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“Should I come with you to the family stuff?” she asked – bluntly, without style, grace or good manners.
She was not only inviting herself to an event, which went against every retiring instinct that she possessed, but she was inviting herself to two events that she’d rather poke herself in the eye with a pencil than attend.
Mick’s hands had gone to his waist, shoving back his jacket to prop against his lean hips. His eyes slowly rose from a studied contemplation of the oil-stained concrete to meet hers. His lips were slightly pursed.
He finally spoke.
“It’s going to be pretty bleak,” he said.
That was not a “Hell no, but thanks.” She was small enough to be disappointed.
She nodded.
“I kind of figured as much.”
He grimaced.
“Do you actually want to come?”
“No,” Sophy said honestly. “But I think I should come.”
And later when she was alone, she would try to figure out who this person was that she was becoming.
They stared at each other.
“All right,” said Mick at last.
All right.
***
She had needed to go shopping after all. Not having planned to dine and felicitate with the upper echelons of Auckland society, the dressiest item she’d packed in her suitcase was a t-shirt with a diamante lipstick on the front. It didn’t seem appropriate. Standing outside a four-storey mini-mansion in the affluent suburb of Remuera, listening to the faint strumming of a harp and wondering if there was a live musician on the premises, she wasn’t feeling all that confident about her silk floral dress either.
She pulled continuously at the hem as they waited for someone to answer the door, and Mick glanced down at her restless fingers.
“You’re always beautiful, Sophy.”
She flushed and bit her lip.
The door swung open and a woman stood there. She was of medium height and build, with one of those Anna Wintour swings of hair that cost about three hundred dollars at the hairdresser and were only achievable for the genetically blessed few born without frizz. Her makeup was perfect, down to the classy blush sheen on her fingernails, which immediately made Sophy self-conscious of the orange polka-dots on her own. She hadn’t packed any polish remover.
The woman physically blanched.
It was just for a second and she recovered well enough, but her flinch was unmistakable.
Charming.
“Michael.” A smooth cheek was inclined and dutifully kissed. “And is this Sophia?”
“Mother.” Mick slid his fingers reassuringly through Sophy’s cold ones. “This is my friend, Sophy James. Sophy, this is my mother, Annabel Hollister.”
Long elegant fingers touched her free hand in a passing almost-handshake.
“Sophy. So good of you to come.”
Sophy had the distinct impression it would have been even better of her to take in a movie or jump off a bridge instead.
“Thank you for having me,” she replied awkwardly.
