Page 16 of The Love Bandits

Of course, Claire likes almost everyone.

Mrs. Rosings looks and smells like money—from her over-priced kaftans to the perfect white of her hair, made that way by dye, not age, since her natural color would be salt and pepper, heavy on the salt. I know because last month, she had to wait an extra week to get it touched up since her hair stylist had the flu.

When I look at her, it’s like someone pressed fast forward on my life, and I’m seeing what I would have become if I’d gone through with the engagement and married Todd.

Proud.

Bored.

Lonely.

Manipulative as fuck.

She’s been planning her son Anthony’s engagement party and wedding to a woman she hates—doing a terrible job on purpose in the hopes of splitting them up.

While I would normally resent this sort of interference in another woman’s love life, I can tell she’s one hundred percent right about the future Mrs. Smith. Takes one to know one, after all. I can see it in the glint in Nina’s eye—like she’s won something and will turn into a feral cat if someone tries to take it away. Hear it in the proprietary way she calls Anthony her fiancé but never says his name. Intuit it from the fact that she has allowed Mrs. Rosings to do all of the planning for her wedding. She hasn’t even offered an opinion about anything other than one crucial point—the wedding has to happen on New Year’s, and it has to be at Smith House. Other than that, she’s passively agreed to every microaggression and outright insult. Maybe she does it because she knows she’s driving Mrs. Rosings crazy,her attitude underscoring that it’s not the wedding or even the marriage she wants: it’s Smith House and all its glory. Whatever the case, she’s in it to win it, and nothing Mrs. Rosings has done so far has chipped at her façade.

Maybe Mrs. Rosings doesn’t like me because she understands that I’m not helping her for her sake, but for Nina’s. Marrying someone for money and status is a mistake. Anthony seems fine, I guess, if you enjoy hanging stuffed shirts in your closet, and he’s handsome enough, but Nina has no love for him. It’s as obvious to me as it is to Mrs. Rosings, and his inability to see that truth makes me dislike him a little. It suggests he’s the kind of man who believes everyone loves him, soof courseshe means what she says.

Nina may think she’s won something now—she may look at this house and dream of it being hers someday—but what will be left of her by the time that happens? Will she have become the future mother-in-law she hates?

Maybe she’ll be so far gone she won’t even be able to regret what she’s done.

I don’t know Nina well, but I’ve worn her expensive shoes, so I’ve felt the pinch. I know what it feels like to pretend to be someone else, day and night, like a hand was wrapped around my neck from morning until night, never releasing me. To feel the truth slipping away like it was covered in greasy film. To think I was in control of the situation, only to become owned by it.

Iknow.

So in my mind, I’m helping Nina, not Mrs. Rosings…not that I expect either of them to thank me.

The engagement party will be a buffet of horrors. There will be a petting zoo. Yes, a petting zoo for adults who were told to dress in black tie optional. The meal will be seven courses of Anthony’s favorite childhood foods…from when he was five—chicken fingers and French fries, served up by hired help, while Mrs. Rosings gives a twenty minute speech about nothing. The fancy fast food will be followed up by an hour-long slide show of Anthony’s childhood pictures, accompanied by multiple versions of “The Power of Love.” Then there will be dancing, with an assortment of music selected to annoy, played on a sound system tweaked to emit a horrible sound every five to seven minutes, unpredictably. At the end of the night, each guest will get a cookie, made by Claire, that bears the likeness of the happy couple.

“You’ll be there, of course,” Mrs. Rosings says grumpily. “To make sure everything goes according to plan.”

Which is to say everything goes badly. At least I’ll have someone at the party to gripe to, because Claire’s boyfriend’s sister is one of the waitstaff. Rosie works with Claire at the bakery but gets bored easily and is constantly taking one-off jobs. She’s done some work for Nicole and me for the Love Fixers—delivering thefuck you very muchcookies and a bouquet of penis balloons with smiley faces for a “real dickhead.”

“Does this count as my invitation?” I ask.

Mrs. Rosings makes a disagreeable sound. “As if you should need to be invited to do a job you’re being fairly compensated for.”

“Mrs. Rosings,” I say, tsking. “A girl likes to be romanced a little. Do you want me to ask Claire to come too? I think she and Declan have plans, but they could be persuaded.”

She shakes her head tersely. “No, let’s let them have a night out. I don’t think they’d enjoy themselves at the party.” A wicked smile crosses her face. “In fact, I think we’ll be the only ones who enjoy ourselves.”

“Has Emma given her final RSVP?” I ask, referring to Mrs. Rosings’s elusive daughter. I’ve worked for the older woman for a couple of months now, and I’ve still never met her. Mrs.Rosings tells me she stays busy with work, although it’s less clear what she actually does for a living. In my mind, she’s one of those professional rich people, who sips lemonade on verandas and complains about where she’s seated even when she’s the one who picked the table. But maybe that’s just my own prejudice working—that and her name, Emma Rosings Smith.

Mrs. Rosings’s mouth puckers. “No, but my daughter loves to keep us all in suspense.” She taps her finger on the table, then says, “Speaking of RSVPs, Anthony said he’s bringing someone else. A young man. So we’ll need another place setting for him, at the very least.”

Hopefully, it’s not a business contact, because whoever this guy is, he’s about to see a photo montage of Anthony in diapers.

“Should we warn Anthony?”

Her lips upturn slightly. “He must know I have something special planned. If I know my son, this new guest is supposed to ‘talk sense into me.’ Well, let him try. I hope he enjoys petting zoos. I’m told one of the goats is incontinent.”

I mime tipping an imaginary hat at her.

She sighs and tells me to leave.

“I’ll be here tomorrow at five to help get the petting zoo set up.”

---