Sloane Sisters (4 page)

Priya fell back against the couch and sighed longingly. “I am so jealous.”

Cate smirked. “It'll happen one day,” she said condescendingly, looking around at her friends. “For all of you guys.”

Stella tugged on a golden ringlet and let out a laugh. “What kind of kiss was it?”

“What do you mean, ‘What kind of kiss'?” Blythe asked, turning around to lean over the back of the couch.

Stella straightened up and looked at Priya and Sophie, who were watching her. She shrugged. “The first time I snogged Miles Conway, in sixth grade, I nearly choked on his tongue. He was moving it around all crazy, like this.” Stella stuck her tongue out as far as she could and twisted it in circles.

“Ew!” Sophie squealed.

“Snogged?” Priya looked at Cate as if she might be able to translate.

“Sorry—kissed,” Stella explained. “I made up different names for each snog with my friends Pippa and Bridget. We called Miles the electric eel, and then this boy Aiden that Pippa snogged, the brick wall.”

“Well, my kiss with Charlie wasn't any of those,” Cate said loudly, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Wait—what's the ‘brick wall'?” Blythe pressed. Sophie and Priya had turned around too, their eyes fixed on Stella.

Stella straightened up. “He just pressed his lips against hers and held them there—he even kept his eyes open!” The girls emitted a chorus of
ew!
s, laughing.

Cate gritted her teeth. This was supposed to be
her
moment at
her
sleepover with
her
friends. Stella was
stealing
it.

“And then there's the great white,” Stella whispered, chomping her jaws twice. “All teeth.”

“Ouch.” Priya winced, giggling.

“I like when they open their mouth just a tiny bit,” Stella continued, running her hands along the back of the couch. “That's quite nice.”

Blythe, Priya, and Sophie were all turned around, sitting up straight as though Stella were Sergeant Snog, calling them to attention.

“Then there's—”

“It was just a kiss,” Cate snapped. “Can we leave it at that?”

“Um…okay,” Stella said, a little surprised. She shrugged and walked back to the lounge chair. Cate was glaring at her, her mouth twisted like she'd just eaten a whole bag of Sour Patch Kids.

“Great dress,” Blythe said, leaning toward Stella and pinching
the hem of the skirt. Her face glowed in the soft light of the tiki torches.

“My mum got it from a client.” Stella ran her thumb along the neckline of the aqua Betsey Johnson halter dress, satisfied. At the last minute she'd chosen it over her new Vivienne Tam dress, wanting to go with one of her favorites.

“What's it like having a model as a mom?” Sophie asked, obviously impressed.

“You didn't tell me Emma was Emma
Childs
!” Priya nudged Cate. “I had to find out from Blythe.”

Cate smiled weakly.

“She's just a regular mum, I guess.” Stella shrugged. “It's weirder with my dad—he's a duke.” Back home, everyone was obsessed with her parents—they couldn't go anywhere without a flock of paparazzi. Now that she was in New York, she sort of missed the spotlight.

“Wait—so you're like a princess?” Sophie asked, her dark eyes bright. She pulled a chenille throw over her bare legs. On the street below, a driver leaned on his horn.

“Not even close,” Cate jumped in, rolling her eyes. “He's a
duke
—she would have to marry a
prince
to be a princess.” Stella looked stung, but Cate didn't care. They were dressing up as Disney princesses for Halloween this year, and Cate didn't need any competition for Cinderella. Stella could be Jasmine, fine, but they were already at their queen bee quota: one.

“She's still
kind of
royalty,” Sophie said in a small voice, offering Stella a tiny smile. Cate glared at her. Sophie was
way
too nice. When Cate had blacklisted Paige Mortimer for calling Cate
stuck-up, Sophie had been the one who cracked first, waving at Paige in gym.

Sophie pulled out her retainer, set it down on the table, and snarfed a handful of gummi bears, ignoring Priya's ew-do-you-have-to? look.

“So why'd you move?” Blythe asked Stella.

Stella shrugged. “London was just so over—New York is really the IT place to live right now.” She looked out at the glittering skyline and smiled. “And Mum and Winston and all.”

“How long have your parents been divorced?” Blythe pressed.

“Not long,” was all Stella said. She wasn't about to tell four strangers about her dad's affair. By Monday, it would end up on
Inside Edition
.

“Mine divorced three years ago.” Blythe sighed, sipping a mojito mocktail. “My dad says he won't go near my mom unless she's wearing a straitjacket.”

“Sounds like someone's got some issues.” Stella laughed. “Well, my dad is brilliant—really. He still loves my mum; they're great mates, actually.” Stella wished that were true, but the last time her parents were in a room together, it was to argue over their custody agreement.

Blythe stared into her drink.

Sophie nodded, oblivious. “My parents lived in London for a year when I was a baby, so I'm, like, part British. Now that you're hanging out with us, you can teach me the language. How do you say—”

“There is no language, Sophie,” Cate interrupted. “They speak
English
.” And, um,
Now that you're hanging out with us?

