Can’t forget about that.
I dig it out from under the seat, then stuff it into the bag.
What else?
What would I need for a life out there, away from Elcott Abbey?
My pillow. It’s chiropractic. I even take it to Bluestone. It won’t fit in the bag, but I lodge it under my armpit as I haul the bag strap over my other shoulder and waddle for the ajar door.
I falter in the threshold.
The brass handle digs into my hip as, slowly, I arch my neck back and look around the door.
My eyes narrow on the orchid.
Not just any orchid.
It’s a Shenzhen Nongke—one of the very few genetically altered orchids made in a lab before the funding was cut.
I got one of the orchids at auction.
Well, Father got it for me.
Yellow and green, it’s budded.
It only blooms once every four years. It just bloomed last year.
It was a big deal.
The whole family came to watch, and we trolleyed the orchid out into the gardens near the tea table.
I rest my forehead on the bite of the wooden door.
That day was so pleasant, a day I felt like the favourite. A day we shared under sunshine, clear skies, with laughter and champagne.
Even Oliver joined in, lounging on the grass, shoes kicked off, his warmth returned.
Now, I stare at the orchid and see it for what it is.
Made in a lab.
It’s a lie.
Like everything else in this home, in this life, it is a cold, empty lie.
A bitter twist snares my mouth.
I tug away from the door then stomp out of the room.
The soles of my loafers are thudding on the runner rug, all the way to the main staircase that spills down into the foyer.
I tackle the steps, balancing a pillow under my arm and a lumpy overnight bag that clatters and clangs against the hip of my slacks and pulls down on my shoulder.
Mother is expecting me.
Down there in the foyer, she waits for me.
Lingering by the fireplace, the family portrait looms above her, and as my steps clump on the stairs, she turns her sad, pinched face to me.
