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SHELLEY
The Riviera Inn here in Pinedale is associated with the Hilton Hotel chain. It’s a stupid name if you ask me. We’re on the edge of the Mojave Desert in a sprawling sandstone palace. Nothing about this place screams “French Riviera
The Grand Ballroom has cream marble floors, wooden paneled walls, and a giant fuck-off chandelier as its crowning glory. It’s currently filled with the Pinedale Country Club set. AKA, my mother’s besties.
I have a deal with my parents. I drive a fancy BMW, I have a no-limit credit card, and I party wherever the hell I want. In exchange, I go to these events. They’re so boring I could use part of the ice sculpture to stab through my eye into my brain.
Standing here in my white heeled sandals, I accept the glass of champagne from the suited waiter with a bland smile. Mom picks my outfits for these events. She’s truly outdone herself today.
It’s a light grey lace dress with three-quarter sleeves and a round neck. It demurely comes to my knees and is paired with a white leather clutch purse and huge pearl drop earrings. My dark brown hair is pinned back in a stylish bun, and my makeup is minimalistic. I like to think of this as my “Michelle attire.”
My mother swans over on cue, her eyes dancing over me with approval. I fight the urge to mock a gag.
“Michelle,” she trills. “You remember Anita Welthorpe?”
Forcing a smile, I air-kiss the woman dripping with diamonds and lace. I know Anita Welthorpe. She has a radio program on the Christian FM station, talking about the best redecoration styles for the season. This summer, golds and creams are in, blues and pinks are out. Just in case you were wondering.
My mother isn’t cozying up to Anita Welthorpe because of her styling tips or her moderate fame among the Pinedale Country Club set. No. Anita Welthorpe has a twenty-seven-year-old son, Justin. He’s in the self-proclaimed “Wolf Pack”. He’s a fucking asshole.
“Justin was several years ahead of Michelle at Pinedale Prep,” Mom is simpering now. Yeah. Several, as in four. As in, we were never there at the same time.
“And what do you do, Michelle?” Anita’s smile is bland and fixed. She has to have been approached by at least four women today with “eligible” daughters before my mother got her claws into her.
“I drink champagne and attend charity luncheons.”
Mom shoots me a glare, but I match Anita’s bland smile, lifting my champagne flute to my lips. She smirks, her eyes darting over me again.
“Did you go to college?”
A sniff in her voice tells me she thinks I’m a vapid air-headed nobody. Just like she was before she spread her legs for an aircraft tycoon.
“UC Davis,” I simper back, fluttering my eyelashes. “Economics.”
Behind Anita, Mom’s eyelids flutter closed, a look of defeat crossing her face. Getting a degree in Economics was my little act of rebellion. Mom wanted me to get a communications degree so that I could be a “PR asset to my husband” one day.
Anita’s smile has become even more fixed.
“Fascinating,” she murmurs, her eyes darting around. They fix on something, or more likely someone, over my shoulder, and she raises a hand.
“There’s Felicity. I must go.”
Mom and I get another air kiss as Anita makes her escape. Sighing, Mom glares at me, her lips pursed.
“You’ll never find a decent husband if you keep scaring off their mothers, Michelle,” she scolds me. “You’re twenty-three.”
“Practically over the hill,” I drawl, arching an eyebrow and taking another sip of champagne.
“Well, you’re not getting any younger.” Mom delivers her snarky jab, glaring again for good measure and storming off. She will probably find her friends and commiserate on having such an uncontrollable rebel for a daughter.
Whatever. I turn and smile at the dark-haired waiter as he approaches. Unlike the rest of the wait staff, this guy’s tie is slightly loosened. Perfect.
Placing my champagne flute down on his tray, I lean in. “Want to go and drink vodka in a storage closet?”
His eyebrows shoot up, and he grins at me. “I’m always up for ditching work to drink with poor little rich girls.”
There is a challenge in his eyes. I’m reminded of the party Sophie and I were at last weekend, at that abandoned Duplex. The girl there thought I was a poor little rich girl too. Oh well, time to embrace it and lean in. Grinning, I wink at the waiter.
“What a coincidence.I’ma poor little rich girl.”
