FORTY-NINE ARABELLA

FORTY-NINE

Arabella

I ENTER Bar Hemingway twenty minutes later, wearing a simple black dress with an equally simple black cardigan over it, both pieces trimmed with white. I’ve brought out designer everything. Chanel dress and sweater. Chanel bag. Prada pointy-toe flats. I am ready for Paris. Ready for my mother.

I see the back of her dark blonde head, her hair twisted into an elegant chignon, a string of gleaming pearls around her neck. She’s talking animatedly, her hands waving in the air, the light glinting off the giant diamond wedding ring on her finger. I hear the gentle tinkle of her laugh, a man’s chuckle accompanied with it, and that’s when I realize she’s sitting with a stranger in a bar on a Saturday night, the two of them cozied up together, his gaze for her and no one else.

And that man is most certainly not my father.

Uneasy, I make my way to their table, coming to a stop in front of it. The man notices me first, nudging my mother’s arm and indicating my presence with a tilt of his head, and my mother’s face brightens when she sees me. She leaps to her feet, pulling me in for a hug.

“You made it,” she murmurs against my cheek before pulling away. “You look lovely. Chanel?”

I nod, not surprised at all that she’d notice. “You bought it for me last Christmas.”

“Hmm. Well then, it’s out of season.” She sniffs and I realize my error. I can never get it right with her. “We’ll need to find you some new outfits to wear when we go shopping. I do adore the shoes, though.”

They’re a soft, buttery shade of yellow and the top of each shoe is decorated with matching yellow leather flowers. I was going for a pop of unexpected color and it looks like I earned her approval there.

“And the black classic flap,” Mother continues, referring to my bag. “You can’t go wrong with it. Don’t ever get rid of that bag, darling. The prices just keep going up every season. Have you heard about the latest increase?”

“I won’t get rid of it.” My smile is brittle. I could not care less about the Chanel price increase. “And no, I hadn’t heard.” My gaze shifts to the handsome older man who’s remained seated, watching us with an amused expression on his face. “Who’s your friend?”

“Ah, this, my darling, is my friend Maurice. The gentleman who helped you get your apprenticeship. He’s their creative director,” Mother says proudly.

Maurice rises to his feet in one smooth motion, stepping away from the round table to stand in front of me. “A pleasure to meet you, Arabella.”

He takes my hand and presses a brief, dry kiss to the back of it, and I can’t help but wonder if this is how he greets all of his coworkers.

Is that what I am? A coworker? Or am I a student there? And is this man my boss somehow? I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. If I’m being real with myself, I don’t care for the way my mother was sitting so closely to him. It was almost too intimate. If my father saw her like that, I’m sure he wouldn’t approve.

“Nice meeting you too,” I murmur, snatching my hand away from him a little too quickly.

“Let’s sit down,” Mother says, and we do, crowded around the tiny table, my mother shifting closer to Maurice as if she’s sat with him like that a thousand times.

I watch them carefully as they speak to each other in rapid-fire French, too fast for me to keep up. I can snatch a few words out of the air but for the most part, I have no idea what they’re saying.

And I’m dying to know.

A server approaches our table and Mother orders a bottle of champagne.

“We have much to celebrate,” she says once the server drops off a silver cup of the biggest olives I’ve ever seen, accompanied by a glass jar of toothpicks. “I’m so proud of you, Arabella! This is going to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience for you.”

“Thank you.” I turn to Maurice. “And thank you for offering me the job. I’m excited to start.”

“You’re welcome.” He inclines his dark head toward me. He’s got a swarthy complexion, his dark hair curling at the ends and swept away from his face, a hint of gray at the temples. His brown eyes are extra dark and he has a nice smile. Extremely white teeth. “You’ll be assisting some of the most renowned jewelry designers in the business, Arabella. I hope you can appreciate the opportunity you’ve been given at such a young age.”

My smile stays frozen on my face. I hate how he said that. As if I don’t understand the importance of this position I’m about to start. That I’m possibly too young to take anything seriously.

“I’m very appreciative,” I tell him. “This has been a dream of mine for years.”

Such a lie. This hasn’t been my dream for years. I’m only saying this for my mother’s sake.

“You should’ve seen her sketchbooks, Mo. They were filled with the most adorable designs! Very creative. And she made all sorts of little jewelry trinkets when she was in middle school. Why, she even sold some to her classmates her freshman year in high school. Isn’t that cute?”

