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Rebecca Morgenstern... doesn't sound bad. Once, I would have gladly taken that name, if it was from his brother.
After about an hour of being treated like royalty, I exit the salon and find Peter on the phone. He hangs up when he sees me and seems a bit taken aback.
“You look like you've seen a ghost,” I tousle my blonde hair and place my hands on my hips.
Do I really look that awful?
“On the contrary. When I first saw you, you seemed familiar. Now I realize how much you look like Mrs. Morgenstern.”
“Me, looking like that bitch?” I snap irritably and we get into the car. “You're insulting me!”
“Do you know her?”
“We were neighbors for a while. I know a little about them.”
“So, you've met his family?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, and throughout the drive, we exchange a few vague words about the past, mostly discussing topics like the pandemic and the global crisis.
After arriving at the clinic, I visit my mother, who compliments my hair, and then we head back home shortly after 12. There, I find another box with a dress and shoes for this afternoon. Rosé helps me get ready, and within an hour, I'm already done, with Peter and I on our way to Manasseh's company.
The headquarters of Morgenstern Wines is located in a residential area of London, specifically in Canary Wharf, renowned for its breathtaking luxury office towers.
I look up from the car, mouth agape, unable to fathom where this immense building ends.
“Wow!” I exclaim, hypnotized by the size of the glass-paneled structure.
“Wait until you see it at night,” Peter shares my enthusiasm, and I'm already curious about how everything looks from the rooftop.
I spot Manasseh talking on the phone as he emerges from the revolving doors. He strides purposefully toward the car, unbuttoning his jacket and slightly loosening his tie with brisk movements, looking somewhat tense.
“Bad news?” Peter asks him as soon as he gets in the car.
“Hurry up, we're running late,” he urges, adjusting his phone face down.
When his gaze lands on me, his eyes soften, and his face brightens.
“I like what you did with your hair.”
Wow! Manasseh offers me a polite compliment.
“Don't you dare tell me I look like your mother,” I point my index finger at him, and he grimaces.
“Who told you that you look like her?” Manasseh runs his fingers through his hair and sighs.
“Me,” Peter smiles proudly.
“Do you want to get fired?” Manasseh threatens him with a serious tone, and Peter's smile fades.
“I thought it's a compliment for future wives, to tell them they resemble their mothers-in-law.”
“Future wife?” I dig my nails into the newly smelling upholstery. “Don't get the wrong impression, driver!”
“You're getting a raise, Peter,” Manasseh smiles arrogantly.
“I'll get a new car sooner,” Peter happily taps the steering wheel and accidentally honks.
“Only if you have a silver tongue,” Manasseh dampens his joy, but Peter seems to have some hidden hopes up his sleeve.
