“Happy birthday from the staff, miss.”
“Thank you, John. Are my parents home?”
“Your father is in the city, but your mother is in the ballroom.”
When he reaches out for my bag, I let him take it. I know better than to do the job meant for “the help” and get another earful for it. Before I forget, I send Jake a text.
Me
Got here in one piece. If you don’t hear from me in the next twenty-four hours, send the SWAT and the Special Forces.
Wombat Guy
I’ll be the one leading it, kicking doors down, whooping arses, and taking names.
Me
I might not text you just to see that happen.
Wombat Guy
How am I supposed to worship you more if you’re not even here and won’t reply to my texts?
Me
Good point.
Okay, the butler is looking at me weirdly. Gtg see my mother in the ballroom.
Wombat Guy
Butler?!
Ballroom??!
I stifle my laughter as I walk into the house with John at my heels. While he heads toward the bedrooms with my things, I venture to the large room we use for receptions. Sure enough, Mother is there with an army of people from whatever event service she hired. As I suspected, this isn’t a little get-together. This is an opportunity for the Kensingtons to show off their wealth while networking and getting sympathetic condolences from the guests.
Because I was in a deep state of shock when it happened, I didn’t realize back then that Victoria’s funeral was meant for my parents more than it was for her. They invited people who never knew Vicky, work relations who couldn’t possibly refuse the invitation, clients, partners… My dissociative state blinded me, but that fact still sits wrong.
“Good morning, Mother,” I salute Vivienne when I reach her.
“Genevieve, you’ve arrived.” Since she can’t help herself, she scans me from head to toe, her eyes unforgivingly precise. “I see your work situation hasn’t improved since I last saw you,” she notes with pinched lips.
“It actually got worse, thank you for noticing.”
Either she doesn’t notice the sarcasm in my voice, or she doesn’t care because she continues with, “Good thing I have a hair and makeup team for both of us. You’ll look more presentable.”
Isn’t maternal love the sweetest thing in the world?
I force a smile on my lips and look around the room. Tables have been arranged, enough to host about a hundred people. The caterer’s team is setting porcelain plates, crystal glasses, and silver cutlery on the white tablecloths, and the event team is adjusting floral arrangements, setting candelabras, and finding room for various decorative trinkets.
Victoria would have hated all of this. She always felt uncomfortable when our home was turned into a venue for one of our parents’ receptions. There’s nothing more invasive than dozens of tipsy people venturing into the house after too much French wine and fine food. My twin wasn’t a very social person, easily triggered by crowds, so it was a lot worse for her than for me.
“The first guests will arrive at five,” Mother tells me. “Maybe you could go lie down and get some rest. I’m not sure makeup will be enough for those bags under your eyes.”
I don’t even say anything because I actually want to go to my room and never come out of it. So, I smile instead and give her a nod. “Great idea. I will take a quick nap and join you for lunch.”
“Oh, we are not having lunch. You know how I get before those receptions. My stomach is in knots.”
