Page 12 of One Last Thing
‘Mum,’ I hiss through a strained smile, ‘we’re fine in here. We don’t want to make more work for everyone.’
‘We always used to sit outside,’ she says, addressing him and ignoring me completely. ‘It’s so lovely to get some fresh air while enjoying breakfast. If it’s not too much trouble . . .’
‘Not at all,’ he says, gesturing for us to go and pick a table. ‘Please. I will bring everything out to you.’
‘Thank you so much,’ Mum says, placing a hand on his arm before she beams down at me. ‘Isn’t that kind of him, Megan.’
I’m too embarrassed to add anything so I busy myself with pushing my chair out and slinking outside behind her, carrying my laptop. The moment she steps out, she inhales deeply through her nose and goes, ‘Yes,muchbetter.’
Fucking hell, she’s like a caricature of herself. Like she’s signed up to play this role of the flamboyant artist for life and she’s going at it with gusto.
I roll my eyes behind her back as she chooses a table right in the middle of the patio. She sits down and gestures for me to take the chair on the other side as though she’s the host and I’m the guest, before sliding on her large designer sunglasses.
I purposefully take my time to sit, wanting her to know that I’ll do things whenIwant to do them. I’ll sit in the chair because I want to, not because she’s invited me to.
Yes, I know it’s petty.
‘So,’ she says, resting her hands in her lap as she observes me slowly taking my seat and placing my open laptop on the table, ‘how are you, darling?’
‘Fine.’
‘Work is going okay?’
‘It’s busy.’
‘You look . . . well.’
‘What, did you expect me to be a big unhappy mess?’
She tilts her head at me as if to say,Come on.
I look down at my hands. ‘How have you been?’ I mutter.
‘Very well, thank you, darling.’
‘How’s your writing?’
‘Splendid. I just finished a book, actually.’
‘Great,’ I pick up my coffee cup. ‘When’s it going to be published?’
‘Undecided.’ She turns to smile out at the view. ‘I don’t want to rush anything.’
An irrational jolt of jealousy zips through my chest. How relaxed and charming to not just be a writer, but anestablishedwriter. To have such control over your work and be respected enough to make those kinds of decisions. I have to prove myselfevery dayto my colleagues, especially those more senior, constantly demonstrating that I have the ability to meet high expectations.
As I observe the way she’s sitting, leaning back in her chair, legs crossed, admiring the scenery, I wonder what it must be like to already feel enough.
Her Bloody Mary arrives and she sips it, before declaring it to be ‘fabulous’ and smiling at the waiter in a manner that’s so flirtatious it makes my skin crawl.
She is unbelievable.
‘Whyareyou here?’ I ask eventually.
She considers the question. ‘I’m carrying out a request.’
I wait for more, but she doesn’t expand. ‘That’s all you’re going to give me?’
‘I don’t know whether you want to hear the rest.’
