Page 22 of The Painter and His Poet

“Thisis my home,” I say forcefully, trying to claw back some self-respect.

She huffs out a breath. “A home is somewhere that youbelong, Harlow. You don’t have friends here. You work for me. Whatever it is that you do in your spare time, you can continue to do it in England by my side. There’s no reason for you to stay in LA.”

God, I could wring her neck.

Of course this is all about her. Her marriage. Her happiness. Her future. Her life. Why did I ever think that my needs and wants would ever register in her brain for once? My happiness has always come second to her needs, and even though she might be right in saying that I don’t have friends here, that doesn’t mean to say that I can’t make some once she’s out of the way. Long term friends are hard to come by when your famous, self-absorbed, mother takes great pleasure in scaring them all away. As far as she’s concerned my attention should be on her at all times. Frankly, I’m more her property than her daughter.

How the hell did I allow myself to get to this place?

“There is plenty of room at Adaga Hall for you, Harlow. My home is your home now. I will do anything to make my beautiful wife-to-be happy, and that extends to you too,” Robert says, oblivious, or perhaps unwilling to see just how selfish hisbeautiful wife-to-bereally is.

“Darling, you really are incredibly generous,” my mother simpers, a gleeful look on her face. “I can’t wait to see Princetown. God knows I’ve had quite enough of Hollywood for one lifetime. Truly, it’s getting more and more difficult tobreathe without all the paparazzi buzzing around me all the time.”

The paparazzi that she loves to entertain more like.

“Don’t worry about the paparazzi, their obedience can be bought. I promise, you’ll have your privacy, and you will be quite the lady of the manor. Adaga Hall is a palace fit for a queen, ” Robert says, dropping a kiss to the top of her head.

“Oh, that’s such a relief. As you know, I’ve always wanted to live in England. Do you have horses?” she asks him.

She has? That’s news to me.

“We have a stable, yes. If you’d like, I could purchase you your very own horse?”

“Oh, yes, darling. I would love a horse!” My mother squeals in excitement, clapping her hands together.

I heard once that it’s almost impossible to spend a billion pounds because of the amount of money earned daily on interest alone, and according to the Forbes list of billionaires, Robert hasseveralbillions. Though, I’m pretty sure my mother would only see that as a challenge. She’ll make a dent in his fortune in no time at all.

“See, Harlow, it’s going to be so much fun!” she screeches, the excitement in her voice grating. “Haven’t you always said that you wanted to holiday in England? Now you can live there!”

She’s right, I have always wanted to visit England, but on my terms, not hers. She’s taken my dream and twisted it into something I don’t recognise.

“What about your family, Robert? How do they feel about all of this?” I ask pointedly. I know he has a son, my mother mentioned him in passing, surely he has a say?

“You and Melody are my family now,” he says firmly. “Besides, it’smyhome, and who I invite to live in it is of no concern to my son so long as he continues to defy me.”

Defy him? I open my mouth to ask what he means by that, but my mother glares at me, and I slam my mouth shut instead.

“Well, that’s settled then. You will arrange our wedding, and move into Adaga Hall with me and Robert after the wedding takes place. It’s going to be so wonderful. Thank you, Robert,” my mother adds, turning her attention to him as she palms his face and pulls him in for a kiss that I have no desire to witness.

“I’m going to take a walk,” I say, pushing up from the table, and heading towards the door.

“Before you go, darling, I’ve sent you an email with a list of things to start working on for the wedding. Perhaps you should get a head start now and we can discuss it further in the morning? No point in going out in this weather, you’ll catch a cold and we can’t afford for you to be lying in bed for days when there’s so much to do,” my mother calls after me.

“Chance would be a fine thing,” I mutter.

As the sun slips past the horizon, and the sky turns an inky-black, I place my laptop on my bedside table and stretch my arms above my head, pleased with the progress I’ve already made on the wedding plans. My mother and Robert left for an early dinner a couple of hours ago, and I’m looking forward to making a grilled cheese sandwich and taking a long hot shower before they return.

I didn’t go for that walk, not because of my mother’s concern for me catching a cold–which I know wasn’t concern at all but a big fat fuck you to me doing anything that’s remotely enjoyable–but because I figured if I’m going to have any chance at finally loosening her grip on me, then getting their wedding arranged has to be a priority. I can only hope that she’ll be so distractedby Robert and the extravagant lifestyle his money can afford that she won’t care about what I choose to do with my life. Picking up my phone, I scroll through my Pinterest board, smiling at the photos of the life I’m hoping to manifest, one where I’m living in a small cottage by the sea penning songs and writing lyrics for other artists somewhere far, far away from my mother.

“One day this will be my life,” I tell myself, already feeling a little bit lighter.

As I’m about to discard my phone it vibrates, making that little buzzing sound when a notification is received. I groan, expecting to see a message from my mother but when I glance at the screen, I notice a notification from Instagram instead, informing me I’ve received a direct message.

“Weird, I haven’t used that account in years,” I mutter, clicking the app open.

For a brief moment, I look over my old posts. The last recording of my voice was uploaded over two years ago. In an attempt to keep my identity hidden, I chose@FridayI’mInLoveas my account name, a nod to my favourite song, and of course my stage name. Then I posted footage of something scenic with my music playing over the top, hoping that the viewer's focus would be drawn to my voice and nothing else. At one point, I’d had the grand idea that one of my videos would go viral, but they never did, and I guess I just didn’t have it in me to keep posting.

It’s been a while since I’ve checked the account, and I can see that since I last checked I’ve had quite a few messages which I haven’t been notified about before now.

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