Cate dug her manicured nails into the couch cushion. If she didn't do something soon, the Chi Beta Phis were going to erect a Stella Childs statue and start worshipping it at sunrise.

Cate walked over to the other side of the deck, where the sleeping bags were still laid out. She picked up Winston's black camping bag and rolled it up with several quick twists of her wrist.

“This sleeping bag really doesn't
fit
,” she said, leveling her eyes at Stella. She tied the bag up with a tight knot and dropped it onto Stella's lap. Her mojito mocktail splashed onto her gold Tory Burch sandals.

“Is your OCD acting up again?” Blythe laughed, eyeing Cate. “It's not a big deal if they don't all match—we used to use Sophie's old Care Bears sleeping bag.”

Stella stood up and shook off her sandals, the sleeping bag tucked under one arm. Blythe was wrong—it
was
a big deal. Stella didn't totally get why, but Cate had gone from BFF to be-yotch faster than pleated pants had gone back out of style. Cate clearly didn't want her here, but Stella wasn't going to let her have the last word.

“It's okay. I'll be more comfortable in my own room anyway,” she said, smiling fakely at Cate. “It was nice meeting you all.”

She'd rather go into Ashton Prep solo than with some pseudo-sorority psychos. After all, she'd never had to fight to be friends with anybody. If there was a permanent A-list, Stella Childs was always at the top.

With that, she threw the bag over her shoulder and strutted toward the sliding glass doors, not bothering to look back.

 

 

S
unday night, Cate glanced sideways at Stella, stabbing a stiff Carolina shrimp with her fork. Ever since the sleepover, Stella had been acting like a total princess: breezing around the town house like she owned the place, “accidentally” unpacking her clothes in the hall closet designated for
Cate's
shoes, finishing the last eggs Norwegian their chef Greta had cooked
specifically
for Cate.

On top of everything, this morning she'd found Lulu's creature using her velvet couch as a scratching post. Couldn't they build it a doghouse out in the backyard or something?

Across the round table, Winston's arm was wrapped around Emma's shoulder. Cate inhaled, the sharp smell of basil pistou stinging her nose. After dinner she was going to tell her dad that Stella had tried to steal all of her friends. Of course Cate didn't
want
to do it, but someone had to let her dad know he couldn't just throw four girls in a house together and expect them all to play nice.

It had only been one weekend, but the Childses' departure was
long
overdue. Surely the thrill of dating a supermodel would wear off soon, and her dad would move on—and the British Invasion would move out.

Emma smoothed down the lapel of Winston's Etro suit. It was pin-striped, which his guy at Barneys assured him was “slimming,” but it just made him look like a preppy mobster.

Just then a cell phone blared techno music so loud Cate half expected people to bust out glow sticks and start raving. At the table next to them, a woman with thinning gray hair looked up from the roasted duck breast she was pretending to eat and stared at the girls disapprovingly.

Winston glanced around the table. “No cell phones, girls. Ordinarily I wouldn't mind, but tonight is our first dinner as a fa—”

Cate cringed. He had stopped himself, but she knew he'd been going to say
family
. She looked at Lola, who was slumped in her chair, poking at her crab cake. Andie was looking for split ends—she hadn't said two words all night.
Right,
Cate thought,
one big happy family
.

Emma threaded her arm through Winston's and squeezed.

“Sorry,” Stella said, pulling her iPhone from her blue Lauren Merkin clutch. “It's Bridget—just a minute?”

Stella read the message and giggled, then covered her mouth with her hand. “She's too funny,” she whispered to Cate, shooting her a smug smile. “She wants to know if you have a unibrow—she doesn't know anyone who took so long to get their first snog.”

Cate bit the end off her shrimp and swallowed hard.

Emma glanced up from her chilled fennel soup. “You all right, girls?” she asked, looking from Cate to Stella. In the soft light of the restaurant, her flawless skin glowed.

“Yes, Mum,” Stella said, wrapping her arm around Cate's chair and plastering on a fake grin. “We're
great
.”

Emma glanced at Lola, who was now dissecting her crab cake as though it might contain buried treasure. “Lola,” she coaxed, playing with the silver chain on her neck, “you're awfully quiet. Are you still feeling jet-lagged?”

“Yes,” Lola said, glancing around the table at Cate, Stella, and Andie. “That must be it….” She stuck her fork into the crab cake so that it stood up straight. Behind her, two waiters in crisp white shirts strode past.

“Well, you'll get a proper sleep tonight and be all rested up for school tomorrow.”

“Cate, tell them something fun about Ashton,” Winston prompted, looking to her for support.

Cate leaned back as a blond guy who was too cute to be just a waiter—clearly a wannabe actor—cleared her shrimp tails. “It's good,” she said flatly.

The waiter reached around Lola to grab her plate. Lola leaned back, her napkin sliding off her lap. She reached down to get it and hit her head on the corner of Stella's chair. “Ow!” she cried.