Mother laughs. So does Maurice. All I can do is sit there, hating how silly she makes me sound. How she diminishes what I’ve done with the tone of her voice.

“The cutest,” Maurice says, his gaze shifting to me. His eyes roam over my face, my entire upper half, and I withstand the shiver that wants to overtake me. That felt a little …

Creepy.

“The necklace she has on? She designed it herself. I had it created at my favorite jeweler.” Mother waves at my heart locket.

Maurice doesn’t even bother to look. “I thought I was your favorite jeweler.” He rests his hand against his chest, seemingly offended.

“You are, darling. Never worry about that. I’m referring to the place I used to go to when Arabella was younger. How long ago was that?” Mother asks me.

“Five years ago? Six?” I answer through clenched teeth, disappointed that my plans for this evening are essentially ruined thanks to Maurice’s presence. There will be no catching up between my mother and me. Seems like she’s too interested in him anyway, to pay any attention to me.

The champagne arrives and the server pours each of us a glass, Mother raising hers in a toast once he’s gone. We clink glasses and I take a sip, the crisp, cold alcohol sharp on my tongue. I remain quiet while Mother and Maurice talk, occasionally sipping on my champagne. I tune them out completely because it’s obvious they don’t care what I have to say or what I might think about … anything, and I suddenly miss Rowan so badly I could almost cry.

His parents wouldn’t treat me this way. None of his adult family members would. They’d include me in their conversations and show genuine interest in what I had to say. They made me feel welcome. On the other hand, here’s my mother, ignoring me like I don’t even exist.

It hurts. Worse, it makes me angry. Why did I take this apprenticeship again?

“Darling, we need to leave soon. Our reservation is at eight and traffic might be terrible.” I thought Mother was speaking to me, but she called Maurice darling, her gaze sultry.

Hmm .

Mother signs for the bill and then we’re outside, being escorted into a taxi. We’re all crammed into the back seat, Mother seated in the middle, her and Maurice talking in low tones while I stare out the window, admiring the Christmas lights. We drive through a neighborhood of similar looking buildings and I look through people’s windows, trying to see inside. I spot a few Christmas trees. I even see what appears to be a party going on in one house, the living space crowded with loads of people dressed in their holiday best, everyone seemingly clutching a glass and smiling.

I don’t even know that many people to invite to a holiday party. When I was younger, my mother was always hosting some sort of event for my father’s work colleagues. I wonder if she still does that. If they have big parties and have tons of people over and serve delicious little appetizers. They were always formal affairs, where I would have to dress up, and I’d never feel comfortable. Not like how I felt at the party the Lancasters threw for me. It was such an intimate, special moment where I felt well and truly loved.

We arrive at our destination approximately thirty minutes later and take an elevator to enter the restaurant. It’s modern and elegant and someplace my mother would absolutely adore. We’re seated by the windows with a perfect view of the sparkling Eiffel Tower in front of us, and I assume I’m supposed to be impressed so I do the proper amount of oohing and aahing over the view before I bury my head in the menu and try to figure out something to eat.

“This is one of the hottest restaurants in Paris right now,” Mother tells me. “Took me ages to get a reservation.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“The view is unparalleled. You’ll have to take photos and share with your friends,” she suggests, and I nod dutifully.

The only person I would want to show this view to is Rowan, and I haven’t even told my mother that we’re actually together yet. Which feels like a travesty, though I doubt she’d care. Or would she? She recognizes the Lancaster name, and that impressed her when I mentioned him before, which is so shallow.

But that’s my mother. Impressed by expensive things and important names, and if I told her I was dating a Lancaster, she’d probably love it.

Instead, I keep my mouth shut and order a Coke from the server, earning a disappointed look from Mother once the server walks away.

“A Coke, Arabella? Seriously?” Mother shakes her head. “I thought you’d be eager to order a drink now that you’re eighteen and it’s legal here.”

“I need something to keep me awake,” I say, though really, I just want a Coke. What’s so wrong with that?

“It’s not very …” She lowers her voice. “Sophisticated.”

I want to roll my eyes but I restrain myself. I’d hoped I wouldn’t receive so much judgment from her, but I should’ve known better. This is typical behavior for my mother and I hate that I’m disappointed.

Isn’t the definition of crazy doing the same thing every time yet expecting different results? This is on me, not her. She is who she is, and I know this. Why do I keep hoping she’ll change?

She won’t. She never will.

I get through dinner by concentrating on the view and not on the table conversation. After we finish eating, I take some photos of the Eiffel Tower while my mother and Maurice go wait for a taxi. It was my mother’s suggestion and I thought nothing of it.

