked her so much — so he complied.
“We went to Dinner,” Ant said distractedly, still typing into Kate’s laptop. Kate plopped a mug and a plate of crab cakes, chicken satay skewers, and bruschetta in front of Col.
He rubbed his beard in excitement at the food. “Right, dinner where? Or did you just order in and have a birthday BJ?” Col chirped impishly, earning a very put-upon look from Ant.
“He means we went to dinner at Dinner,” Kate explained, shooing Ant’s fingers away as she sat back down. “And then yes, we did have quite a lot of sex.” Col made a face involuntarily, realizing he probably deserved that. Ant, with his eyes still on the laptop, smiled appreciatively, reached over to kiss Kate’s fingers. “No Fred or Michael last night?” she asked.
“Nah. Fred’s sleep schedule is all fucked from calling Edwina post-matches and Sterling just got back yesterday from filming in Japan.” Col sighed. Unsurprisingly, Michael’s mermaid-superhero movie had been a blockbuster, and they were doing a sequel.
He was happy for his friends to have success and happiness. It just … left a lot of empty space and time to fill.
And Col was shit at being left to his own devices.
“You have fun catching up with Fife and Cavendish, though?” Ant asked, suddenly all mother-henning concern over the rims of his specs. “Good to be back, yeah? See your mates? Stay out late and live it up?”
He rolled his eyes. Dork. “Yes, brother , no need to worry.” Ant flinched, just a bit, and Col felt bad. He had been a bit of a git, he reckoned. “Honestly it’s quite nice to be back after being on the road so long.”
For the last year, Col had been bankrolled by Ant to travel the world. Unlike his five years adventuring around post-uni, though, this travel had a definite and distinct purpose: Last summer, Col had convinced Ant to invest in a (potentially) crazy idea to create an online and real-life community for young travelers, through a combination of digital content, specifically developed networks in hot cities, and Bridgerton Group-owned properties. In return, Ant had convinced the BG board to let Col spearhead the development of content and the launch of the app. The vote had literally been Ant’s first big move as CEO; Col knew he owed him loads.
So he’d spent the last eleven months on the road, eventually hitting up in a dozen cities. He’d made friends, gone out, found experiences, exactly what they were trying to bottle and sell. He filmed content of him surfing the highest waves on hidden beaches, eating the most perfect noodle bowl from a street vendor, dancing in the best foam party in Amsterdam. He left most of the boring stuff like Financial Models and Three-Year Strategies to Ant and his stodgiest accountants — truly, he couldn’t be arsed — but Col had been chief tastemaker, finding the cool local experiences and determining what appealed to their target demographic and fashioning the brand.
b2 — Ant thought the app’s name was empty nonsense, but Col and the marketing team loved it — would be launching in a little more than a week. They’d lined up plenty of influencers to be their first guests, and the BG PR team said the accessibility and innovation of the concept was driving plenty of media interest. Col had come back for the birthday. but also to do “finishing touches.” He didn’t quite know what that meant, but if he said it with jazz hands, people seemed to understand. Ant was excited, ready to make another several millions.
Colin was excited, Col was proud, Col was so nervous that he might fuck up in front of his big brother that he wanted to vom.
Col tried not to think about that last one.
“All good,” Ant said with a forgiving smile. “Glad you were able to come back, see everyone. Mum’s missed you.”
“We all have,” Kate added.
“Yeah.” Col cleared his throat. “Actually — I don’t really need to be on the road, at least till we see the returns and profit margins and all those boring numbers, right? So I was thinking I should stick around London for a tick.”
“That’s wonderful, Col,” Kate said. “Where are you staying?”
“Maybe here?” he suggested, schooling his face into earnestness to see if it would rile Ant up. He might as well check; they had like five bedrooms. “Flatmate?”
Predictable as Queen Eleanor’s hat choices, Ant’s face closed off completely. “Absolutely not.”
“I’m devastated,” Col drawled, deadpan.
“Ant.” Kate elbowed him.
“What, do you disagree?” He scoffed as he turned to her.
“Oh, he absolutely can’t stay here. But I would say it a bit more nicely.”
Ant gestured. “Go ahead then.”
