“Something non-traditional?” My mother’s eyes glint with interest.
“Yeah. I like the new one by Jaymes Fletcher, ‘Yours to love.’ You don’t mind, do you?” she asks, turning to me.
“I suppose I could be persuaded,” I say, slipping my arm around her waist. “But considering the length from the bedroom to the lounge, we’ll only hear around ten seconds’ worth, if that.”
Crimson shakes her head regretfully. “That won’t do. I need at least thirty.”
“Twenty and you have a deal.”
“Thirty or I’ll make you take me to his concert next month and then you’ll be stuck listening to his B-sides for two hours as well.”
I give an elaborate groan solely for her benefit. I couldn’t care less what music she wants to play. For our wedding or at any other time.
Mum had her eyes peeled on us throughout the exchange but apart from a tightening of her lips, there’s no other response. Something I know from experience means she’s storing it up for sharing later.
Revenge is a dish best served cold but so is exacting criticism.
The meal winds along at its excruciatingly slow pace until it’s finally at an end. After paying, I escort my fiancée to the car but before I can join her in the back seat, my mother insists I accompany her to her next appointment.
“You don’t mind, dear, do you?” she asks, smiling more sweetly at my fiancée than at any other time during the meal.
“Of course not, Greta,” Crimson replies. “I’ve monopolised him so much this week I’m sure he’ll enjoy spending time elsewhere.”
It makes me wonder if she has something planned back at the apartment, but she rolls her eyes the moment my mother’s gaze is averted, aware that I’m about to be on the receiving end of Mum’s opinion.
“Get home safe,” Crimson calls from the window as the car drives her away, leaving me enviously following her progress until the vehicle’s out of sight.
After that, it takes all of three seconds for my mother to lose any pretence at decorum. “What the fuck is this, Micah?” she demands, drawing the curious gaze of every passer-by until I jerk her back into the restaurant, returning to our recently vacated table.
“Before you left for Christchurch, you were negotiating to take back the southern routes before the next influx of 501s could swell the gang numbers. You’ve gone from decimating them through brute force to bickering over some pop song that no one will remember in a year?”
I shrug and let her incredulity pass me by, unaffected. “I’m still going to take those routes. My men are working through logistics.”
“You’re delegating?” Her eyes widen the longer she stares at me. “Who the fuck are you and what have you done with my son?”
“It’s something I had to learn,” I snap back. “Four months out of the loop will do that to you.” I push aside my cutlery since no server dares to approach the table given the steam exploding from my mother’s ears. “And you’re one to talk. When’s the last time you got your hands dirty?”
My mother opts for silence as a response, her eyes burning an accusation into mine. I pour us both a glass of water, hoping that’ll help to cool her temper. A faint hope. “What are you thinking, marrying her? She’s nothing more than a child.”
“She’s eighteen. That’s old enough.”
“For what? Not knowing how to do anything?”
“You were eighteen when you met Dad.”
She swings towards me then slides farther along the booth. “Exactly. If you’re going to keep making my points for me, I don’t understand why you bothered to ask me to lunch. What’s the hurry? If you don’t marry her before the week’s out, do you lose a bet?”
“Nothing like that.” I recline as far as the seat will let me, a motion that doesn’t do enough to ease my tension. “I just want things sorted. We can hold a larger ceremony down the track. I thought you’d be pleased.”
“You thought I’d be pleased that you’re marrying a high school student.”
“She’s going to be working.”
“Oh, sorry. That makes it all better, then.” She swings her foot, so the shoe dangles from her toes, the heel a menacing spike. “Is this about the money or Gabriel?”
“I like her.”
“Sure. Enough to upset her party and leave the Christchurch mob tattling about how their Auckland cousins don’t know the first thing about respect.”
