The expression currently on Mum’s face is something I don’t ever want to aim at a person I’m supposed to care about.
“Don’t start,” she warns me, like she thinks I was about to give her a lecture or something. As if I didn’t give up on the hope of that sort of thing working years ago.
“You,” I say to her, “look like a hobo’s mistress. If a hobo could afford to have a mistress, you would be her.”
Mum lets out a huff of annoyance and tries to push her mess of scraggly hair back from her face.
“And you,” she says, eyeing me dubiously, “look like a bartender. Or the deadbeat-musician boyfriend of a bartender.”
She makes it sound like appearing as either of those things would be a fate worse than death.
“Whatevs, jailbird,” I say jauntily, gesturing up and down her with one hand. “I’m not taking fashion tips from the woman with vomit on her dress.”
Mum’s cheeks pink in embarrassment, and I feel slightly bad for calling attention to the state of her clothing. But only a bit. That bit flushes itself down the mental loo when she replies, “I just wish you’d put some more effort in sometimes, Leo. You could be so dazzlingly handsome if you justtried.”
And there it goes. All of my sympathy. Poof. Gone. Down the drain. Out the car window. Over the fence.
Also, dazzlingly?Christ. She is so not sober right now.
“Many thanks, Alicia,” I drawl, purposefully using her first name because I know she hates it when I do that. “I’ll take that piece of motherly advice into consideration for the future. I wouldn’t want to be a disappointment to you in any way, shape, or form.”
“Don’t be sarcastic,” Mum admonishes. “It’s childish. And common.”
I silently pray for patience and the will not to beg Damon to take her back to a holding cell and keep her there forever.
Mum hooks her bony arm around my shoulders and demands, “Just take me to my bloody bed, will you?”
I shift around to take more of Mum’s weight against my side and look back down the stairs at Damon. He’s still standing there, his face a mask of stoicism, any traces of sympathy well hidden. He knows by now that pity turns me into a defensive twat. I can’t help it. There’s just something worse about someone feeling sorry for me than any amount of condemnation.
King is sitting dutifully next to Damon, looking up at him like he’s the best thing in the whole world. I’m almost certain my dog is a little bit in love with Damon. Probably because Damon always brings him meat treats and offers them out liberally without any request for obedience in return.
“I’ll be down in a sec,” I tell him. “You can go ahead and switch on the kettle if you like.” I jerk my chin in the direction of the kitchen.
I don’t wait for Damon’s response, turning back around and moving up the stairs with Mum hanging onto me.
We make it to her room without an incident, and I force her to change into more comfortable clothes.
I get her to drink a glass of water and down a few paracetamol tablets before I let her lie down in bed.
My mum’s room is decorated in silvers, greys, and the occasional solid black. Despite the darker colours, it’s still a very bright room, with bay windows that look out over the front of our house. It gets a lot of the sunlight as a result. My room is on the opposite side of the house, my own windows looking out over the back garden.
Mum doesn’t do much more than grumble at me with the occasional thrown-in swear under her breath whilst I sort her out.
I almost think I’m going to get away from this situation without having to talk to Mum again. Then I realise I should have known better.
Once she’s settled and tucked in under the bedcovers, she looks up at me, her eyes still racoon ringed, and holds out her hand. I hesitate when she beckons me closer and pats the bed, indicating that I should sit down next to her.
I don’t want to sit with her. I don’t want to sit with her because I have no idea what she’ll say.
The problem with my mum is she can be kind when she wants to be. Alicia Snow can be charming and sweet and gentle. With me. With everyone. She can brush the back of her fingers over your cheek and smile like you’re the most important thing in the world to her. She can tell you she’s sorry, using the same series of words, just in a different order, and still sound like she means it every single time. She can make you feel whole and special in one moment, then flay you open, slicing your emotions to ribbons without flinching the next.
It’s the superpower of the beautiful social elite.
I remember it. I was taught the same thing.
Make them like you. Make them want to forgive you. Make them think they’re important. Make them think they matter to you.
Top-notch manipulation.