She turned to face Col and smiled, centering herself. He raised an eyebrow, trying not to smirk, and folded his arms expectantly. The Viscountess’s first test. “Col. We love hosting anyone traveling through. We are always happy to have anyone over for dinner or tea or to talk or for poker. But we just don’t think anyone wants to be indefinite housemates with a pair of boring old workaholics who wake up at five to row.” She twisted her mouth. “What about Fran and El? They’re so much more fun. Or even your mum? She’d love to have you.”
“Absolutely not Mum.” He liked being her favorite, thank you very much, and a sense of mystery about his activities preserved that. That left his sisters’ house, which made him hesitate. “Are Fran and El …”
“Still mad at you for sleeping with their best friend, lying about it, then saying something cruel about her that ended up in the feed of London’s most notorious gossip columnist?” Col winced at Ant’s summary. Bit harsh, really. “Probably but they’ve sort of drifted from Penelope Featherington, it seems.” He sipped his chai. “She moved out last fall. So until Ben moves out of his studio, that’s probably your best bet. Or, you could always get your own place.”
“Oh, pish. None of you should get sentimental about me being here long.” He scoffed, shifting from foot to foot. London was a home base — emphasis on base. He always left eventually. “A flat would be a waste of my money.”
“Waste of my money,” Ant corrected in a rather bullying tone, and Col rolled his eyes with a particularly dramatic flourish. This was, technically and unfortunately, true: Col would not receive his inheritance free and clear until his thirtieth birthday next July, and their living allowances came from the interest off BG’s holdings — which Ant managed. “But I appreciate the fiscal restraint.” He slid off his stool, sat down his glasses. “Now, let’s get this infernal birthday brunch out of the way.”
“Birthday Brunchertons!” Col cheered, brilliant mood restored, hopping off his own stool as Kate leashed up the dog.
“So I take it I am walking into another sacred Bridgerton tradition?” Kate asked, amused.
Col grinned again; Ant had only proposed two months ago and Col had been in South Africa for his own birthday in July, which meant this was Kate’s first official birthday brunch. “Sacred and profane. I assume Ant said gag gifts only?”
“Yes,” Kate nodded, and grabbed a weirdly-wrapped present off the counter.
“They’re monsters, all of them.” Ant grabbed Milo’s lead as they headed out the back.
“We mock, in addition to the gag gifts,” Col explained. “There’s a bit of, ah, roasting before the roast. A talent show, if you can call it that, alongside the toasting.”
“Monsters, the lot of them.” Ant locked the door behind them. “Let’s get this over with.” He grimaced.
Col smirked at Kate. “Hy usually makes a crown.”
An hour later, Col was still smirking, and Ant was still grimacing, as El finished her “Top 10 Times Ant Was Wrong” powerpoint. As expected, Hy had made a paper crown, covered with glitter and photos of Milo, “the true king of the family.” Daff and Simon had already taken them through an annotated history of Ant’s pre-Kate girlfriends; their mother had put together a presentation of his cutest baby photos, most of which featured his naked bum; and Fran had composed an original song about Milo set to “You Are So Beautiful”. Col had designed a “Would Ant Rather …” competition that had generated a lot of conversation (“Would Ant rather eat a live scorpion or have Kate go on a business trip for three days?”). Greg, Ben, and Hy, though, had taken the cake, with a Christmas Carol -style look at birthdays past, present, and future that implied Ant would have eight children. Kate had found the entire tradition delightful up till that moment, which caused her to start choking on her mimosa. Ant leaned over to beg, “please still marry me after this.”
Now, she poked at the pile of presents — snake-print swim briefs, eau-de-anchovy cologne, gourmet dog treats — and turned to Simon. “Do in-laws get this treatment?”
Si, sitting on the floor with Daff between his legs, chuckled. “Oh absolutely. Did I not cover that in initiation? We’re already planning yours.” Kate snorted.
“Though once we all start having children we may need to limit it to people of age,” Daff added brightly. “Every brunch would be birthdays soon enough.”
“That sounds like an absolute nightmare,” El said dryly, and Col nodded in agreement.
“Now, now, children are a wonderful blessing. Anytime that any of you choose to grace me with some grandchildren I will be thrilled.” Violet stood.
“Really?” Hy asked, hitting Greg’s arm to get him to pay attention. “Here’s your opening to favorite-child status.”
