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Well, Mother, I’m going to stand to attention, smile at the ready, and do whatever you tell me. Happy now?
‘How could I be happy, darling, when you’re so down in the mouth?’ Yep, vintage Mother. Trust her to tell me off for feeling all the feels.
Mr. Wiggins nudges my leg and demands pets. I scritch him behind his ears for a couple of minutes wishing we were anywhere but here. Well, anywhere but here or close to Mariano. Don’t meet your heroes. Seriously. If I could flip a switch and go back a week and erase that face-to-face from my memory, those lips from mine, those hands that roamed and found places in me that hum, I would. That way I wouldn’t know that he’s no better than your average sellout, or that Stephanie was that brand of psycho horsewoman who puts the rest of us to shame, or that polo was as profoundly—not corrupted exactly, but… what’s the word I’m looking for—infiltratedandruledby the deep pockets, as it turns out to be.
I also wouldn’t have the image of his abs and his pecs and the press of his dick in my brain. I can’t walk through my own door without remembering him there and how he wanted me but onlyalmost.
My phone buzzes and a message pops up. It’s from Alicia.
TEXTLSTART_Have you called the Brobdingnagian Shrillbeast yet?_TEXTLEND
The dots roll and roll.
TEXTLSTART_…_TEXTLEND
TEXTLSTART_She won’t shrink if you wait. She’ll expand to fit the time allotted. And, like I said, give her a break, Lollz. She might surprise you._TEXTLEND
She’s not wrong about the first bit. Mother fills my brain as no one else can. It’s not that Ineedher approval or love anymore. I know that ship sailed long ago when I let her down in all the ways. And now, asking for her help means I’ve let myself down, too. I haven’t made it on my own like I meant to. I just wish I could come away from a call with her feeling something other than shitty.
TEXTLSTART_. . ._TEXTLEND
Alicia types for far too long. I’m imagining those memes where the text appears and disappears as the writer overthinks their message, but Alicia and I aren’t like that. We say things the way they are. We don’t fudge. And we don’t speak British-English code—only half saying what you mean twenty-five percent of the time and couching the other stuff in euphemisms and sarcasm the rest of the time—which mother still does when the mood takes her. Moving between the Hamptons and Oxford throughout my childhood means I speak both languages passably, but…
TEXTLSTART_It is a truth universally acknowledged…that I love you no matter what _TEXTTLEND
The tears come, quick and hot, completely unexpected. I can only imagine what shedidn’tsay: I love you, even though she doesn’t. I love you, even if your plans have gone tits up. I love you, even though you’re going to retrench for the season.
That she’s quoting Jonathan Swift and Jane Austen in the space of three minutes only makes the texts more poignant. It’s as if she’s signaling under the noise: All of literary history is behind you. You’ve got this.
One more teensy-weensy Patrón Silver top-up and I’m going to hit . I might luck out. The she-devil might not answer. But then I have to do the ramp-up to talk to her twice, plus listen to her god-awful voicemail message, so maybe that’s worse.
“Mr. Wiggins.” I tousle his head for good luck. “Tell me it’s all going to work out in the end.”
“Roof.” It’s his indoor voice. He only uses that tone for me and only when I ask, and I love him for it.
“If you’re sure.” I cock my head to one side, and he follows suit. I don’t know what our ancestors did to get the wolves to come to the fire and allow themselves to be domesticated, but I’m so grateful for dogs. For my dog. For Mr. Wiggins.
“Roof roof,” he says and snuggles in tight. I wonder if I give off a stress hormone when I’m about to call my parental unit? Some kind of chemical panic signal that only he can smell? For the next ten minutes, Mr. Wiggins is going to be my binky.
What would Alicia say? “Better the devil you know?” Yeah, well, she’s got one thing right: my mother is the spawn of Satan.#demisarcasm
HUMBLE PIE
Lolly Benoit. Apartment over the Barn. Palm Beach, Florida.
“Darling! I hear you’re the Pariah of Palm Beach!” Wow. How the hell could my mother know that already? I suppose she’s tentacles-deep into everything and everyone’s business.
“Hi, Mum.”
“Oh, Charlotte. What’s happened this time?”
What she means is:what have YOU done wrong this time? If my gut wasn’t already burning from the Patrón, it’d burst into flames at the accusation. I didn’t do anything.Not then and not now.I douse the inferno with another sip.#gulp-sip
“I’ve launched a new line of handbags, did I tell you?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer because she doesn’t care if she’s repeating herself or not. “They’rehaute-haute, sweetie. Just the thing for the woman who has everything.” Her version ofhautemeans pelts from species that have no business being made into handbags. Not just ostrich and alligator, but pangolin and emu. The people she sells these monstrosities to are the worst kind of people: stuck up elitists who thinkstuff maketh the woman.
“They’re at all my resorts and selling like hotcakes. Except the pangolin. Those I only sell privately.”
