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“Back to my opening statement.” What a cow. “I want out of the house and your father’s rinky-dink company––”
“You never seem to have any problem submitting your bogus expenses to said rinky-dink company—”
“Anyway, the sinking ship is all yours,” she interrupts. “I want nothing to do with it. Never did. I don’t want to be associated with it any longer. It reflects negatively on me. I want you to buy out my shares.”
“Wh—what?”
“I need the cash—”
“But—”
“My only reason for living is to help Olive and Petula get their careers off the ground when we land in New York. I need money for that to happen. Hence, why I also want my share of the house in cash.”
Her words have the same devastating effect as a cataclysmic earthquake. I grip a wall to avoid collapsing to my knees.
“You can’t be serious,” I seethe.
“Oh, I am, dear Jules,” her tone is condescending. “My lawyer will be in touch with yours.”
“But, I don’t have a lawyer.”
“There’s no shortage of lawyers in LA,” she deadpans.
“You know full well I don’t have that kind of money,” I volley. “I can’t very well sell my soul in lieu of payment.”
“It’s not my fault your father was a piss poor businessman.” My blood boils. “For some quick cash, sell the house. LA is such a hot real estate market. Even if it’s a dodgy neighborhood—”
“Silver Lake is a good neighborhood!”
“There you go. The house will sell in the blink of an eye.” I walked right into it.
“And where will I live?” I demand.
“That’s not my problem,” she says. “Remember, you’re not my child, therefore you’re not my responsibility. Your mother died well before I came into the picture. True, your father’s accident came as a shock to all of us, but that doesn’t make you my daughter.”
My teeth grind and my hand tightens in a fist, as my anger threatens to boil over.
If I could reach through the phone and press against that woman’s throat until she suffocates, I would.
“I’m dead serious, Jules,” she continues in a cold, calculating voice. “Your father left me fifty percent of the house and forty-nine percent of a company that has never generated a cent of profit––”
“You burned through his insurance!”
I refused to believe Daddy would do me wrong by designating Hillary as his beneficiary. It’s only when I overheard Hillary gloat to Olive and Petula of how she was able to convince my father to change his will, everything made sense. She called it a stroke of genius. Her timing was my curse. Everything was finalized a week before Dad’s death.
“Your father left me the money to take care of my girls… and you.”
“I never saw a dime of that money,” I say. “You spent it all on stupid acting classes, acting coaches, personal trainers, dietitians, boob jobs, extensions, monthly visits to a pricey Beverly Hills salon and regular trips to the tanning salon for Olive and Petula. The rest, you spent on all the furniture you insisted on upgrading after my father’s death and on all that fake art—”
“They’re reproduction paintings—”
“A copy of a Monet or van Gogh painted by some random artist in China is fake!” I insist.
“It’s still real art,” she argues.
I grip my phone with both hands, bringing it close to my mouth as I seethe. “News flash, Hillary! You pretend your fake art is real, and a chimpanzee has more acting skills than your daughters!”
“You know nothing about showbusiness or art, Jules Salinger!” she spits out. “Florian says the paintings add a touch of sophistication to your father’s crappy house, and he also says my girls have Oscar-worthy careers.” Of course, the French duke knows everything. Asshole. “To answer your accusatory question about the insurance money, you still have a roof over your head. That’s where the money went. So shut the fuck up with your complaining,” she grates. “I’ve had enough of this conversation!”
