Page 17 of Addicted to You

“I’m an admirer of your work,” I say sincerely.

She snorts, unimpressed. “When you’re my age, you won’t be very flattered that the ‘work’ everyone loves is something you wrote in your early twenties when you were young and foolish.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I stay silent. She disappears from the doorway. I hear her voice inside the apartment, telling someone. “My son is here.” I follow Jack inside. The large living room is stark, which is to be expected since she lives abroad. There are only a few pieces of furniture, but the ceilings are high and vaulted, and a few walls are covered with modern art. I even recognize one of my mother’s paintings hanging on a far wall.

She drops gracefully onto a white leather couch, where a distinguished looking older guy with beautiful silver hair and intelligent green eyes is already seated.

“So you’re Jack,” he says, getting up to shake Jack’s hand.

“I have no idea who you are,” Jack says churlishly, ignoring the hand extended towards him.

“I’m Curtis James,” the man tries again.

“Well, you have nice hair. Maybe you’ll last longer than the others.”

I’ve never seen Jack act so childish, and it would be funny if I weren't so shocked. Curtis gives up and puts his hand back in his pocket. As he goes back to his seat, I catch a small smile flit across Gertrude’s face.

“Curtis is my dermatologist.” She directs her reply to me. “He’s been showing me wonderful ways to keep my skin looking young.” Her lips lift in a small, naughty smile, and Jack snorts, muttering something under his breath. She ignores him. “Why don’t you sit, Rachel? You too Jack.”

“Thank you,” I choose one of the single armchairs. Curtis is smiling at me, I smile back.

“You’re not exotic in any way. You’re not a model,” Gertrude is peering at me. “You’re nothing like any of the girls the gossip magazines like to link with my son. What’s your attraction?”

“Mother…”

“Like you said, I’m only the buffer,” I reply pleasantly, wondering inside if I had just willingly walked into the definition of dysfunctional.

“I did say that.” She arches her brow at me. “So you work at Gilt?”

“Yes, Gilt Traveler.”

She nods. A man comes in with drinks on a tray. Four large black tumblers with green veggie straws sticking out of them.

Gertrude sighs. “I don’t do dinner anymore. I hope you don’t mind smoothies. They’re very healthy.”

We each take a tumbler, and the man disappears. Jack glares at his glass like he’d rather die than taste the contents.

“So you’re a travel writer?” Curtis asks, he’s talking to me.

“I write for a travel magazine.”

“I’ve never liked travel writing,” Gertrude says. “Anybody can write about climbing mountains and jumping out of airplanes.” She gives Jack a meaningful look. “Real Fiction demands imagination.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t inherit your imagination gene,” he mutters.

“You’ve tried very hard to make up for it. I labored for fourteen hours to bring your body into the world, but every time I open your magazine or take a look at those damn TV shows, I have to watch you throw that body around and risk breaking it into pieces.” Her voice doesn’t rise as she says this, but I watch Jack retreat into himself. He looks miserable, and it’s hard not to pity him.

“Jack’s a brilliant writer,” I say, facing Gertrude.

She sighs. “We’re saying the same thing.”

There’s a short awkward silence.

“I subscribe to the Gilt Review,” Curtis says. “The short stories are brilliant.”

“You think so?” Gertrude is smiling, like she knows a secret. She looks at me. “Do you read it?”

I nod. “Every issue.” I’d initially applied to work at the Review and ended up as an assistant at Traveler. I still hoped to one day make the move to the Gilt Review.

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