“Are you all right?” her mom asked, resting a hand on Lola's thin leg.

“I'm fine,” she grumbled, readjusting her hair so it covered her ears.

Two waiters circled the table, dropping off plates of swordfish
à la plancha, rib eye with sautéed porcinis, and pan-seared sea scallops. Winston clinked his fork against his crystal champagne glass.

“Dad,” Cate hissed, looking around the crowded restaurant. A couple and their teenage son turned away from their dinner to look at them. The boy, in a navy blazer, stared at Winston, then at the girls. Cate sank a little lower in her burgundy velvet chair.

“Girls, we have an announcement,” he said, bringing Emma's hand to his lips and kissing it twice. “I am so glad we're all here, together, in New York. Emma and I spent the summer talking about this and planning this, and now it's finally happened. These last couple days have been incredible.”

Cate coughed loudly—
incredible
wasn't
quite
the word she would have used.

Stella sneered at Cate.

Andie rolled her eyes.

And Lola let out a shuddering sigh.

Emma tugged at the chain around her neck and smiled at the girls. “It's lovely that you're all getting along so well. You're already treating each other like family—like sisters.”

Cate felt like a fish bone had gotten caught in her throat. Stella was not her sister—not even close. She was a fungus. A bacteria. A leech she needed to have removed. Andie might be annoying, but she was relatively harmless.

Emma unclasped the chain from around her neck and something heavy slid into her palm. “I didn't feel right wearing it until we told you girls.” She smiled.

“We're engaged!” Winston blurted out. Emma laughed play
fully and opened her hand, revealing a glittery ring with a diamond the size of a gobstopper. It looked like something out of a twenty-five-cent machine—too big to be real.

As Winston slipped it on Emma's finger, Cate felt like she was watching some bad romantic comedy. This wasn't her father. That wasn't Emma's ring. And this definitely wasn't her life.

Cate touched the coral Fendi pashmina around her shoulders—her mother's pashmina. Sometimes it felt like Cate was the only one who remembered her.

“Now, Emma, I have a surprise for you,” Winston said. “I spoke with Gloria Rubenstein—that wedding planner you loved. And she said there's an opening at the boathouse in Central Park…next Sunday.”

“Sunday!” Emma let out a small, surprised laugh.

Cate's stomach lurched, like she was in a cab that had stopped short at a light. She turned to Stella, who was biting her lip so hard it looked like she might draw blood.

“I know it's soon,” Winston explained, “but I can't wait a year to marry you—I don't even want to wait a month.” A waitress near the door was ignoring her tables, hugging a stainless steel water pitcher to her chest, waiting to hear Emma's response. “What do you think?”

Cate glanced at Lola, who was covering her mouth with her bony hand.

“I think that's the most romantic thing I've ever heard,” Emma replied, wiping the tears from her face. The waitress set the steel pitcher down on a table and clapped until the manager, a thin
man with an unusually large head, rushed over and whispered something in her ear.

Emma wrapped her thin arms around Winston's side, a tear falling down each cheek. Cate felt like she might cry too.

“Girls,” Emma explained, looking around the table, “I know it might seem fast, but we've been thinking about this since we met. We both just sort of knew everything was right.”

Stella pushed a bloated scallop around her plate with her fork, annoyed. If Winston and her mum “just knew” something, they certainly hadn't bothered to tell anyone else.

“And now here we all are.” Emma looked at Winston, a dreamy expression on her face that Cate wished she could Photoshop off.

Winston matched Emma's expression and Stella had to cough to keep from gagging. “We're hiring a wedding planner, of course, but we'd love for you girls to get involved, too,” he said. “Stella, since you're such a fashion guru, why don't you pick out the bridesmaid dresses for you and the girls?”

Cate felt like Winston had thrown his tumbler of ice-cold Pellegrino in her face.
Stella
was the fashion guru?

Emma tucked a golden strand of hair behind her ear. “Andie, maybe you could help me pick out the flowers for the tables, and Lola, you could help decide on the band.”

Andie straightened up in her chair and offered Emma a small smile.

Cate rolled her eyes. If Emma Childs had asked Andie to wash the kitchen floor with her tongue, she would have jumped at the opportunity.

“And Cate,” Winston added, “you could do a tasting at Greene Street Bakery and pick out the perfect cake for us.”

Cate gripped the seat of her chair, digging her manicured nails into the silk fabric. She hated desserts—and had ever since she ate her first chocolate chip cookie. Had her dad totally forgotten? She touched the Fendi pashmina again, a knot creeping up the back of her throat.

“Cate?” Winston prompted.

“That…sounds great.” Cate tried hard to smile. Lola was chewing nervously on a piece of her hair, and Stella was biting her nail. Andie had dissected her scallop into ten tiny pieces. Nobody was looking at anyone else.

So it was official. Their parents were officially getting married. Stella and Lola Childs were officially residents of the Upper East Side. And Cate's life…was officially over.