Violet ignored her youngest and focused on her oldest. “Ant, are you ready for this torture to end?”
“God yes,” he groaned. Vi raised an eyebrow at him. “But, uh, thank you for the gifts. I can tell a lot of effort went into them, especially the performances, and it’s much appreciated.” Hy and Fran dove onto him in a hug.
As they made their way into the dining room, where a full roast was set up, Col sidled up to El. “So, ah, whatcha using the extra bedroom in Notting Hill for?”
She looked at him warily. “Missing your sex den?” El had absolutely flipped a lid last year when she found out Col and Pen were hooking up there while she was out.
He threw a hand over his heart, mock-offended. “Missing my sisters,” he retorted. “I’m back for a spell and Kate and Ant served my eviction papers.”
“Oh hush,” Kate said, taking her seat next to Ant, at the head of the table. “That is an absolute exaggeration.”
“That’s exactly what happened.” Ant slid Kate’s chair in.
“And Ben’s living in his studio space still —”
“Actually —” Ben snapped a napkin into his lap. “I bought a place.”
“What?” Daff asked, as Si poured her a glass of water. “Where?”
“Chelsea.”
“Can I move in?”
“So you aren’t missing your sisters?” Fran asked, archly.
“Can’t, it’s four flats that I need to reno together.”
“You bought a construction project?” Ant wrinkled his nose.
“Yes, with the most gorgeous skylights,” Ben drawled.
“Mid-gerton reunion it is, then,” Col suggested, piling his plate high with potatoes. “We’re the best ones, anyways.”
“Am I not still a Mid-gerton?” Daff asked, huffy. “But before you ask, you can’t move in with us,” Daff said. Of course he couldn’t — Si barely tolerated their antics — but he caught her sharing a smile with Simon. Interesting.
“See? Please? It’ll be fu-un.” A sing-songy plea entered his voice. They were really his last resort.
“We’ll see,” El said. “I’m very busy, you know. You can’t get in my way.”
“Oh, yes, all your studying and FaceTiming with Piper.” Fran rolled her eyes.
“You’re welcome here, Col,” Mum said, beaming. “We’ve missed you so much, off on your grand adventure.” He smiled at her fondly. “We’d love to get more time with you before you jaunt off again.”
“He was doing a job , a good one, not on a bloody holiday,” Ant countered.
“That would be great fun, you here,” Greg said, eagerly. “There’s not enough excitement here.”
“Hey,” Hy retorted crossly. “I don’t think you want me to bring you excitement, Greggo.”
“Don’t you live in the UCL dorms now?” Fran asked.
“They’re so small.”
“What is there to see about?” Col asked El. “I’m a good flatmate. I come with references.”
“A little messy and will eat all your food, but overall good,” Kate confirmed.
“He’s horrifically messy and doesn’t do chores,” Ant rebutted.
“The problem there was that you gave us chores,” Col countered.
“I wouldn’t have to give you chores if everyone simply upheld a minimal standard of cleanliness.”
“Take the perspective Mum did with the lot of us — no expectations, no disappointments.” Col took an obnoxiously large, triumphant bite of his roast.
“The cheek of you,” Violet said with a laugh.
“Of course you can move in,” Fran said, ignoring the squabble. “John’s over often and he’d like to have another lad around.”
“Great.” Col nodded, feeling unusually relieved by the utterly expected outcome. And Fran had a point about John. She had been dating her uni boyfriend off and on — mostly on — for six years, but between Col’s travel and Fran’s Scottish education, he barely knew the bloke. “Thank you, both.”
“Fine.” El tipped some haricot verts onto her plate. “Just one rule.”
“I promise to put the toilet seat down,” he replied, with a faux-earnest salute.
“Ew.” She wrinkled her nose. “No. You can’t start up with Penelope again.”
“Why not?” Daff asked El. “Truly, what happened?”
“It doesn’t matter,” El said quickly.
“It really doesn’t,” Col cut in. He leveled a look at El. “Because that won’t be a problem.” After last summer, the last thing Pen would want was him back in her life. And while Col did miss his friend, truly, he hadn’t the faintest idea how to go about fixing it. Perhaps he should beg? It seemed to work out well enough for Ant and Si when they crossed Kate and Daff.
