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“Polly, this dress is eight hundred dollars,” I whisper as I exit the changing room, waving the hanger in the air.
“And?” she replies, looking up from her phone as if I’ve gone mad.
“That’s a lot of money for a dress.”
“Daddy can afford it,” she says, reaching for my shoes and dress as we make our way to the register.
Her comment has me thinking. I don’t actually know what Chandler does. And come to think of it, I know nothing about him.
“What does he do?” I ask, hoping I don’t get my head bitten off.
“He’s a lawyer but deals with international law. At the moment, he’s dealing with some Geneva Convention or something,” she says with a brush of her hand, not too interested that her dad has dealings in some serious shit.
“Oh, right. That explains why he’s in Europe.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Also explains why he’s such a shitty dad,” she adds, and I don’t miss the hint of resentment behind her tone.
Her comment has us waiting in silence while my items are bagged up, and as the total of the shoes and dress come close to fifteen hundred dollars, I nearly choke.
But as a nonchalant Polly signs the receipt, I know she’s done this a million times before, and I can’t help but think money really can’t buy happiness because it seems we have a lot more in common than just our mother.
The house is still in a state of chaos when we get back.
Cynthia stands in the foyer, looking up at the wall, obviously debating whether the decorations are appropriate enough.
“Oh, hi, girls,” she says when she sees us. “Quinn, do you think this is too much?” Her eyes are focused on a gory, morbid painting of flying limbs and heads.
I have no idea what I’m looking at, so I remain mute because to my untrained eyes, it looks kind of gruesome and has me wondering if we’re celebrating a public execution instead of Christmas.
“It’s a great replica of Guernica,” Quinn says beside me.
“Oh, you’re a fan of Picasso?” Cynthia asks, looking at Quinn, obviously impressed.
“Yeah, he’s brilliant. This piece is actually one of my favorites,” Quinn says, mesmerized by the picture.
Cynthia nods animatedly, clearly excited to be in the company of a fellow Picasso lover. “You must go visit the National Gallery. There is an original piece on display. Just breathtaking,” she says, hand over her heart.
“Haven’t you had some pieces on display there too, Mom?” Polly casually asks.
Cynthia shyly nods, brushing a piece of midnight hair behind her ear. “Yes.”
“Did you paint this?” he asks, pointing at the painting whose name I cannot pronounce.
“Yes, I did. It’s a very poor duplication, but I had limited time to get organized.” Cynthia sighs when looking back at her artwork, clearly disappointed.
“No way, it’s fucking cool,” Quinn says passionately, and I watch my mother swoon over Quinn’s comment.
But any female would because witnessing Quinn Berkeley grow passionate about something is a sight that would have any human drooling with desire.
I should know.
“Thank you, Quinn. That is really lovely of you to say.”
As we stand staring at the painting, I can’t help but think that she’s made a name for herself here too, just like she did when in LA.
I sadly remember the last picture I drew for her and how my father discarded it like it was nothing.
Feeling my eyes well with tears, I clear my throat because I will not cry. “Well, I better call Abi,” I say, and Quinn turns to look at me, giving me a small nod.
