Chapter 6
KATHRYN
While I’m ecstatic about my date this past afternoon, I’m coming down from my high now. Partly because I’m a disgusting liar, and partly because I emailed (emailed!) my mother and told her I would meet her tonight. This was her only chance, because I want to move on with the rest of my vacation. I’ve done a good job not getting drunkenly hitched yet, so I’m on a roll.
Wait. Ian brought you up to speed on that? He always does that! Maybe I wanted to be the one to talk about what happened in Vegas months ago. Now, if we’ve never met before, you’re probably thinking I’m some kind of insecure harpy who can’t commit to one of the most perfect men I could ask for.
You may be slightly correct, but that’s not the point. Besides, what else is he telling you?
He wants to marry me, huh?
Excuse me, I’m in the middle of a drink at a restaurant. I intend to finish it right now.
I put my glass down and see the maître d’ leading a woman who eerily looks like me through the gallery. She’s not as tall as me, but she has perfect posture and walks with a hefty gait weighed down by her fur stole. The serious lines on her face made me once think that my mother is wise. Now I know she’s merely an anxious wreck. Those are worry lines, not laugh lines.
“Kathryn,” Marilyn Alison cordially greets me. She removes her coat and drapes it over the back of her chair, although her beady blue eyes search for someone to take it for her. That’s my mother. Wants to look independent, desperately needs to be taken care of.
“Mother.” I don’t get up to help her. “What are you doing in Paris?”
“I should be asking you that.”
We’re seated across from each other at a table that can seat at least five. I’ve already ordered, leaving my mother to flip through a French menu and put off talking to me for another five minutes.
This is how it’s been, although it took me years to realize that this is not normal. When I was little, I thought my mother’s standoffishness had to do with her ladylike mannerisms that made her a hit with the women’s clubs and charities. I don’t tell a lot of people this, but my mother is a huge reason I’m so into nonprofit work. She may have been faking it the whole time I was in primary school, but by God she was a damn good faker. She really made me believe that she wanted to help people and better the world.
The moment I proved to be a competent adult in college, however, was the moment she packed her bags and left my father.
Technically they’re not even legally separated. My father says my mother needs a few years away from the roost to “settle her spirits,” and she’ll be back at the family estate, resuming her previous activities as if she never left. He and I both know that’s a crock of shit. The veneer is gone. My mother is never going back to America if she can get away with it. She lives off her own investments, some inheritance from her own well-off relatives, and the huge allowance my father gives her every month. Sometimes I try to come visit her. I usually end up leaving after a week because living with my mother is to know the full extent of crazy.
A lot of the stuff she’s been diagnosed with can be hereditary, you know. I’ve done extensive research. One day I might convince myself I’m not crazy too. Or I’ll wake up as crazy as her.
“I’m here on vacation,” I eventually say. “With Ian. My boyfriend.”
My mother folds up her menu and says something in flawless French to the waiter. Careful. She might trick you into thinking she’s European. I’m sure that’s what she wants.
“Yes, I remember him. Mathers, right?”
“Yes.”
Mother shrugs her shoulders, as if that name means nothing to her. The Mathers have only been old family friends since I can remember. My mother and Ian’s mother used to run in the same exact circles. It’s how I first met Caroline, long before I started dating her son. These days she’s more of a mother to me than my real one.
“So what are you doing in Paris?”
“I’m thinking about moving here. Germany’s getting too… German… for me.”
“Uh huh. Does Dad know?”
“It’s none of your father’s business where I live.”
“Has he ever once come to visit you?”
“No, and that’s how I want it. He won’t shut up about me coming to see him in our monthly phone calls, though.”
“It’s almost like he loves you and wants to see his wife.”
“Kathryn, don’t be like this. You always take his side.”
You ever see that movie Clue? The one with “Flames On The Side Of My Face?” It’s one of Ian’s favorite movies. I’ve seen it at least fifty times now, and could quote the first half of the movie for you right now. I won’t, though. Instead I’ll say that I’m starting to feel those flames on my face listening to my mother talk about her nothing but patient husband like that.