“Great.” El nodded. “Then yes, you may move in.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll let you go,” Mum said, only half-teasing. Greg looked put out, as well, and Col gave him a slight smile. “Now, b2! This is so exciting. Launching in fifteen days.”
“Yes,” Ant said eagerly, around a mouthful of roast. “Col set up more than twenty-five partnerships in each launch city, and conservative revenue estimates have us breaking even in quarter three and profitable within a year.” This he said to Simon, whose old VC had invested in the idea as well.
“The content looks smashing,” Col added. “We picked out the absolute coolest experiences, it would take days to describe how beautiful the stars looked in Mykonos the night we got footage swimming with dolphins.”
“Please don’t try,” Hy begged.
“Col’s got some great influencers lined up for the first several weeks, and bookings and subscriptions are doing well.” Ant picked up the thread. “And Comms said you have some good press interviews coming, right Col?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I’m gonna be talking to Good Morning Great Britain, and a couple of online news channels, and Ant’s got The Guardian . Oh, and I’m talking to someone at Conde-Britain sometime next week.”
Out of nowhere, El barked a laugh. Fran, next to her, elbowed her hard but started to choke. Daff, across from them, shifted in her seat. His mum took a long sip of wine. “What?” Col asked, confused.
“Penelope Featherington is Queen Char’s assistant now,” Ben informed him. “Since, I don’t know, last October. She’s always scurrying five feet behind Char with an extra pair of shoes, a bottle of water, and a purse full of hair product.”
“Portia is thrilled” Mum rolled her eyes darkly.
El stared at him, eyebrow up. “Remember what you just promised.”
Oh fuckity fuck.
“Tartans? For December? Groundbreaking.” Queen Char’s voice, as dry and crisp and chilled as her favorite champagne, rang through the silent conference room. “Any other brilliant ideas?”
Kitty, Vogue’ s senior fashion editor seated at Char’s right, practically pretzeled herself with fear before speaking. “Well, we also thought snow against a rustic barn might be classic, very ‘Winter Wonderland’—”
“Not. Wonderful.” She sighed, wounded and let down. “Next?”
From halfway down the glass conference table, strewn with fabric samples and photographs, Pen did her best to stifle a yawn. She wedged a thumb under the waistband of her military-inspired Vivienne Westwood skirt; she’d bought it secondhand and it was a size too small. She then had it hemmed a further two inches, for Fashion; she could practically feel the stitches riding up her bum, leaving four inches of thigh to squelch to the terribly uncomfortable lucite chair. Six months ago, Char had decided that the top-floor conference room should be clear , for inspiration, and Conde had shelled out thirty thousand pounds to make it happen. It was two grand more than they paid Pen, in her official capacity as First Editorial Assistant, annually.
“McQueen has these sculptural, almost horror-movie dresses in its latest line. We were thinking of shooting them in the Kusama installation in the Tate.” Nigel Brimsley, Vogue ’s editor-in-chief, finally said. He’d been sitting there bored, watching his staff dangle, so that he could swoop in with the save.
“At last, someone with taste.” Charlotte snapped her blue notebook closed. “Enough, then. You’re dismissed. Penelope, send in Tatler.”
Pen had anticipated Char’s next move simply from the set of her lips, and was already texting the Tatler team. “On it,” she confirmed. Once Tilley texted receipt, Pen slumped in the uncomfortable chair, hoping to hide in the commotion.
Ten months into her job and the pace at Vogue House (where all the Condé mags were based) still blew her away. The nights were long, the mornings early, the days in between utter chaos. The first month had been like drowning in a foreign language: Conde was a place of tiny secrets and tinier rooms, full of codes and decisions that were inscrutable to decipher. There were all sorts of thrilling nooks and crannies of gossip, layers of favors and history that shrouded the place, kept it impenetrable, pulsing as a rhythm without a rhyme. But Pen was nothing if not observant and incisive — it was how she got her job in the first place — and she had to admit, she was surviving. Perhaps even good at the tasks of this job. Just the other day, Nigel mentioned that Pen had lasted longer than any previous assistant.
