Berry’s gaunt cheeks turn an alarming shade of beetroot. The poor man is fiddling with his ill-fitted suit, struggling to stay afloat in the current threatening to overtake him.
I clear my throat, announcing my presence and throwing the sap a lifeline, “I thinkHell Hallrolls off the tongue rather nicely. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Y-Yes... I mean, no. No, not at all.” Swallowing audibly, he casts a hopeless look at me, “I best be on my way, but your request will be filed immediately, Mrs. Hellman.”
“I better not see you again until this mistake is fixed, or mark my words...”
The threat never gets finished because Berry is already hightailing it down the driveway.
“Can you believe this fucking mess?” Huffing angrily, Cruella digs through her coat and pulls out a thin cigarette holder, “Bastard charges me premium to get it done on time and then fucks it up. He’s lucky I’m not suing the company.”
I’ve always wondered whether there would be a moment in my life when I would realize my mother was never coming for me. When I would stop hoping she would notice just how long it has been since she’s seen her only child.
When I would give up the fruitless dream that after all these years, Cruella Deville would have missed me.
Even for a fucking second.
“It’s good to see you too, mum.”
The words feel like shattered porcelain scraping the inside of my throat. I watch my mother turn and look at me, a flicker of recognition dawning in her bitterly dark eyes.
Sometimes I wish I hadn’t gotten those eyes.
“Oh, don’t be like that, Christopher. It’s not my fault you came at a terrible time.”
She takes a long drag of her cigarette, sucking down as much nicotine as possible before facing the inconvenience that is her son.
“Wait until you see the rest of the house. Looks like a dump with all the renos going on, but the marble flooring is finally finished.” Flicking off the burnt embers, she takes another drag and casts a glance over me, “You’ll have to take your shoes off before coming in. Can’t have you trekking mud through the Colonel’s wedding present.”
It’s funny, really. Even when it was just the two of us, living out of a shitty basement suite and eating instant noodles, it was never just the two of us.
There was always a boyfriend. A potential husband.
It didn’t matter how many diamond necklaces I stole for her, at the end of the day, the only one she wanted was the one I could never give her. No amount of love or affection was going to keep Cruella satisfied, not when there was bigger fish to find.
And there wasalwaysbigger fish to find.
“This one’s a Colonel?”
“For the private sector, apparently.” Tossing her cigarette on the ground, Cruella grounds it with a sharp heel, “You knowhow it is. Don’t ask and I won’t tell. Come on, I’ll show you around.”
I follow her into the French Chateau, opting not to take off my shoes like she’d told me. Construction tools litter the newly tiled floors, the glistening black and white marble laid out in a mosaic of my mother’s own design. Stark white couches are positioned near the black accented wall furnishings, offering a perfect balance of modern and vintage with the enlarged photographs covering the spaces in-between.
It feels a bit like stepping into a black-and-white film, complete with an atmosphere that promises an evening of elegance and glamour. Any trace of the previous family has been stripped away, leaving only the occasional dead animal bagged and tagged to be shipped off and turned into a heinous fashion creation.
Unlike me, my mother blends into her surroundings perfectly. Black and white in every sense of the word, Cruella’s glossy fur coat hangs thick and heavy on her razor thin body. The only tell of the years that has passed are the wrinkles decorating the back of her hands and the strips of grey fashionably woven throughout her jet black hair.
I read an article once, that said nobody pulls off the two-tone look better than controversial fashion designer Mrs. Deville. There wasn’t a single mention of the animals her product line has slaughtered or the thousands of pounds she’s invested in keeping her face smoother than a baby’s bum.
Then again, people only see what they want to see.
“You can take your pick of the guest bedrooms, there’s twelve of them in total, but the master is off-limits. Stick to your space and I’ll stick to mine.”
“Sick of me already? I thought we’d make it at least two weeks before the claws came out.”
She snorts, not bothering to break her stride, “This is a business trip, not a reunion. Or did I misinterpret our last correspondence?”
I bite my tongue because she’s not wrong. The second half of our contract clearly states all the reasons thisisn’ta family reunion. Bit of a self-preservation technique, if I’m being honest, but God knows this woman had no trouble signing the dotted line.