“I am not taking sides.” Somehow, I remain calm.
Mother works a kink in her neck. I can tell she would rather be anywhere than here with me, her daughter and only child. I’ve learned to stop taking it personally. She doesn’t want to see or be with anyone. I could be her hero Harrison Ford and she would still tell me to take the next cab.
“So, I doubt that this is a pleasure call.” Is my twist too tight on my head? It feels too tight. Like every hair on my scalp is hanging on in a wind tunnel. “What do you want to talk about, Mother?”
She pops open her purse and pulls another clutch out of that. More popping. Shuffling. Quiet observances of her own belongings. “I was doing some summer cleaning recently and came upon a token of your grandmother’s. I don’t want it anymore.” She places something between us. It sparkles. Gems.
Diamonds.
“You can have it.”
I swear to fucking God I will never understand this woman. She finds out we’re both in the same famous city? She contacts me so we can have dinner, right? Sounds great! Then I find out that she only wants to give me an heirloom. Maybe you think that’s sweet as sugar, but this is my mother we’re talking about. She either has an ulterior motive, or she’s going through a spell. I can never tell until it’s too late.
I snatch the ring off the table. Diamonds, yes. Looks like an amethyst, too. Silver band. It must be an antique if it belonged to my grandmother. Could be even older than…
Wait. Wait.
“Is this her wedding ring?”
My surprise must have caught my mother off guard, for she gapes at me for asking such a harrowing question. “Of course not! She was buried with her wedding ring. Really, Kathryn, what kind of freaks do you think we are?”
“Uh huh.”
“That’s her engagement ring.”
“Uh huh.”
“Are you going to try it on? I didn’t bring that thing here for you to admire. Maybe it’s not your tastes, but you can humor me. I did give birth to you. Humor me!”
Yay. The guilt trips have begun. If, in some parallel universe, I one day become a mother, I’ll know exactly how to make my kids do anything. Giving birth means they owe, big time, forever.
Just to amuse her, I try to slip the ring on my index finger. It’s too big. Fine, then. I’ll try it on my ring finger.
“Lovely.” My mother is barely looking at me when she says this. “Rest your grandmother’s soul, she probably wanted you to have it.”
“I’m guessing so, if she gave it to you.” I don’t remember my grandmother very well. She died when I was still a child, and the only memories I have are of Christmases and birthday cards. “Why aren’t you keeping it, though?”
“I told you. I don’t want it. Do whatever you want with it.”
The ring twinkles on my hand. It’s definitely not to my tastes, but at least it’s not too ostentatious. “Thank you.”
An awkward silence falls between us that lasts all the way until dinner is brought out. My mother gushes over her meal, using her energy to tell me how much she wants to move to France and how it will be the p
erfect opportunity to eat divine cuisine all day. Right now I’m thinking about that leftover food I ate the day before. Only Ian wouldn’t be appalled at me doing that, but it’s because he knows me so well. Then again, he wasn’t too enamored that I had history with Damon Monroe. (In truth, that’s one of the reasons I didn’t feel weird eating his untouched food. I had already made out with the man once in my life. What was eating his food? They were going to throw it out!)
My mother is still prattling.
“I’m doing great, thanks,” I interrupt. Mother claps her mouth shut, lips taut. Those beady eyes widen, then narrow, coolly judging my poor manners. “Work is going well and my personal life is pretty fantastic. Thanks for asking.”
As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my purse. I know it’s from Ian before I glance at the preview. “How’s dinner with your friend?”
That’s right. I lied to him about who I came to see. I didn’t want him to worry. Told him I had a friend in town. If he knew I was meeting with my mother, he’d insist on joining me eventually. They have never met.
Did you hear that? The man I’m super serious about has never met my mother. That’s unheard of in our society.