Queen Char’s empire was vast, and she ruled it mercurially. As chief content officer for Condé Britain, she oversaw a dozen magazines of varying import and audiences: Horse and Hound appealed to the cardigan-wearing country set; Town and Country the latte-drinking yummy mummies who shopped at suburban John Lewises; GQ catered to the Modern Man; Glamour the Modern Girl; Bon Appétit UK the Modern Foodie. Rolling Stone covered music; there was even an anemic UK version of Vanity Fair which Char hated and pretended didn’t exist.
But the two that mattered most were Vogue — Char was determined to beat the French and American editions in the next two years — and, particularly, Tatler . Vogue had quadruple the circulation and the global brand recognition but it was simply Char’s less-favorite child. She’d gotten her start at Tatler and helmed it for more than a decade before jumping to Vogue , which she ran for five, before her Conde-coronation. Every semicolon and every watch ad in those two had to be run by her.
But more importantly than the editorial universe, Queen Char used her perch to run London — and European — Society. Arts and culture lived and died by her watch; her influence saw fashion designers hired and movie producers fired. She could get your West End play financed, your Parliament campaign legitimized, or your problematic CEO taken out. She rose every day at five, was in the office by seven-thirty with a bone-dry latte and professionally blow-out hair, and easily worked until ten PM. She was the epitome of soft power, of velvet-gloved influence.
And Pen was her right hand, responsible for ensuring the empire’s flawless operations.
Today — the first Thursday of every month — was Pitch Day. Starting at nine AM, the magazines’ editorial teams filed in, pub by pub, to lay out the vision for the next edition in the queue. They went in order of favorites; Pen had to let every EIC know, the Monday before, where exactly they ranked that month. Horse and Hound was always first and took barely twenty minutes; Vogue had just taken three hours. Now, it was six PM and they still had Tatler to get through. It would be at least nine before they left, Pen realized with a sigh.
“Penelope,” Char called. “Order my usual for dinner. Tell Pierre I need it delivered within the half hour.”
She nodded, as Tilley and her team and Polaroids and invitations and poster boards filtered in. “Of course. I’ll be right back in.” God forbid the rest of us get food, Pen thought contemptuously as she ordered Char’s steak and burrata salad, no tomatoes, from the Ritz.
By the time she got back in, all the chairs, of course, were taken. Tatler was a less fashion-forward team than Vogue, and every seat was filled by an editor with a perfectly tailored Celine (or Stella, or Victoria Beckham) dress, Pilates-toned legs, and brand-new Manolos. The three men — all gay, two of indiscriminately beautiful ethnic origin — wore suits made at Gieves and Hawkes, where the likes of Prince Dick and Anthony Bridgerton got their suits made. All the women got blowouts at Jo Hansford on Monday morning, and manicures at Aman on Friday at four PM. They would not shift against or stick to the hard plastic; they would not slouch even after ten hours of sitting. They were witheringly, aspirationally perfect, a tiny and terrifying cadet corps molded in Char’s vision.
Pen was none of those things. Could be none of those things.
Because she simply couldn’t win in publishing. She had always swum with the sharks, and in some ways Vogue House was no different than public school. But most of the girls at the magazine were from the art and fashion world, and found Pen just lacking . She had naively assumed that her family’s title would at least be status; instead, it seemed to cement her as too stodgy to be cool. And among the Society set, the job had reinforced her family’s pitiful status, instead of giving her some of Queen Char’s shine: Pen was, quite literally, the help.
She tried to slip against the wall as quietly as possible — small steps, no heel — but the shoes were too tall and then she tripped over a suitcase for a shoot in Bhutan and it was all over. Char sighed dramatically. “Next time just wear tap shoes, Miss Featherington, you know how much this thrills me.” Her audience tittered appreciatively, and Pen closed her eyes, just like she did when Char commented on her sisters, or her propensity to drop things, or her latest attempts at a fashionable outfit. The only person to even make eye contact with Pen was Isla, the photo assistant, and the youngest person in the room. She and Pen got lunch occasionally; she was one of the few people Pen considered a friend at the magazine.
The meeting was not going well for Tatler’s team; even the steak salad’s arrival didn’t make the ideas better. Queen Char didn’t like the planned lineup of parties and events, or the shopping guide to next season’s bags, or a pitch for an article on new money in private schools. Watching their presentations, Penelope wasn’t particularly sympathetic; they simply weren’t good ideas. But Lindsay, the features editor, received a particularly thorough cross examination for her half-baked proposed slate of interviews and articles that made even Pen wince.
