Page 58 of Ungodly Rich

Abby tipped her head back and laughed, a delightfully unladylike sound. “We all have things we regret from college.”

Julia had been to the UK once before, to visit Abby when her friend moved here two years ago. That trip had left her completely unprepared for the Ellenes’ house in Mayfair: an estate that stared smugly down at its neighbors, windows winking in the setting sun. When they saw the house, complete with a uniformed butler and housekeeper, Julia’s aunt and uncle had grown quiet with awe—and perhaps a touch of unease.

“I know you said he was rich, but I didn’t realizehowrich,” her uncle Daniel had murmured, casting Julia a sidelong look. She’d just smiled encouragingly. What could she say?I didn’t realize, either?

Over the past few days, the tidal wave of Harry’s extended family had begun arriving in London. Julia had been surprised at how many of them were attending the party—they had all seen one another in Greece. Did they really need another excuse to get together? At least most of them were staying at hotels. “We rented out the Connaught, of course,” Tara had explained, as if there were no other suitable option in the entire city. But Harry’s siblings and a number of cousins were all staying in the sprawling Mayfair house, which left Julia feeling slightly claustrophobic. She couldn’t step into the hallway without running into men in smoking jackets or women in impeccably tailored dresses.

Thank god she’d been able to escape the Ellene madness to see Abby.

A waitress with a high ponytail came to take their order. “A ginger margarita,” Abby requested, so eagerly that Julia laughed and ordered the same.

Abby grinned. “That’s one of my favorite things about Four Seasons hotels. No matter what country you’re in, the ginger margarita is always the same.”

“Margaritas, the universal language,” Julia agreed. “If only we’d known when we first started this tradition.”

Abby snorted. “Probably for the best. We would have had too many and puked up ginger syrup in the dorm bathrooms.”

The tradition—and really, their friendship—had started when they were both at Harvard over Thanksgiving break their freshman year. Julia had stayed because she could only afford one flight home a semester and was waiting until Christmas, Abby because her parents were doing Thanksgiving in St. Bart’s and she refused to join them. Abby and Julia didn’t really meet until they were the only people left in the dining hall on Thanksgiving morning.

“Hi. You’re Peale’s roommate, right?” Abby had asked, sliding into the chair across from Julia. “I’m Abby. What are you doing tonight?”

Julia had mumbled an excuse, too embarrassed to admit that she’d been planning to startThe Brothers Karamazovfor her world literature class and bake her aunt Jess’s oatmeal cookies.

“I want to go out,” Abby had declared, encouraged by Julia’s vague response. “Come with me?”

“No one’s on campus,” Julia said slowly. Was there a party she didn’t know about? Not that she went to many parties in the first place.

“We’re going out to the only place open on a holiday. A hotel. You have a fake ID, right?” Abby asked cheerfully. At Julia’s stricken expression, she just laughed. “Don’t worry, I have my cousin’s expired ID. She looks a bit like you. And they probably won’t card anyway.”

That night, the two of them put on red lipstick and marched through the cold streets of Cambridge, bracing themselves against the wind. Abby led them to the boutique hotel across from campus, where they commandeered two spots at the near-empty bar. Abby had been right; no one carded them.

They ordered beers and truffle fries and stayed there all night, exchanging stories. At one point, a group of young men with loosened ties tried to approach them. “HBS losers,” Abby muttered, “here over break and out to troll college girls, so lame.” She’d spoken imperious French and pretended not to understand them, until the business school guys wandered away, bewildered.

On paper, Julia and Abby didn’t make much sense as best friends. Abby was actively trying to shake off her Upper East Side upbringing: she snuck away to get her cartilage pierced, refused to wear the clothes her mother sent her—all tailored dresses and crisp silk blouses—and ignored the other girls from her all-girls high school, which had sent no fewer than six students to their freshman class. Julia, on the other hand, was still figuring herself out. She’d put a corkboard above her desk, but so far the only things on it were photos of her aunt and uncle, an old picture of her mom, and a few concert ticket stubs.

From that Thanksgiving onward, she and Abby were inseparable. They stayed up watching reruns ofGrey’s Anatomy;they linked arms and walked across the snowy courtyards to off-campus parties; they camped out in the student center during finals, passing Swedish Fish and headphones back and forth while Julia wrote prelaw essays and Abby tapped away at some mathematical model. They entered the housing lottery together as sophomores, and as Abby liked to say, the rest was history.

Their margaritas arrived in lowball glasses, with ginger sugar arranged artfully along the rim. “Cheers to you and Harry,” Abby said, clinking their glasses.

Julia shook her head. “Cheers tous.Reunited.”

She’d forgotten how it felt, being with someone she didn’t have to pretend around or prove anything to. She had Harry, of course, but it was different with a best friend. Harry loved Julia as she was now, but Abby had loved many versions of Julia—her confused eighteen-year-old self as much as the woman she’d become.

Abby tucked a hair behind one ear, revealing a pair of earrings shaped like shooting stars. How wonderful that Abby was even more completelyAbbythan she had been in college. Perhaps this was what happened to some people as they got older: instead of trying to mimic others, they settled more deeply into their personalities, whittled away the excess until all that was left was their true selves.

“I feel like I’ve shown a great deal of restraint in not asking until now,” Abby asked, “but can youpleaseshow me the ring?”

Julia reached her left hand across the table, and Abby’s eyes widened as she studied the ancient Mycenaean ring. “It’s so perfectlyyou.Beautiful yet understated. Well done, Harry,” she said emphatically, and smiled. “He obviously understands you, if he chose this instead of some enormous rock from Harry Winston.”

“Actually…” Julia tugged her hand back. “Harry didn’t pick out the ring. I did.”

Abby shrugged, unconcerned. “So you went ring shopping together. That’s pretty common these days.”

“Except that I went ring shopping with his mother.” Haltingly, Julia explained how Tara had summoned Martin and his cart of priceless jewelry all the way to Greece, then instructed Julia to select one.

“Okay, that’s a bit much,” Abby declared. “It’s not Tara’s ring. Or her wedding.”

“Except that itisher wedding, sort of, since she and Bruce are paying for the whole thing.” Julia couldn’t stop talking; the words kept pouring out of her, as if a dam had burst now that she was with her best friend. “I just wish it all felt like it had more to do with me.”