Page 33 of The Writer
“What?”
“Lunch? You’re supposed to be here. It was actually you who booked this in at two o'clock two weeks ago.”
Shit.
I drop the paper I’m looking at and stand, quickly walking back out into the lounge to grab my bag on the way to the door. “Sorry, running a little late. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
She huffs. “Fine, but the salmon’s about ruined.”
Another eye roll and I start rushing down the steps, hooking left when I get to the lobby to get to my car. “I won’t be long, Mother. Put it in the fridge.”
“In the fridge? You can’t put warm salmon back in the fridge, Ivy. How do you not know that?"
As if I care about what you can and can't do with salmon. “Okay. I’ll be there soon.”
Ending the call, I dive into my car and start the journey across town. With any luck I can zip through the traffic without too much hassle. Sadly, it isn’t that easy, and by the time I finally pull into Earlwood, I’m nearly an hour late, and she’s sitting in the garden looking decidedly pissed off with me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, walking to her under the ornate, iron gazebo. I kiss both of her cheeks and sit at the side of the table, looking at the other place setting.
“Really, Ivy. You arranged this with me. You could have at least remembered,” she snips, picking up her gin and tonic.
“I didn’t forget, Mother. I’ve been busy. Who’s the other place setting for?”
“Your father. As you’re so late, he can now join us.” How delightful. I pick up the bottle of wine chilling in the ice, ready to pour myself a large one if I’ve now got to deal with him as well as her. “And could you not have at least worn a dress?”
“Why?”
“Because you always look so … manly.” Manly? I look down at my figure covered in skinny jeans and a loose blue top, happy with the gold jewellery embellishments, and then realise what she means. Shoes. My green Converse aren’t cutting the mustard, yet again. Well, she can sod off with her necessity to permanently wear heels. I do not live in the 1980s.
My gaze drifts over her flowery ensemble today. “Mother, this is not manly. This is called casual chic. Stop being a snob. Perhaps you could try it out rather than—”
“Ah, Ivy!” Father says, thankfully cutting my mouth off as he wanders across the lawn.
I stand and greet him, letting him pull me into a hug. Ridiculous as it might be at my age, I do quite enjoy them from him, but it soon moves on to amiable conversations regarding the tribulations of Broderick life. I can’t help but note the slight sense of unease every time he speaks about Landon, though, nor can I dismiss the way both of them seem to purposely avoid talking about Seffi at all. Irritating. Seems like I’m the only one worth discussing, and Neve, as usual, isn’t discussed in any depth because of her shadiness about just about everything.
“Joan, is everything prepared for dinner with the Asquith's and the Fontaine's?” Father asks. Mother nods and picks up her champagne glass, draining it rather inelegantly for her.
“Of course, dear.”
I keep listening as Sophiebegins clearing the plates away when we’ve finished, and then my mind starts thinking about the author who’s sent me all that info. Father drawls on about the possibility of becoming an MP. Apparently, the London borough of Camdenneeds his expertise in socioeconomic guidance, and now that he’s not so busy with the company, maybe that’s a good distraction from mundanity and golf. Couldn’t give a fuck.
“What’s the secret then?” I ask, sipping my wine.
“What?” he questions.
“The secret you're hiding?” Mother coughs and stands up, as if she’s not part of this conversation. She isn’t at the moment, but she will be one day when I’ve figured out the basics. “About the Foxton’s?”
“I have a late afternoon tea at Battersea Dogs home with the other ambassadors,” Mother cuts in, walking to me to kiss me goodbye. “I doubt I'll be hungry at all now, but it was lovely seeing you, darling.”
“You too.” I keep my gaze trained on Father, although surprised at Mother’s sudden departure, as she totters back into the house. “So?” I sip my wine again and cross my arms, ready to put some real pressure on him if I need to.
“There is no secret. Has Landon been filling your head with—”
“Landon hasn’t been filling my head with anything. I want to know what the problem with Scott Foxton is.” He sighs and stands, turning his body away from me without even obliging a reply. I’m up and following him in a heartbeat, sinking my wine as I go. “You can’t walk away from this any longer, Father. I’m investigating everything that’s happened with the author. And I know there’s something here. You might as well fess up about whatever it is and make my life easier.” He’s through the French doors and heading for his study, still not answering. “Stop, Father. Why can’t you just—” He swings back to glare at me before I get to finish my sentence, enough venom in his face that I stall and look at the floor for a second.
“What the hell is wrong with you children?” he snaps. “Have I not given you all everything you’ve ever wanted?” My mouth opens, and I look up, almost feeling guilty that I’m enquiring. “All the money and all the problems you’ve gotten yourself into, and the cost of bloody schools, and now you’re questioning me on my own ethics, for what, Ivy?”
“I’m not questioning your ethics, I’m trying to—”