Halfway through Lindsay blurted out, “What about Whistledown’s column? Has she got anything interesting?”
Chat sat back, looking mildly aggrieved to be asked. Lady Whistledown’s Instagram account had taken London by storm eighteen months ago; when Tatler announced that it would be coming in-house a year ago, digital subscriptions had increased by fifty thousand. Whistledown’s twice-monthly columns were witty, daring, incisive — more than any other single entity, they told a reader who was in or out, up or down. They were the true weather reports on London society, fashion, and cultural players. Whistledown’s columns were the most-read pages by miles on any of Conde’s sites. Who the author might be was one of the best-kept secrets in London, a perennial topic of conversation amongst the team. Only Char knew Whistledown. She edited her personally. When a column was finished, Lindsay received it, was allowed to make no further edits.
“The draft I received is painfully dull,” Charlotte replied, treating both Lindsay’s question and the dull draft as personal affronts. She flicked some nonexistent dust through her fingers. “You will have it when you always have it — when it’s of adequate readability.”
Pen leaned back with a sigh, and pressed her palm to her forehead.
She, of course, was Whistledown: being Char’s assistant was the absolute perfect cover. Multiple people had tried to bribe the answer out of her — a drunk Society mama had told her once that “all of London knows you’re probably the second person to know Whistledown’s identity,” and it took all of her to not positively scream that wasn’t true: She was the first .
Char was invited to everything; Pen moved unobtrusively in the background, picking up all the tips. If a party was not Char’s scene for any reason, she sent Pen in her place. Pen was constantly on the go, usually out past midnight at a party and then back in the office at seven AM. It was an excellent distraction from her mother and her sisters, and Char’s access combined with all Pen’s other sources and her edge-of-Society upbringing made Whistledown virtually omniscient.
When she took the job and agreed to bring Whistledown in-house — for the sum of a thousand pounds per column, on top of her pittance of a base salary — she expected her life to change. To be popular, invited to things and always with the right words on the tip of her tongue. She pictured herself a real writer, perhaps with a flat all to herself, a literal room of her own, instead of living with her mother.
She pictured herself fitting in. She pictured herself standing out.
And while her life was, objectively, infinitely more fabulous, none of that, of course, had proven true. She was still just trusty old Pen. Better parties, better clothes, better hair and makeup, but still Pen, with the same embarrassing family and humiliating bits and all her flaws.
And apparently — if Char’s words were anything to go by — she could count ‘being a dull writer’ among those.
She barely paid attention to the rest of the meeting, which seemed to revolve around a stupid travel app that seemed utterly out of Tatler’s wheelhouse.
Tatler’s team was finally dismissed at a quarter till nine — making it nearly a round twelve hours in the airless conference room — but Pen was stopped from leaving with a cool, “Penelope, I’ll be requiring your assistance.”
That was Queen Char code for time to edit your horrific dreck.
She yawned as she climbed into the towncar, a purse and a briefcase of Char’s in hand. She texted her mum that it would be an even later than usual night, though she didn’t expect a response. Char was busy sending emails on her phone, virtually ignoring Pen, and Pen scrolled Instagram mindlessly, looking at the lives she wasn’t living.
It was a quick eight-minute drive from Vogue House to Char’s townhouse off Green Park. At this point, Pen had been there many times — for editing sessions and to drop off proofs or dry-cleaning and for late-night requests for Advil — and she always wondered if anyone else, save for staff and Lady Danbury, ever went inside. Char was divorced from a very wealthy businessman, and their two adult children did not appear to come around much. The beautiful townhouse always simply looked undisturbed, like a monument or museum. Char went out to parties or hosted them at overpriced restaurants in Mayfair or the Strand. She never brought the party to her.
“Now, your latest,” Queen Char began as she walked into her over-gilded home office, taking her seat behind an enormous white-and-gold table. She didn’t look behind her; she was simply expecting Pen to trail behind her. Pen scurried as she tried not to roll her eyes; she felt as if she was constantly following people — Char, her mother, Eloise Bridgerton, all her public-school classmates — around. “It is too cute by half. You delight in your own cleverness, savor your precious phrasing too richly. And your overarching point about romance being different in reality than on social media is simply not the brilliant insight you think it is.”
