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“You don’thavea walking stick.”
“I will when you wear that necklace,” Granny replied nonchalantly, picking her teacup up. “I will ensure I have one handy.”
“What are you going to do? Whip one out of your handbag, Mary Poppins style?”
“Perhaps. It depends how far the handbag technology industry goes.”
“Is there such a thing as the handbag technology industry?”
“If not, there should be. All women need an expandable handbag.”
I paused.
I wasn’t sure I agreed.
I had enough crap in my handbag as it was—having an endless pit of storage seemed like a very slippery slope. Although I suppose that depended on whether you thought there was such a thing as too many lip balms.
I never had enough.
Unless I was looking in my handbag.
Then, yes. Yes, there was such a thing as too many lip balms.
“Okay, that’s enough of that,” I replied, using my napkin to pat the corners of my mouth. “Can we discuss something other than Carmen?”
“Gladly. How is your thesis coming along?”
Anything but that.
Please.
I groaned, slowly reaching up to tuck my hair behind my ear. “Miserably. I feel as though I’ve already covered how the aristocracy was connected to slavery and their relevance to British society. It’s surprisingly difficult, even given the resources and first-hand knowledge at my disposal.”
“You’re a smart thing, Gracie. You’ll get there. How much time do you have left in your term?”
“About a year,” I replied. “I have more than enough time, and I’m grateful they aren’t making me teach, but sometimes it feels as though I’ll never complete it.”
“You will. You said that about your degree and you got it done.” She paused. “What will you be when it’s done? Doctor Lady Grace? Lady Doctor Grace?”
I blinked at her. “I… don’t know. I will technically be able to use the doctor title, and I probably will professionally.”
“But not personally?”
“Eh, it’s too much hassle having to change your name everywhere. If I ever get married, I can just do it all then.” I waved my hand. “It is what it is.”
Granny shook her head and picked up her cup of tea. “What about Amber? I haven’t seen her in a while.”
“Ah. She wants you to come over and make your roast beef.”
“Ooh, a bitchfest. Lovely. I’ll come after you’ve had dinner with that ratbag of a father of yours.”
Ratbag wasn’t the word I’d use to describe my father, but still more polite than her usual ‘knobhead,’ so I was just going to have to let it slide.
“All right,” I replied, brushing it off. “Fine. Sunday?”
“Yes, Sunday.” She paused. “This Sunday? Or next?”
“This Sunday.”
