Later—after he’d been the go-between at a nearby café—they drove home in silence. The radio was off. Her iced tea sat sweating in the cupholder between them. The trees whipped past the window in streaks of vivid green. He drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel and tried to pretend he couldn’t feel her assessing him out of the corner of her eye.
At home, she slid out of the car before he’d managed to put it in park. She was already halfway up the walk by the time he caught up to her, sweating through his suit. She went into the house without so much as athank youand shut herself upstairs in her room.
She didn’t reappear.
Thomas spent the remainder of the day down in the gym, working out his frustration at the rack. Annoyed with himself for being so easily annoyed with her. By all measures, the day had gone fine. Perfectly, even. There’d been no power struggles, no skirmishes. She’d been on her best behavior, and he on his.
This was how the job wassupposedto go.
And yet.
When he finally emerged from the gym, sweating and irritable, it was to find Amelia Farrow waiting in the hall outside his room. He drew up short, towel slung around his neck, and waited for her to greet him.
As a rule, Vivienne’s mother steered clear of him. The last time they’d spoken was the morning he’d nearly lost his job. From the look on her face, he wasn’t sure today’s conversation was about to go any differently.
“Philip is hosting a work dinner this evening,” she said, flipping idly through what appeared to be a home and garden magazine. “Vivienne is expected to be there.”
“Okay.”
Amelia shut the magazine with a long-suffering sigh, as though Thomas had said the exact wrong thing. “She’s refusing to come in and get ready. I don’t have the time or the energy to deal with it today. I’m suffering an unbearable migraine.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am,” said Thomas.
“Do something about it,please.”
“The—” Thomas faltered, uncertain. “The migraine?”
She looked down her nose at him, as though he were terrifically slow. “Vivienne. My daughter. Talk to her. And do it sooner rather than later.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, massaging it between her thumb and forefinger. “Goodness knows, she gets ready at a snail’s pace, and dinner is in an hour.”
“Am I also attending this dinner?”
“You?”She looked scandalized by the thought, as though he’d suggested bringing a diseased rat into the house. “What for?”
“Well—” He faltered. The answer felt obvious to him. “To interpret.”
Genuine and obvious displeasure flickered in Amelia’s eyes. “I am quite capable of interpreting for my daughter, thank you.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, ma’am,” he said, “I just—”
“You may spend the evening in the guest room,” she said, which sounded less like permission and more like a sentencing. “Your presence won’t be necessary.”
•••
After a short search, Thomas found Vivienne lounging out by the pool, sunning herself in a checkered bikini. She wasn’t alone. Frances Lefevre was there, perched on the edge of a chaise and fiddling with a vintage-looking camera. Sprawled out next to her was a girl Thomas didn’t recognize. Music blared through the space, bass pumping out from a rock-shaped speaker situated beneath a nearby hedge. The third, unidentified girl sat up as he advanced, her dark curls fanning out around an oval face.
“Vivienne,” she said, tugging down her shades. “Mikhail 2.0 is here.”
Vivienne opened one eye and peered up at Thomas before shutting it again. With all the indolence of a cat, she flopped from her belly to her back. He might as well not have been there at all.
“Your mom wants you,” he said. “She says it’s time to get ready for dinner.”
Frances snorted. “What are you, a footman?”
“I’m just passing along a message. Dinner’s happening in an—”
“How tall are you?” interrupted the third girl, still sizing him up. “Six one?”
“Six three,” said Thomas. “Who are you?”
