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Her mouth curled into a slow smile. “Orson’s a little too keen, and I don’t think he’s getting the hint.”
“Just tell him you’re not interested.”
“That’s not me, darling. I generally give them the cold shoulder, and that seems to work, but not in his case, it seems. I could be out of practice.” Her mouth curved to one side.
“There’s not much to it. If you like them, you make conversation and smile at everything they say.”
“Thanks for the lesson on the etiquette of flirting.” She slanted her head.
I giggled at her dry tone. “You’re looking great, by the way.”
“Thanks, sweetheart.” Her warm smile had me questioning again who was this woman I called Mother.
I wish she’d told us earlier about her life growing up. Maybe she wouldn’t have carried such a weight on her shoulders all those years. I did, however, understand her shame given our snobby and brutally judgmental rich scene. My father was never like that. He was so inclusive and always maintained that good and bad existed in everyone, regardless of money or race.
“So who’s that dashing George Clooney lookalike I noticed hovering close and giving you the eye?”
Her face reddened, which was rare for my mother. She wasn’t the blushing kind.
“He wasn’t giving me the eye.” Her lips twitched into a smile. “He’s a friend of the Lazenby's. Sebastian met Carrington at Eton. He’s been living in Italy. On Lake Como. He’s a writer.”
“Oh? He’s gorgeous.”
She studied me for a moment. “Are you interested?”
I shook my head. “Well-groomed older men in tweed jackets are not my thing.”
Give me a buff, ex-military man in arse-clinging Levis any day.
“I hardly know him.” She touched the wave of hair framing her face.
“It’s so nice to see your hair like that.”
“I tried a new hairstylist, and he suggested waves for a change.”
Her thick and glossy dark hair, normally tied back or in a bun, suited her worn loose.
“But you like him?” I smiled.
“He’s attractive, yes. And intelligent.”
“Sounds like a perfect match to me.”
“He’s an impoverished writer who has just come out of a divorce. Which is probably why you’ve noticed him staring at me.” She pulled a mock smile. “There are plenty of men like Carrington looking for a rich home.”
I laughed. “You make him sound like a stray dog.”
She rolled her eyes and chuckled.
“Oh, Mummy”—I took her hand—“it’s not just your wealth. You’re stunning. At every function you’ve got men dripping off you.”
Her head pushed back. “Hardly. I’m the host. And sure, Orson’s rather fresh.”
“I thought you might have, you know…” I raised an eyebrow.
“I haven’t slept with him, and while he’s attractive, we have little in common.”
“Then give Carrington a go. He’s more your type, and he’s an academic. What does he write?”
