She shakes her head, and the man looks at me for confirmation. Holding back an angered huff, I nod, and he leaves with our menus.
“You have to watch your figure, Genevieve.”
“I am, Mother. I exercise four times a week and haven’t had candy in years.”
“Well, I suppose your body has a proclivity to store fat, then.”
The worst part about her hurtful words is that they don’t even shock me. Not anymore. Vivienne Kensington always demanded excellence, and I’ve tried to rise to her standards for most of my life. But with people like her, there is simply no winning.
I can’t help but quickly observe her slim figure. She was a model until Father swept her off her feet with the promise of a luxurious life. She still looks the part despite the traces of time adorning her skin. I think that was their agreement before they got married. As long as she stays fit and put together, Father will give her a monstrous allowance.
That would explain why their marriage has been failing for as long as I can remember. Yes, she has more money than she could ever spend, but that’s it. Her artificial life is devoid of everything that truly matters, like a loving family.
“How is Father?” I ask.
“Still doing his thing, working, traveling, seeing his whore…”
Oh, so now we openly acknowledge my father’s affair? Noted.
“And his health?”
“The doctor tried to set restrictions, but you know your father. Nothing can keep him away from his bourbon and cigars.”
And mistress.
When the waiter returns with a basket of fresh bread, my mother dismisses it with a hand gesture before it even reaches the table.
Crap, I should have expected this and eaten something before coming. After all that nocturnal activity, I’m starving. I cannot possibly stuff my face with my mother right in front of me, though. Unless I want her to call me fat again.
“It will be ten years in three weeks,” she says gravely.
That instantly replaces my hunger with nausea. My stomach is suddenly in knots, tugging and aching, and I stare at the white tablecloth, unsure what to say.
“I know. In nineteen days, to be exact.”
“She would have turned twenty-seven,” Mother continues. I also know that becauseI’mturning twenty-seven. “Will you be coming home?”
“Of course.”
We always do this together. Every single year. Father makes sure to be present, even if he has to fly in from halfway around the world. In fact, I put in my request for a day off months ago to make sure I’d be able to spend the day on the family estate.
It’sherday, after all. Victoria’s birth and death wrapped up in one gruesome date.
“I thought we could do something special this year since it’s such a significant number,” Mother suggests.
“Did you have anything in mind?”
“Maybe have a few friends and family members over. People who knew and loved her.”
“Don’t you think it might be a bit much?”
Although my question is innocent, she glares at me with discontentment. “Ten years, Genevieve. I’m allowed to commemorate my daughter’s death in whatever way I want.”
“Right, of course.”
I hate that. I hate that she’s so good at making me feel like a child again. I hate that she can crush my adult spirit until I’m left confused and ashamed. But it’s something I’m used to, especially when we approach that cursed anniversary. So I clench my teeth and take it like I always have.
“The invitations have already gone out, anyway. Over fifty people have RSVP’d so far.”
