It’s the gold dust coming out of my nose that earns me Mum’s death-stare this time. Last night was my first glitter spray gig, and now that I’ve sneezed all over my blue cardigan sleeve, it’s clear that glitter truly getseverywhere.
Mum’s bulging brown eyes tell me she’s not pleased. She snatches up a cloth and steps around the green-tiled kitchen island to me.
I hoped I’d avoid that look from her today. I left my purple Converse for these black flats, and even covered up my tattooed arms, without her having to nag me about it.
But alas, here we are, at her annual Early May extended family Sunday roast, with her scowl in full effect. And I’ve not even had a cupcake yet.
“Glitter spray is in again,” I lie as she frantically wipes my arm, muttering under her breath. “Saturday nights in London, right?” I add, as if it’ll explain it all. Not that she asked.
The stain is relentless, so she scrunches up the cardigan sleeve to hide it, huffing when the trailing wildflowers of my three-quarter sleeve tattoo appear.
“No one will see the specks, Mum, stop fussing.”
I pull my arm back.
“Fine.”
She shakes her head in that condescending way, and I grit my teeth. It’s so subtle, no one else would think twice about it. But I always notice, and I always pretend I don’t.
“Why do you keep that bartender job, Rosemary?” she whispers, and I cringe at the sound of my given name.
“Call me Rey, Mum, please.”
For the trillionth time…
She picks something off my shoulder. “You have your HR assistant role now, isn’t that enough?” she continues, ignoring me (as she does). As always, she whispered the words ‘bartender’ and ‘assistant’ as if someone in the lounge would hear her and care. I honestly don’t think any of them would, despite everyone being bankers, doctors, and lawyers, butshedoes.
“Take the potatoes, darling,” she demands.
Carrying the tray of roast chickens, Mum pushes the door open with her hip, re-entering the lounge to an audible celebration from the family (most of whom travel solely for Mum’s cooking and free booze), and I’m trailing behind her, trying my best to look as elegant as she’d want me to while navigating this massive plate and my brother’s French Bulldog.
“Beanie, stop licking my shoes.” I laugh at the silly dog.
My brother swoops in, and the weight of the heavy potatoes disappears. “I’ll grab that before you give Mum a real reason to glare at you.”
I look up at my brother, and there’s that comforting, yet saddening, look in his eye that says he sees the shit I take, but he doesn’t know what to do about it. He’s four years older, and some days the gap feels massive. Alexander (Xander to everyone but Mum) Hart followed in our father’s finance footsteps and is the pride and joy of our parents. I’m twenty-nine, but feel stuck at twenty-three. I can’t seem tofind my path again after failing as a painter, which hasn’t helped my title as the family dud.
“I heard what she asked.”
“Eavesdropping, are we?” I narrow my eyes at him, and he shrugs.
“I was on standby in case she got nasty with you.”
“You don’t need to protect me, you know. I’m used to it.” Mum’s always been on my case, but she turned it up to eleven after Iwastedmy degree from the University of the Arts London.
She doesn’t realiseshekilled my creativity.
“Whydoyou keep the bartender job?” Xander asks, his voice low. “If it’s about money, I can help.”
Xander is the only person close to me I’ve thought of sharing the truth of my extra job with, especially considering I live (and sneak around in glitter paint) under his roof.
But I can’t stand the thought of seeing the judgement on his face. It’s a face that looks a lot like mine. We both have deep dimples, brown eyes, thick eyebrows, and dark locks—although his are cut short and stylish, whereas mine are long, tangled and, frankly, a bit of a mess.
Xander lights up when he sees me, and I don’t want to lose that.
“Don’t be silly,” I say. “I pay almost nothing to live with you. The job is fun, and I like the people,” I add, shrugging and picking at the damp cardigan sleeve.
Although, it does pays well.