Until I start heading for the taxi stand and I spot them standing close together. I come to a stop, feeling like a spy as I watch Maurice bend his head in my mother’s direction. She tilts her head back, a faint smile curling her lips right before his mouth touches hers in a passionate kiss.

I can’t move. It’s like I can’t even breathe. They kiss and kiss, and I’m almost embarrassed to witness their passionate display but I refuse to look away. No one else around them gives them a second glance and I feel like a prude.

And then I don’t because this is my mother, and this man is most definitely not my father, and why in the world did Maurice offer me this apprenticeship again? Certainly not based on my talent. Not that I think I have much. I haven’t picked up a sketchbook in years. Hadley wasn’t too far off with her assessment. I was obsessed with jewelry until I became obsessed with boys. Specifically, Rowan.

In other words, I acted like a normal teen. Who wasn’t making jewelry in middle school? All of my friends were. It was fun. I still like being crafty but to design creations for a world-renowned jeweler in the heart of Paris?

That has never been my dream.

They finally end the kiss and Maurice gets into a car, my mother waving at him until he shuts the door. The moment the car pulls away from the curb, I’m walking toward her, my steps determined, my anger bubbling inside me.

“There you are! Isn’t the Eiffel Tower beautiful at night?” Mother smiles and I take in her features. The flushed cheeks and the sparkling eyes and the slightly swollen lips. She looks like a woman who was just kissed. A woman who is in love—with a man who isn’t my father.

“Beautiful,” I agree through tight lips, not wanting to unleash on her in front of all of these people on the street on a Saturday night.

“Let’s get a taxi and head back to the hotel,” she suggests.

We sit in the back of the cab in stone-cold silence, Mother oblivious to my anger. I’m on the phone, texting Rowan incessantly, telling him everything.

Me: I hate it here. My mother is her usual self and completely self-absorbed. The weather is terrible and so cold. My father isn’t here because he puts work before family every single time and my mother is having an affair with the man who got me the apprenticeship.

Rowan types and types, that little gray bubble staying on the screen for what feels like hours until finally, his response comes through.

Row: I was going to give you an inspirational speech about keeping a positive attitude because it can’t be that bad. You’re in Paris. But are you for real about your mom?

Me: I am. I caught them kissing outside when they didn’t know I was watching. He came with us to dinner. They talked to each other the entire night and completely ignored me. She doesn’t care about me. She did this for herself so she’d have an excuse to come to Paris and see HIM. This was never about me and always about her.

Row: Can you talk?

Me: Not right now. But I’ll call you soon.

Row: Okay.

The moment we arrive at the hotel, I’m out of the car like a shot, murmuring a thank you to the man who opened the car door for me. I’m practically running to the elevator, my flat shoes slapping against the marble floor and echoing in the spacious lobby.

I’m waiting at the elevator when my mother approaches, slightly out of breath. “You were so fast.”

“I want to get back to the room.” I can’t even look at her, I’m so disgusted.

“Tired?”

Of you , is what I want to say, but I don’t. “Yes.”

My tone is clipped and she notices. “Are you all right? Your dinner not agree with you?”

That’s one way to put it.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I march into the elevator the moment the doors slide open, Mother following me in.

“We’re not going to start that little game,” she says once the doors close and the elevator starts its ascent. “I refuse to have you act like a pouty baby. Do you know how hard I worked to get you that apprenticeship? How difficult it was? The prestige this position carries is unparalleled, and you’d rather flounce around like an ungrateful brat. Do you realize you barely spoke a word to Maurice during dinner? That man is going to be your superior and you wouldn’t even look his way.”

The doors open and I’m out of the elevator, practically sprinting to our hotel room door. Pissed at myself once I get there because I don’t have a key. I wait impatiently, Mother sauntering her way down the hall, stalling because it irritates me, and I ball my hands into fists, wishing I was anywhere but here.

Why did I think this would work out? How was I so blind?

“Your father would be so disappointed in you,” she mutters when she’s finally in front of the door, unlocking it with a wave of her key card. “He wanted this for you more than anything else in the world.”

What a crock. I bet he doesn’t even care.

“More like he’d be extremely disappointed in you,” I retort, pushing my way into the room.

She trails after me, snagging my hand and forcing me to turn and face her. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“Does Father know?”

I see the flicker of alarm in her eyes but otherwise, her expression remains calm. “Know what?”

“That you’re fucking Maurice?”