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vampire weekend, ladies of cambridge

Holy Chanel, I am using so much VW. I am on a VW high.

@sophiaspastic SORRY! I forgot to add my story. But here it is. Okay.


Name: Susan “Susie” Elizabeth Marwick (16)
Grade: sophomore.
Hometown: London, England
Icon: Her mother, Lulu Ashbury-Marwick
likes: couture, boys, chanel perfume, sparkling lotion, chocolate éclairs, red lipstick, ballet flats, sunhats
dislikes: losing loved ones, cigars, being lied to, crying, her father, cheetah print, fedoras, and the scent of coconut
Daughter of long-term Prime Minister of England, Jacob Marwick, Susie had it all. After her mom died when Susie was ten, she became very secluded, cranky, and developed an obsession with making her socialite mother proud. By high school, she was popular and coveted, renowned for her style and exclusive clique, called “The Royals” of their private school. Louis Vuitton bags, Chanel dresses, Louboutin shoes, and Cartier jewels lined her extensive walk-in closets, all given to her at the flick of a hand. Summers in the Caribbean, skiing in Switzerland, shopping trips to Paris. A tight-knit group of friends, all fawning over her, relating to her, but secretly loathing her. Would they loathe her enough to frame her for a crime she didn’t commit? Maybe. Well, that’s why Susie ends up in Lunaris. Disgraced and framed. By who? Well, Susie definitely suspects a member of The Royals. She always knew they wanted to overthrow her regime. 
Forced to break up with her boyfriend, the one person who always truly loved her, pack up her favorite things in five Louis Vuitton suitcases, and hop on a plane to Lunaris, Susie’s life is in shatters, but Susie’s always been good at moving on and her next move is ALWAYS moving up. Susie’s number one intent at Lunaris? Be careful, be exclusive, be on top.
Model: Hailey Clauson
Old social standing: admired and secretly hated by all
(@deercat)

“Susie, take care of yourself.” My father’s tone is clipped and calculated, a far cry from the happy, bright man I knew before my mother died and the sad, lost, workaholic I knew before The Crime.

“I will, Dad,” I say stiffly, trying not to cry. Marwick girls don’t cry. My mother never cried. My mother would also know how to fix this. All of this. I could talk to her about everything. Being framed, my father and his PR team not believing me, having to break up with my boyfriend.

Enough. I turn on my heel and click-clack down the foyer, swinging my white Louis Vuitton bag over my shoulder. My suitcases are already in our town car. As I step in, trying to keep my mind off things by wondering where all the paparazzi is, I inhale the scent of cigar smoke and cinnamon. I nearly gag. The mixture reminds me so much of my dad. The wine red seats of velvet reflect my dark mood. I’m going to miss home, as much as I don’t want to. 

Our driver flashes me a sympathetic smile as he pulls out into the busy street. Before I know it, I’ve checked my bags in and am waiting at the terminal, fidgeting with my Burberry coat. After learning the flight’s been delayed, I pick my bag up off the seat next to me and head to the restroom. I stand against the wall of a stall, and dial a number.

Voice-mail.

That’s when it happens. The dam breaks, water rushes. Tears. Tears I’ve held in since six years ago, at my mother’s funeral. Standing there in my black dress, ten years old and alone, crying silent tears. Ever since, I vowed I would never cry again. Until now.

I suppose Marwick girls do cry.

“I’m sorry, Mum,” I whisper softly. “I’m so sorry.”
 
After I’ve stopped crying, I wash my face, re-do my make-up, and head back to the terminal. I’ve re-evaluated myself. Sure, I’m down. I’m all the way down. The only direction to go from here is up.
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