“Mother!” I look around surreptitiously, trying to see if anyone heard her say that. Employees of the company eat down here all the time. “He is a ruthless man and the competition. I wouldn’t betray the company like that.”
“So it can be like Romeo and Juliet?” The stars are back in Mom’s eyes.
What’s going on here? Mom should be a little more concerned about something that could potentially affect Loot’s profits. “They died. Both of them. Because of severe miscommunication. That could have been easily cleared up if they had talked to each other.”
“Yes, but they enjoyed their time together before all the death. When was the last time you were on a date?”
“Wait, you aren’t here to yell at me for spending time with a rival, you’re here to harangue me about dating. J’accuse!” I point my finger at her. Mom has been subtly bugging me to date so I can “settle down” and be happy, but I’ve been brushing her off because my schedule doesn’t really have time for dates right now.
And men get mad when you cancel dates three times in a row because you have to fly to London to wine and dine a newly impoverished, and ready to sell some art, member of the ton.
“Yes, obviously. You’d never let someone use you to take advantage of the company.”
The waiter comes to drop off food, cutting into the conversation and giving me a chance to regroup.
“You really aren’t dating Gavin? I always thought there was something between you two.” Mom sounds so disappointed.
“No! Anger. There’s anger between us.”
“Anger can sometimes translate into some pretty enjoyable activities.”
I toss my fork down on the table and look for a waiter. I’m going to eat this later, because I just lost any appetite I started this lunch with.
“Please stop talking about this,” I beg her as I hope for a streaker or a small stampede of pampered, purple-dyed Pomeranians to rush through the restaurant as distraction.
“Well, if you don’t have any interest in Gavin, I have a few sons of friends that are single...” Mom abandons her defense of Gavin, moving on to new targets.
“No. I’m fine. I’ll make more of an effort to be social...with men.” I cringe at the thought of making the effort with my current schedule.
“That’s all I ask.” That’s suspiciously easy agreement. “But I’ll just send you some photos and résumés. You can tell me if you want to go out with them, and if you don’t, that’s fine. But I don’t want you to be alone.”
That’s more like my mother. Oh well, I still got off easier than I thought I would.
I do want what my parents have, eventually. Theirs was an arranged marriage, but they got very lucky and found love with each other after the ceremony. But the thought of looking for a person, and getting all dressed up, and then hiding my quirks long enough to impress the person, all while trying to run my department... It’s exhausting just thinking about it.
“Wait, so you really would have been fine if I was on a date with Gavin?”
Mom shrugs, taking a bite of her salmon. “Why not? He’s successful, educated, and he looks nice in a suit. You could do worse, beta.”
“But what about the enemy business?”
“Enemies? What is this, World War I? We’re both successful houses that have survived here for decades. And you shouldn’t be talking about work when you’re done with work, anyway. Be more like Ajay.”
I barely control the violent eye roll that threatens to escape. The man can’t even talk about work when he’satwork.
“Are you going to be at the show tonight?” I change the subject.
Mom gives me the Mom Look. The one that knows what I’m doing. That I’m trying to change the subject because I don’t want to talk about something. But she lets it happen. “Of course. I love watching you work.”
I rush out of lunch as soon as Mom lets me escape. Wrangling a group of buyers is a lot easier than going one hour with my mother.
“Sonia, where’s the updated buyer list? And the binder with the lots?” I yell into the bid room, where the payment is processed behind our auction space.
The auction is about to start and the familiar rush of adrenaline is buzzing through my veins like it always does. It makes me bounce as I walk, my body expelling the excess energy any way it can.
I hear footsteps running toward me like the stampede scene inJumanji. “Here.” The requested folders appear in my line of sight.
“Thank you. Can you get me a samosa too? One of the non-spicy ones please.” We try to coordinate snacks at our shows to fit with the theme, and tonight is contemporary Indian, highlighting the artist Raqib Shaw. So I get to have samosas. As long as someone grabs one for me before the gluttonous masses descend on the snack table. And as long as it’s one of the mild ones. Spicy food never took with me.
