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I frown at the phone. “What do you mean?”
“Hollywood is so last century when it comes to acting.”
According to whom?
I yo-yo between curiosity and irritation. “What does Hollywood have to do with your previous statement?” I swear, the woman’s communication skills are deplorable.
“You know what they say about New York? If you can make it there…” she trails off. “My little green olive and my little patch of patchouli have a much better chance of shining on Broadway than in Hollywood.” I hate those ridiculous nicknames. “Even as stunning blondes and after the breast augmentations, they barely get cast.” Eye roll.
“Olive and Petula are moving to pursue their acting career?” I ask.
She snorts. “I wouldn’t let them go on their own. They still need their mother.”
“Hillary, Olive is twenty-one and Petula is twenty-four years old. They’re grown women—”
“They still need my guidance,” she snaps.
Okay, whatever. “So what does that mean?” I ask, still not understanding the gist of this conversation.
“The duke, the girls and I are moving to New York. Permanently.”
“Wait. What?” I bark into the phone.
“Florian is coming with us—”
“You’ve only been seeing him for four months,” I remind her. “Are you really going to uproot your life and move across the country with a man you barely know?”
“The duke promises a much better life for me than remaining a single mom,” she tells me.
“You’re going to marry him?”
“I believe it’s in the stars for me,” she says. “But this isn’t about me. It’s about my girls. The duke has incredible contacts in New York and he believes he can open doors on Broadway for my little green olive and my little patch of patchouli.”
I’m baffled.
“Your plans don’t involve me,” I note.
“You’re not my child, Jules,” she tells me. “You didn’t come out of my womb,” I shudder at the perturbing thought, “and you don’t have my last name. Not to mention, you’ve never made an effort with Florian. He has the distinct impression you dislike him.” That’s because I do. Royal title or not, the guy is sleazy.
Annoyance flares. “Why aren’t we having this conversation face-to-face at the house?” I demand.
“I doubt I’ll be coming back to that tiny box when I can live in the lap of luxury at my boyfriend’s Malibu place. Florian hired professional movers. They’ll take care of packing all our belongings. Once they’re done, they’ll leave the master keys with you. You won’t have to worry your pretty little head. It’ll all be handled.” Wow. I’m at a loss for words. “So, you see dear Jules, this is the end of the road for us. We’ll be leaving LA within a month––”
“A month?” I choke. “Clearly, you’ve been planning this for a while, but it’s only now you tell me?”
“Everything came together for us over the weekend. Florian found us a beautiful apartment near Central Park. I wanted to wait until that was secured before telling you. We couldn’t rush things. A man of his stature requires a certain level of accommodation. It’s not like we can live in Harlem or any other suspicious neighborhood. We’re both royalty.”
Had she not pulled the rug from under my feet, I’d be laughing my head off right now.
“Unbelievable,” I simply say.
“Stop pretending you’re going to miss us, Jules.” I can imagine the smug look on her face. “You could barely tolerate us––”
“That’s beside the point, Hillary.” I’m sure my voice carries, but right now, it’s the least of my concerns. “You could’ve had the courtesy of warning me in advance––”
“Now that we have our ducks in a row, I’m warning you––”
“At the eve of your departure? That’s hardly a warning. It’s a conclusion,” I argue.