“Right but it’s how I express it —”
“— But before we discuss how utterly painful your writing is in this latest edition, I am curious why you led Whistledown with news of Hugh Lumley ‘ghosting’ the drippy Smith-Smythe daughter instead of breaking that Prince Frederick is dating Edwina Sharma?” She folded her arms expectantly. “And let’s not even discuss that you have not mentioned Lord Bridgerton is now engaged to Kate Sharma. I had to find out from Violet at lunch yesterday.” She glared at Pen. “I’m confident you know that I do not like being surprised by information.”
Pen tried not to shiver under Char’s clear gaze. “Royalty and families like the Bridgertons are the old guard,” she started. “Gemma Smith-Smythe is an influencer that all the young people follow.”
“Edwina is the most influential young person in Europe right now, and Freddie the most eligible young man in the world. There have been rumors and innuendos but nobody has put it together. You will.”
Pen stiffened, pursed her lips. Edwina wasn’t a Bridgerton, but Anthony probably considered her one, which meant Eloise would. Which meant publishing anything about her would activate a furious ex-friend. “When you asked me to come to Tatler, it was because I am the youth.” She retorted. “It’s not quite fair to constantly have my voice silenced. I made Whistledown quite successful without you.”
Char looked unimpressed — they’d had this argument before. “You are a youth, Miss Featherington, and you’d do well to develop some sense of professional decorum. Your attitude these last few weeks has been particularly poor.”
She stared back evenly, suddenly tired of being trod on. “Perhaps if I was treated better I would have a better attitude.” It was delivered with all the pout and petulance of a ten-year-old, Pen knew, and yet she couldn’t help it.
Char pursed her lips, obviously wanting to be anywhere but here. “If you would like to take our arrangement —”
“—No, no,” Pen interjected quickly. The reality was that Whistledown had published plenty of unsavory details about everybody who was anybody in London, and had been doing so since before Tatler gave her a platform to shine a (gentle, but satirical) light on Society’s collective flaws and foibles. El had been furious, and she hadn’t ever even been mentioned. And Whistledown had only gotten more arch, more legitimate, more in demand, since joining forces with Char, who’d made Pen go in more cutting directions.
No, she was yoked to Queen Char for the foreseeable future.
“Then perhaps we … adjust.” Char said. “Now, your writing —”
“—But that’s just it! I want to write,” Pen exclaimed. It had been the one constant since she was in primary school, this desire to disappear into stories, to write her own. Pen knew she was good at this, wanted it more than anything. “All this is anonymous. It’s not mine. ” She sat back, a bit surprised by the strength of her outburst. “I thought coming here, learning from you , being edited by you—” Flattery was probably helpful, if she did not want to get sacked this very evening — “would mean that I could write. Not just hand you tea and tissues. And so far that is not true.”
Her pen might have power, but Pen did not.
Char sat back. “You want a writing assignment? A byline will nip this insipid, ungrateful attitude in the bud? Honestly you remind me of your mother, so sullen, when you get in these moods.”
Pen refused to rise to the bait. “Yes. A byline.”
Char sat back. “I didn’t assign anyone to Lindsay’s interview with the founder of b2. How does interviewing the founder of a new travel service geared toward young people sound?”
“Fantastic.”
“Wonderful. Colin will be in on Thursday at three PM for the interview. Send Lindsay your questions for vetting before the weekend.”
“Colin?” She tried to keep her voice under control. Surely there weren’t …
“Bridgerton. The founder of b2.” Charlotte folded her arms. “I assured both his mother and brother that Tatler would of course feature the launch of this exciting new app.”
Colin Bridgerton.
And the idea she had helped him conceive.
And his stupid, attractive face that she hadn’t seen since she told him to get lost, a year ago. After he broke her heart. No, shattered her heart.
And his whole big messy family, at least half of whom probably hated her.
And now he’d be in her office, her life, on Thursday.
She’d been outplayed by Char.
She smiled back: no teeth, all cool calm. No backing down. “Wonderful. I look forward to it. Thank you.”
Char appraised her for a very long minute. “Let’s finish this editing, then. Now, when you refer to her ‘self-conscious smile’ in the third paragraph …”