He smiles back, but it’s obvious he’s more uncomfortable than charmed at being flirted with by a woman over three decades his senior. “Keep her as long as you like. We’re finished here.”
I want to call him a traitor—he’s my friend as well as my caterer—but doing so would only set my mother off and frankly I have neither the time nor the interest to deal with her drama today. To be fair, I never do, but today my patience is particularly thin. Especially when she wraps her hand around my biceps, her freshly polished, maroon tipped fingernails digging into my arm as she drags me along behind her.
“Let’s go into my office, shall we?”
It’s actually my office, just like this is my house. But again, I’m not going to remind her of that fact—I would like to escape this little chitchat with my life and more importantly, my afternoon schedule, intact. If I distract her with petty details like the fact that I saved her ass by buying the house for thirty million dollars after she blew through most of the money Dad had left her, she’d be in tears and I’d be stuck here for hours comforting her. And owning up for the eight hundredth time to what a terrible, horrible, no-good daughter I am.
No, I definitely don’t have time for that today.
Still, I gird myself for the hard sell. And sure enough, as soon as the office door is closed behind us, she turns to me, her blue eyes wide and guileless. It’s the first clue that I need to watch my back. One of my earliest lessons when growing up in this house is that my mom only goes for the innocent look when she’s planning on drawing blood.
“Wearing that dress tonight would be a mistake you can’t afford to make,” she tells me as she drapes the dress in question over the arm of the closest sofa.
So much for her concern over my nonexistent allergies. “It’s a dress, not national security, Mom. Even if it is a mistake—which it isn’t—I’m sure it will all work out.”
She sighs, all long-suffering and put-upon. “Veronica, darling, do you know how many photographers are going to be at this party tonight?”
“None, since I haven’t called any? And because security knows to keep the paps on the other side of the gates.” It’s my turn to smile and bat my eyelashes at her. “I want this party to be just perfect for you, Mom.”
“Oh, I know you do.” Sentimental tears bloom in eyes the exact same shape, but two shades lighter, than mine. “But I didn’t see the harm in letting a few in to take pictures, so I called a couple magazines and gave them a heads-up. Then I gave their reporters’ names to the gate, so they know to let them in.”
Of course she did. Of fucking course she did. Why I would expect anything else from her, I don’t have a clue. This is the woman, after all, who used her longtime husband’s funeral as a photo op…and his death as a chance to revive her career.
“You know I don’t like photographers in the house, Mom.”
“That’s ridiculous. You just had a photographer in here a couple days ago.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “That was for an actual magazine shoot. Not quite the same thing.” She knows it, too. She’s just being difficult.
“Maybe,” she allows, “but that doesn’t make it any more important than tonight. Magazine covers and pap photos serve two very different purposes—especially when those pap photos show you hosting one of the most elite gatherings of the year. Exposure of both kinds is necessary if you want to look like a contender moving into awards season.”
“I’m not catering to the paps in order to get nominations. Either they like my performance in Belladonna or they don’t.”
The look she gives me is both mocking and faintly pitying at the same time. “Tell me you don’t actually believe that. Your father and I taught you so much better than that.”
There’s no denying they taught me a lot, but better? That’s a stretch, even for her.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she continues when I don’t immediately jump at her words of wisdom. “You might not always agree with the decisions your father and I made with regards to you, but you’ve got to admit we always had your best interests at heart. And it obviously worked.” She waves a hand, encompassing me from head to toe. “Just look at where you are now.”
The irony in that statement baffles me…as does the self-delusion, considering most days I work really hard not to look at myself, really hard not to think about where I am or what had to be given up for me to get here.