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“Never saw it.”
Liz turns, mouth agape. “You. Have. Not. Lived.”
“Glad I have you to wake me up,” I say. I lean forward and kiss her lightly on the lips.
“Well we’re gonna have to fix that,” she says.
“Before or after aforementioned ‘breaking in’?” I tease.
Liz shrugs. We stop at the stairs leading up to the jet. “We could do both,” she says.
I open my mouth to respond but am cut off by the sounds of a seldom heard but much dreaded ringtone.
Cruella De Vil, Cruella De Vil. If she doesn’t scare you, no evil thing will, my phone croaks.
Liz gets it instantly. “Is that…?” she starts.
I kiss her quickly on the forehead. “I’ll talk to her out here. Pour me some champagne, will you?”
Once Liz is up the velvet steps, I walk several paces from the plane and answer. “I’m a bit busy, Mother,” I say.
We haven’t spoken since I called her in New York and she told me not to bother her. Liz has been keeping her updated so I suppose she figured checking in with me was a waste of time.
Ever since Liz managed to secure the account, I’ve considered what tone I should take in our inevitable conversation. Calm and adequately repentant would be the smartest. Gloating and bitter is what my heart desires.
I don’t have time to choose either before Mother jumps on the offensive.
“Why are there photos in the New York Post of you holding Liz Slate’s hand?”
Of course in order to avoid giving me any semblance of approval she has to zero in on my new relationship. I wasn’t expecting a grand show of emotion, but a small amount of pleasantness wouldn’t kill her, right?
I have no interest in hearing Mother’s objections, especially when I have Liz in a swimsuit waiting for me at the other end of this plane ride, but I suppose this is as good a time as any to get it over with. The plane will be taking off soon, and it will give me a perfect excuse to dip out of the call before she gets too hysterical.
“That would be because we’re dating, Mother,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.
“And is Ms. Slate aware of this?” Mother asks. “She doesn’t look particularly pleased in the picture.”
Of course the paparazzi have capitalized on Liz’s split second of surprise when I took her hand. They’ve always taken every opportunity to make me look as slimy as possible.
“Of course she’s aware,” I say. “Believe it or not, but I’m not delusional.”
“I don’t think you’re delusional. Just stupid,” Mother snaps.
I frown, momentarily at a loss for words. Something is up her ass today. As unpleasant as many of our conversations have been recently, she usually refrains from straight-up name calling.
Mother senses that’s she’s gone a bit too far. She takes a deep breath and asks, more calmly, “Why on earth would you pursue a relationship with Ms. Slate? Isn’t she everything you despise in a woman?”
“And what exactly would you know about my personal tastes?”
“If your dates to my events are any indication, you prefer more silicon in them than brain cells.”
Ouch. Though not entirely unfair.
“Well maybe I’m maturing,” I say. “I know you think I’m incapable of growing up, but I’m sure you’ve heard by now about how the conference went?”
A pause. “I did,” she says, slightly grudgingly.
“And I think I can say that I exceeded both of our expectations. We got the account. I… did business things, et cetera.” I wave a hand. “So I guess I proved you wrong.”
