Page 29 of The Painter and His Poet

“Well, if you’d been available, instead of doing whatever it was that you were doing, then I wouldn’t have been so inconvenienced. It was extremely embarrassing for me to arrive late for my interview. You must understand that?”

I almost remind her that she practically chucked me out of the hotel room that evening so that I wouldn’t inconvenience her when Robert came to visit, but I don’t. Instead, I swallow my anger and say, “Your lunch will be arriving shortly. I’m going back to my room to check my emails and make some calls, okay?”

“Very well…”

Her voice trails off as she gives me a rare smile, a smile that isn’t practised or plastered on for the press, a smile that I see very little off these days. It makes me feel momentarily guilty, but I shouldn’t. As much as I love my mother, I know her better than I know myself, and this smile, though true, isn’t heartfelt. She knows she’s pissed me off and she’s trying to placate me.

Too bad I can see right through her.

Pushing to my feet, I gather up my notebook, phone, laptop and room key. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You’re not coming to dinner tonight? I’m having a little get together in the bar with my close girlfriends who arrived this morning. It’s a bachelorette party if you will.”

“Would you like some strippers to entertain you?” I ask, my face straight, my voice saccharine.

Stephanie smothers a smirk as my mother bats her hand away and leans forward in her seat. “Don’t be so obtuse. Of course I don’t want a stripper! This is just me and my girlfriends spending some time together. God knows I’m so busy that I barely have time for myself. Something Robert insists on changing as soon as we’re married. I will finally be a lady who lunches,” she adds with a simpering laugh.

Oh, give me strength! Sometimes I wonder how I could be so very different from my mother. She wouldn’t know a day’s hard work if it slapped her around the face. She’s spent the best part of almost a decade since I’ve been her personal assistant being chauffeur-driven from one interview to the next, waited on handand foot whilst I’ve run around making sure all her ridiculous needs are met. The woman has so manyself-carespa days that it’s almost impossible to squeeze in an interview or press junket to keep her relevant.

“Well, it soundspositivelylovely,” I say with more than a little sarcasm, “But I have some last minute things to finalise–”

“I thought you just said everything is in hand?! What last minute things?” she asks with a scowl, her voice rising in pitch, that smile from a few moments ago replaced with an expression I know all too well.

“Everythingisin hand. I just need to make sure the security detail has the final schedule for this evening’s late arrivals. There’s been some changes to our requirements given that Councillor John Hoxton and his wife, Elodie’s, flight from Europe was slightly delayed. It’s nothing that I can’t manage.”

“Oh well. Yes, that’s important,” she nods, appeased, then adds, “I shall see you in the morning then?”

“In the morning,” I agree, dropping a kiss to her cheek. “Have a lovely evening, Mom.”

“I will,” she replies before adding, “Make sure to order something from room service. The food is delicious.”

“I’ve noticed. The Wagyu burger, and truffle chips I had last night was so tasty,” I reply, my stomach rumbling at the memory. I skipped breakfast this morning as well as lunch because I’ve been so busy, and I’m suddenly starving.

“You might want to order a salad then, hmm? You don’t want to be bloated tomorrow, that silk dress will show every flaw. You know how easy it is for you to put on weight.”

Bloated? Flaw? Put on weight? Urgh!

My mother thinks being a US size six is too big, and I’ve fluctuated between a size six and ten for most of my adult life. Admittedly, there was a time when I’d force myself to throw up just so I could keep my weight down all in order to conform tomy mother’s ideal of beauty. It was a time of my life when I’d felt my lowest, and I’ve clawed my way back to a healthy weight. But if my mother had her way I’d be a tiny size two like her. It’s unrealistic, not to mention unhealthy for my frame. Blowing out a breath, I don’t bother to respond to her parting dig, instead I stride across the room and leave.

An hour later I’m sitting at the dining table of my suite, surrounded by a veritable feast. I decided to order macaroni and cheese, which they serve here as a main dish rather than a side, a bowl full of vegetables smothered in garlic butter, some mouthwatering bread, and a slice of the most decadent chocolate cake. I’ve already devoured the macaroni and cheese, half of the vegetables and all of the bread, and I’m just about to take my first bite of my chocolate cake when my phone buzzes with an incoming call.

Grabbing my phone I look at the screen. It’s Robert.

“Robert, what can I do for you?” I ask, dropping my fork to the plate, internally groaning.

If it isn’t my mother harassing me every five minutes making sure thateverything’s in hand, it’s Robert making sure all my mother’s needs are met. I can’t fault him for it, but I just want this wedding to be over, and my mother distracted by her new husband, so that I can finally start my own life.

“Just checking in,” he replies. “How are you, Harlow?”

“I’m fine,” I respond, a little flatly to be honest.

“Really? You sound stressed.”

“It’s been a long few months,” I admit.

“I see…” his voice trails off for a moment.

“Robert, I don’t mean to cut this call short, but I’ve got to send some more emails to the security team and I–”

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