Page 2 of Christmas with the Mafia
I blink at the shouty capitals.
I can see he is typing, and then his reply mellows a little.
I’m sorry, honey, I don’t want to give it to you this close to Christmas. It would be commercial suicide for you.
He does make a valid point, but really—this late to tell me he can’t come.
I’ve got to go. It has taken all my energy just to type this message. I must sleep now. Pray for me.
I blink back my tears, ashamed that the only prayer I’ll be offering right now is to God to rustle up Prince Charming for me with another invitation to the ball. I can’t believe my luck.
How is it possible to go from euphoria to despair in the blink of a heavily silver-glittered eyelash?
I wander over to the small window overlooking the narrow alleyway outside. The streetlamp compounds my misery when I notice the flurry of snowflakes pressing against therather grubby glass.
I’m tempted to rest my weary head against it but mindful of hygiene, I make a mental note to clean the window first thing in the morning.
With a despairing sigh, I move away and perch on the edge of the couch, my phone hanging limply in my silver–painted fingers.
I am so proud of my appearance—the ice queen no less–and yet inside my heart is breaking into thin shards of emotional despair.
Out of desperation, I type a message to Quincy.
Connor’s got COVID. Cinderella cannot go to the ball.
Her response is immediate.
WTF? And he’s only telling you now?
Quincy is my best friend and the person who knows everything about me, even more than my mother who prefers to turn a blind eye to my rather strange life.
You’re still going though, right?
Her response is rapid, and I sigh, a huge lump in my throat as I blink my tears away.
No, I don’t have an invitation without Connor.
A few seconds later, her reply comes through.
So what? Your name will be on the door. Head over there and demand they let you in. Say he told you to meet him there because he is running late.
I’m not that brave.
Seriously, I’m not because the thought of rocking up to the finest hotel in New York solo is giving me hives already.
Another message comes through.
We’re on our way. You shall go to the ball whether you agree or not.
I stare at the screen, a faint smile touching my lips as I picture my friend tugging on her snow boots and ski suit at the mere premise of a snow shower. She will be yelling to Aston, her long-suffering boyfriend, to fire up the yellow cab, courtesy of the fact he gets to take his work home and park it in the road opposite their small condo.
Aston has been a cab driver for as long as I’ve known him, and that’s how they met. Quincy staggered into his cab with arms full of bargain buys from the Macy’s blowout sale, and apparently it was love at first sight for both of them. She bagged more than a bargain that day and subsequently travels by cab all around New York, Aston deeming the subway as too dangerous for a woman of her substance.
I picture them now on the way over here and know there is only ten minutes at best not to freak the fuck out.
I can’t do this. It would be the single most scariest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I am not a confident woman, which is why I live most of the timecontained within these four walls. Packing my gift baskets and playing for the camera, pretending I’m cool, chic and have it all, rather than a mountain of anxiety at what lies outside my door.
I physically can’t do this. I’m nauseous at the mere thought of it, and my heart is beating hard inside me as I drown in my own anxiety and wish I hadn’t told Quincy at all.