“That’s great, dear.” That, my friends, is the closest she’s gotten tonight to saying something sweet to me.
“Yup. Ian and I are doing well. You know we’ve been together over a year now. That’s my longest relationship ever.”
My mother purses her bright red lips. “Congratulations.” She reaches for some alcohol.
“He’s an excellent boyfriend. Feels weird calling him that now.” How far can I push this? “We’ve been talking a lot about marriage.”
Boom. I said the M word. My mother’s least favorite word.
“Kathryn,” her terse voice cuts through the air, “if you’re trying to give me a heart attack, you’re damn near succeeding. Don’t scare your poor mother with that marriage tripe.”
Ahahahaha!
If anyone ever comes up to you and asks where half my problems with marriage come from, I want you to point that nosy asshole to this moment.
“What if I told you that he and I eloped in Vegas a few months ago?”
An almost comedic amount of alcohol shoots out of my mother’s face. She chokes until she covers her pristine white napkin with red wine. “What?”
“Don’t worry. We got it annulled. Neither of us were ready yet.”
The relief descending upon the table would make you think I’m twelve and joking about being pregnant.
“Kathryn.” This is the most serious I’ve heard my mother in years. “Don’t you dare do that to me. For all you know I’ve got a bad heart like your grandmother did.”
More information I never knew. “I’m serious about the other things, though. We’re having many conversations about marriage.”
My mother will not look me in the eye.
“It would mean a lot to me if you would come to our wedding one day.”
I have surprised even myself, since this is the closest I’ve ever come to saying I’m going to marry that man one day. But I am resolute in my conviction. Mother won’t have any idea that I’m blustering. Marrying Ian? Really? Are you kidding me? Don’t even go there!
I’m expecting my mother to react in any other way than how she does. Namely, she tosses her napkin down and stands up, reaching for her coat.
“Where are you going?” Is she seriously leaving? I’m not done yet!
Her coat slips over her arms. “I am not in the mood to deal with your childishness.” Her purse snaps into her hand. “If you want to ruin your life like that, Kathryn, be my guest. I’ll have no part of it, though. Don’t let me have to tell you that I told you so.”
My mother’s a monster, isn’t she? A real, certified monster.
“Do take care of that ring. Or sell it. I don’t care. At the rate you’re going you might have to in order to cover the costs of your future divorce.”
I’m too gob smacked to say anything or otherwise defend myself. My mother glides out of the room without another word. I feel like I’m five again, chasing her down the hallway of my family home and begging her to pick me up, hold me, anything.
“Ladies don’t do that, dear. They certainly don’t beg or pander. Aren’t you supposed to be a little lady?”
I’m not supposed to beg for her attentions, let alone positive ones. I’m not supposed to beg for anything. It’s unladylike. Unfathomable. A great way for men and their ilk to take advantage of you.
Isn’t that why I turned out the way I did? I don’t need my mother’s team of shrinks to figure that one out.
However, it would be nice to have another napkin. This one is about to be covered in tears.
Chapter 7
IAN
Can you believe that there’s an app for taking a picture of your cat and turning her into a thousand dollar replica?
I’m doing it right now.
“Even when you’re a picture, you’re a shithead.” Fellow cat owners, you know that “shithead” is a term of endearment for our feline friends. I’ve got this picture of Saoirse, my cat, flopped over on the floor going nuts for cat nip. She looks like she’s seen things, man. If I don’t have a life-size replica of this beautiful moment waiting for me when I return to America, then my life has not been worth living.
Except the picture won’t process through the app. You know, this app that shows lots of kids with their dogs and old ladies mourning the passing of twenty-year-old Fluffy. Then there’s me, a thirty-year-old billionaire alpha male, already blubbering at the thought of his tawny baby not waking up one day.
This replica will solve everything!
…I may be a little drunk.
What the hell else does a man do in Paris at eight in the evening? If I were single, I’d be out flirting with someone, or at least hitting up one of the lounges where a guy like me could find amazing drinks and even more amazing conversation (if not mediocre-to-great sex with a local Parisian.) I’m not single. I’m happily spoken for, except my intended is currently having dinner with her toxic mother.
