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Somehow that makes my anger feel petty. I hate feeling petty.
I straighten, smoothing down the line of my jacket with a hand as I try to regain control of myself and latch onto the word from their earlier conversation. ‘It isn’t appropriate.’
Mother closes her eyes and sighs. ‘I don’t know how I managed to give birth to both a notorious flirt and a self-righteous prude.’
‘It’s fine, Emily.’ Alice turns away from the mirror, her eyes cast down. ‘I’ll go get changed.’ She moves to step off the platform but my mother stops her with a gesture.
As annoyed as I am at everything that’s happened since finishing my workout this morning, it doesn’t help that Alice is now on a first name basis with my mother. As if they’re friends. As if this is real.
‘How in the world is this dress inappropriate?’ Mother reassesses Alice, whose arms are now wrapped around her middle. ‘It covers her from her collarbone to her wrists to her knees.’
My eyes hit upon each part of Alice’s body as she says it. By the time I’m able to look away from her, Mother’s exasperation has melted to smugness.
‘Ms King just purchased this dress a few weeks ago in green.’ The saleswoman continues to be unhelpful. ‘She’s worn it to the store for work.’
Mother smiles at the woman as if she’s handed her the winning argument.
I level my employee with a look that’s made grown men quiver. ‘That’s different.’
Alice steps down. ‘Really, it’s fine. Please don’t—’
Mother huffs. ‘How is that different?’
‘Because I said so.’
‘Who are you to say so?’
‘Her boss.’
Alice and the saleswoman ping-pong between my mother and me.
Small lines form around my mother’s eyes as they narrow. ‘You don’t go around telling other employees what they can and can’t buy.’
‘Um, Mrs Moore?’ Alice backsteps toward the dressing room.
Her feet are bare. For some reason that annoys me further. ‘Alice is different.’
If I was in my right mind I might question the sudden gleam in my mother’s eyes, the mischievous bend to her smile. ‘And just how is she different?’
‘Hi, Mr Thomas.’ Mary emerges from a clothing rack looking like a purple cupcake in a big poofy dress. A purple cupcake who seems to think the adults around her are a bit short on the uptake.
Never more grateful for a child’s interruption, I incline my head. ‘You may simply call me Thomas.’
Though, in true child form, instead of being grateful for the rare allowance, Mary frowns. ‘What about Uncle Thomas? Since you’re married to Aunt Alice.’
Grateful feelings evaporate like steam as my temper boils and silence rings out over the sales floor.
I swear I see the saleswoman’s fingers twitch near her pocket, as if yearning for her phone so she can toss the first stone to start the inevitable avalanche of gossip that my statement will cause.
Oblivious to the bomb she just set off, Mary points to her feet. ‘Look, Thomas. Mike Hunt is a prince!’
The saleswoman chokes.
The devil cat, emerges from under the ballgown, looking squinty-eyed and aggrieved in his purple hooded sweater, his collar attached to a lavender velvet ribbon tied around Mary’s waist.
‘Mary, sweetie.’ Mother brushes an errant strand of hair back behind the little girl’s tiara, looking every bit as maternal as she was never able to be with me due to my father’s interference. ‘Remember Mike’s new title?’
‘Oh yeah.’ Mary squats down and picks up the purple monstrosity under his front legs with a grunt – his two back legs and male parts dangling in the air-conditioning. ‘He’s Prince Michael, now.’
