Page 107 of Cashmere Cruelty

“Mom,” I try, “you can’t possibly think?—”

But she tuts me halfway through. “Please, dear. Let’s not insult Mommy’s intelligence. This prank is just like you: sloppy.”

My heart sinks. All my hopes for this—hopes I should’ve known better than to nurture—shatter into a million pieces at my feet. All these years…

All these years, and my mom still has no idea who I am.

“Tell you what,” Eleanor says with forced benevolence. “You wanted my attention, you got it; we had a nice chat?—”

“Attention?” I splutter. “You think I’d make up a pregnancy forattention?”

“If the shoe fits, dear.”

Hang up, urges my last scrap of self-respect.Hang up and never call again.

But I’m not fast enough.

“Besides,” Eleanor remarks knowingly, readying her coup-de-grace, “you can’t be pregnant. You’d need a man for that.”

My mother, ladies and gentlemen. The woman who gave birth to me. Gavebirth, and nothing else.

“And I couldn’t possibly get that, right?” I laugh bitterly, voice shaking. At this point, I don’t care anymore. “A man? A partner?”

“You’re not blind, shortcake. Surely you can answer that yourself.”

“Right,” I mutter. “Guess I know where I got my good genes from, then.”

I can hear the air freeze on the other end of the line. “Careful, dear,” Eleanor warns, fractals in her smiling voice. “Mommy’s patience isn’t infinite.”

Neither is mine, I begin to say but can’t. The words get stuck in my throat, somewhere around the huge lump there.

“Alright, good chat,” Eleanor says briskly. “Talk soon, bye!”

“Mom, I?—”

And she hangs up.

… I need you.

By the time the food cart comes, I’ve gone from heartbroken to furious.

The poor waiter seems to sense it, because he retreats with a short bow and a quick step. It’s not unlike when Matvey’s here. Have I turned into a scary mobster, too? Perhaps I should be so lucky.

Then Eleanor wouldn’t fuckingdare.

“Faking my pregnancy,” I mutter, disbelief in every word as I pace up and down the living room. “Faking my—the nerve on that woman! Can you believe it, Nugget?”

From its warm nest, Nugget doesn’t offer a comment. Probably for the best. I wouldn’t want its first memory to be its bitch of a grandmother.

Grandmother.It’s insane, how different it is. Eleanor as a grandma, versus…

I shake my head, drying a stray tear. It’s no use thinking ofher.Maia isn’t here.I’mhere.

And I’ll protect my child for the both of us.

Just as I’m readying another rant in my head, the doorbell rings. I can practically feel Matvey on the other side: his confident stride, tendrils of his cologne sneaking in through the gap under the door. Everything about him makes me hungry.

You can’t be pregnant. You’d need a man for that.

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