Yeah, she told me she was having dinner with a friend. Kathryn is a lot of things, but she’s not a fantastic liar. Nobody willingly goes out to see an old college friend with that sour look on her face. I already know her mother is in town. I can do simple arithmetic, even when I’ve been downing cognac because when in France, am I right?
So, I’m going to assume she’s having dinner with her mother. I’ve never met Marilyn Alison, but I’ve heard the stories from both Kathryn and my mother, who used to be somewhat good friends with her. Then there are the whispers I hear whenever I have the misfortune of going to the country club and hearing old women who have too much time on their hands gossiping. Nobody ever has anything nice to say about Marilyn.
I know she’s responsible for at least half of Katie’s insecurities. Can’t say I care for my spiritual mother-in-law very much.
The hotel bar is nice enough to keep me amused as I flippantly shop on my phone and order more alcohol. This is the last drink, I swear. I want to be relatively sober by the time Kathryn gets back to our room. We found out in Vegas that Little Ian doesn’t always work to his full potential when Big Ian is loaded (with alcohol. Money makes everything work better!)
Or so I claim that this will be my last drink… until a guy I met this morning waltzes in and nearly ruins my fun evening making replicas of my cat.
“Ian Mathers, right?” Surprise! It’s Martin… Charles? Chuck. Charlie. Charleston. I think it’s Charleston. Martin Charleston.
I keep my crinkled nose to my phone before turning to him. “Martin Charleston, right?”
“Charles, actually.”
“My apologies.” I put my phone down. At least I can pretend to be polite. “Fancy seeing you here. You must be staying in this hotel too.”
“Naturally. Just got back from seeing the future in-laws. Be glad Kathryn’s parents aren’t French.”
I’d ma
ke a crack about how it’s worse they’re so stubbornly Scandinavian, but that would only be if I didn’t dislike this guy already. Why the hell would I want to make cracks about family he used to know so well? Or so I assume. “You two go that far back, huh?”
Damnit. I’ve invited him to sit on the stool next to mine, and I didn’t even mean to! “Absolutely. She never told you about me?”
Ladies, listen up. You’re about to get some insider information on how we rich fuckheads operate. Gentlemen who happen to be reading this, take notes if you ever want to be me one day. First lesson: when guys want to passive aggressively jab each other, it begins with “oh hey remember how I used to fuck your girlfriend?” whether they did or not. If they didn’t, they’re dicks. If they did, they’re still dicks, but they’re dicks with receipts. As the biggest alpha male in the room (I’ve scoped it out) I can still smell her perfume all over him, if you know what I mean. Yes, that perfume.
Second, once we’ve established this rivalry – because it always ends up a rivalry – we’re going to give each other the most knowing of looks. Backstabbing looks. Looks that could kill, but not in the sexy way. Women give us a wide berth as they walk by. Men smirk, wondering what we’re up to. Money? Women? Both? (Always.)
Third, let me tell you right now. It doesn’t matter if you’re an alpha male or a beta male who likes to get smacked and called Charlie on the down-low. We all do this shit if we’re confident enough. Men are men are fucking men. I hate it sometimes. Why do I feel compelled to play this stupid game with my fellow man?
Oh, right. Because he fucked my girlfriend.
Rawr rawr caveman bump rawr.
Now that I’ve brought you up to speed on this ridiculous guy code we all willingly adhere to, picture this: Martin Charlestoncharlie, whose feet barely touch the ground sitting in his stool, flattens his eyes and parts his lips in a “gotcha” smile. I am the alpha male. He is the beta male. We both know this. We both play these parts as naturally as we play the part of male. Yet right now he’s got the upper hand. The damn wolf cub has come up and bit my jugular by surprise.
Billionaires in Paris: An Alpha Billionaire Romance Page 4