There was never going to be a way for me to interact with Jean-Michel LaRoux neutrally, calmly, without triggering my fight or flight (always flight).More importantly, there was no way, at this juncture, to keep Jean away from Lucas and the exhibition.Jean was, much like Lucas, from that world where closed doors merely needed their handles jiggled a bit.
He was always going to be there, lurking around a corner or behind a pillar, waiting to pull me down right as I’d gaspingly reached the surface.
November 22
97 days sober
I’d never been happier to leave the city.After nearly a full week hiding indoors, it felt good to ...not so much see the sun as witness the sky.Exist, however briefly, unwalled.
I hadn’t been this far north in ages and nearly forgot how picturesque the English countryside could be, especially in November with all the fog and foliage, and especially to a sweet, impressionable Yank.
“We are literally two seconds away from stumbling onto Pemberley Manor.”Lucas was grinning ear to ear, cuddled into his dark blue peacoat and white scarf.
“No, love, we’re in Epping.”
Lucas rolled his eyes and pointed out the window at the hulking beech trees and thick carpet of fallen auburn leaves rolling by.“You’re telling me Lizzie Bennet never walked these moors?Bullshit.”
“You’re absolutely right.”I nodded contritely.“I apologize.”
We were meeting his mother at Drummer’s Reprieve, a horse rescue farm run by one of the Barclays’ family friends.I was telling myself that it was an excellent coincidence—Lucas’s mother coming to see her friends and her son’s photography exhibition was serendipitous.Not Lucas introducing me to his mum because we were at the mum-introductions stage.This was about convenience, and the interconnected world of horse charities operating on an unsurprisingly global scale.I could smell the peerage a mile away.
Sure enough, the woman who greeted us resembled nothing so much as a toadstool in tweed and wellies.She introduced herself with a cut glass accent as “Lady Dorothy butdocall me Dodo.”Then she pointed down the hill with a glove covered in something truly foul.
“Cheyenne is with the Captain.”She grinned at Lucas, strongly resembling one of the well-aged trees surrounding.“Your mum’s told me so much about you, Lucas.Jolly chuffed to finally meet in person.Andthe handsome beau.A fine specimen.”She looked at me like an eldritch creature that might or might not be considering a revival of the Empire.
Lucas mercifully pulled me down the hill toward his mother and the Captain, who unsurprisingly turned out to be a horse.
“Baby!”Mrs.Barclay let out a happy shout the moment she set eyes on her son.She gracefully clambered over the side of the pen with the agility of a woman half her age.What age that was, precisely, was hard to gauge, because she was blonde and Californian in a way that seemed positively airbrushed.
Lucas and his mother hugged for a long moment, rocking from side to side and exchanging near-incomprehensible proclamations of affection.When they turned to me, they appeared joined at the hip like some two-headed, beaming American monster.
“Mom, this is Armand Demetrio, my boyfriend.Armand, this is Cheyenne Barclay, my mom.”
“Very pleased to meet you, ma’am.”I held out a hand, then panicked.Didn’t American women have a long-standing complicated relationship with the termma’am?What should I have used instead?Miss?Ms?Madam?“Er, that is, M-Mrs.Barclay.”
Her grip was strong, fingers smaller than Lucas’s but every bit as rough.Eyes just as sharp and sparkling.“Pleased to meet you as well, Mr.Demetrio.And it’s Cheyenne, don’t hurt yourself.”
“Er, yes ma’am.Mrs.Barclay.Cheyenne!”I winced.“And please call me Armand.”
She grinned.“Cute.I’m starting to understand what’s kept my son away all this time.”She let go of my hand and reached up to boop my nose.She had to stand on her tiptoes to do it, so I helpfully hunched a bit.
“It’s nice to see my baby so happy,” she said.“The beautiful awkward Brit schtick you’ve got going on isdelightful.”
I laughed uncomfortably, hoping the heat and color that had very clearly risen in my face could be put down to the nippy weather.“Er, thank you?”I automatically reached for Lucas, and he squeezed my hand.
“No, thankyou.”
“Mother,” Lucas warned, both affectionately and ineffectually.
“Okay.”I cleared my throat as Lucas giggled, and I tried to smile good-naturedly.“That’s, er, very flattering.You are also ...”Oh bloodyhell.
Mrs.Barclay raised her eyebrows.“Go on.”
Lucas beamed.“Yeah, babe, go on.”
“I can see where Lucas gets his looks.”I salvaged it, if in a somewhat higher pitch than preferable.
“Nice save.”Lucas leaned up to kiss my cheek.“But you can tell my mom to her face that she’s drop-dead gorgeous.She’s well aware.”
