Happy Saturday, people!
The usual stuff:
1. 2k reviews. I don't know what to say other than a massive THANK YOU. This story was a long time in the making (my first notes for it are dated 2018) and it means a lot to me because of where its inspiration comes from. A longtime family friend used to be a foreign correspondent, and she travelled to places mired in conflict and turmoil for decades: Sicily in the 1980s, reporting on mafia murders, Palestine, Bosnia, Iraq, Rwanda. Before she left for Rwanda, she called my mother with instructions "just in case." Now she is a successful documentary filmmaker, and fortunately this no longer requires her being in war zones.
2. HUGE thank you to Team Momo, who work tirelessly to help me make this readable. My stories wouldn't exist without them and I'm so grateful they're in my corner. Alice's White Rabbit and Midnight Cougar are in the editing chairs. AGoodWitch, IAmBeagle, Driving Edward and RobsmyyummyCabanaBoy pre-read.
3. I still don't own - SM does. But I still own a collection of mugs. One of them says shows the Marauder's map when you put hot beverages into it.
Who's ready for a gala? Here we go.
BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 33
Mac and I get showered and dressed in turns, with the unspoken realization of what we overheard a while ago lingering as a nauseous undercurrent to our preparations.
I'm not worried about me—if it's indeed Lauren and Kate's altercation we eavesdropped on; it's their own business. I didn't even have time to figure out what they were squabbling about before we turned into our hallway, nor did I care to.
What concerns me most is Kate's penchant for attracting and generating drama wherever she goes. Tonight is not about her, dammit.
Just as Mac finishes adjusting his tie, my phone buzzes with a text from Bella.
We're ready and presentable, come and save me from the Fairy Godmother! :)
"Mac, you good to go?"
He nods, grabbing his wallet and phone. "Was that piano girl?"
I tap a quick reply to Bella, then pocket my phone before replying to Mac. "Yep. Let's go join them. It's almost time for cocktails in the ballroom."
"Open bar, here we come!" he calls out, closing the door behind us.
&&&IVORIES&&&
The girls know we're picking them up for the evening and wait for us in the foyer of the twentieth floor where Mac and Ross's room is located.
When the elevator doors open, Mac and I step out, looking for the girls, who are standing off to the side of the elevator bank.
"Holy shit," Mac murmurs.
His gaze lands on Ross; for once, the expletive is not malapropos. Ross didn't choose a mere dress for this soiree. She's going in guns blazing in a strapless thing that envelopes her like a glove and sparkles all over the place in flames of fire engine red crystals and rhinestones. Talk about a statement piece.
Ross may be stunning, but my eyes are all for my Ladybug standing beside her, looking just as dazzling, if a tad shorter because, unlike Ross, she isn't wearing heels.
"Well, is this a good surprise?" she asks.
I approach her; speechless and blinking like an owl. Or maybe it's the bling on her outfit. She dazzles like a sparkling diamond in a black and cobalt blue tuxedo completely covered in sequins.
"It's a fucking amazing surprise, love. Now, show me the Chucks." Because, if I know her, the sparkly suit is her concession to the evening's dress code. No way is she torturing herself with anything other than Chucks on her feet.
With careful movements, she pulls up her pant leg, and lo and behold, a pair of dark blue sequined hi-top Chucks emerge.
"I love all of this, Ladybug, but I'm almost afraid to touch you." I lean down to kiss her despite Ross's tut-tutting about spoiling her makeup.
"It's only clothes, baby. Which I'm hoping you'll remove later," she whispers in my ear.
"Oh, you can count on it."
After I throw a wink her way, she hooks my arm with hers, and we all return to the elevators. Manhattan ballroom, look out.
&&&IVORIES&&&
Unsurprisingly, people swarm Mac and me when we enter the ballroom. We spend a good forty-five minutes greeting almost everyone here before we make our way to the cocktail bar.
Because there's quite obviously a long line for it, Mac offers to go grab cocktails for all of us.
"I'll be curious to know how he's going to haul four glasses by himself," Ross protests.
"Carefully?" Bella replies.
Ross blinks at her, still too hung up on her own pique to react. Then, when Bella raises a freshly groomed eyebrow, Ross laughs.
"I'm being ridiculous, aren't I?"
"A little. Relax, Ross. We're not going before the Spanish Inquisition. It's a gala dinner."
Ross shakes her head, chuckling. "I don't get how you're so blasé about it, Choc."
Bella shrugs. "I get to show off my man in a tux. Look at him," she says.
Feeling suddenly cheeky, I pull her into my side and glance down at her. "Oh, I'm looking," I reply, whispering into her ear.
Under the bling of her suit, Bella's wearing a low-cut black top that shimmers under the crystal chandeliers above us and does nothing to hide her shape while remaining classy. The naughty side of me is relishing it.
"So, how does this shindig work?" Ross asks.
"Mac and I will have to do a lot more mingling. We've known some of these people for years, but we rarely see them now."
Fewer opportunities for networking are a side effect of leaving fieldwork, even when the networking often happens in war zones and airports.
When I wave to another gala attendee—and rumored awardee of the evening—Bella pulls on my sleeve. "Who is that lady over there?"
"Renowned journalist from Sudan. Tough place to be a journalist, but she presses on."
While I have a cushy office in downtown Boston. Another side effect of leaving fieldwork and attending these events is that what I've been missing—what I'm no longer able to do—stare me in the face. And yet.
"Stop overthinking it, baby. You're where you're meant to be. You're no less brave or accomplished than any of them. You're doing what's best for you. I'm here for you."
I recognize his voice even before I see him when he interrupts my conversation with Bella.
"You have a wise young lady there. I'd listen if I were you."
My former boss and mentor while I was at CNN. The one who went to the mat for me after Syria. "Marcus Hughes, as I live and breathe."
"Fellow old curmudgeons like us ought to stick together, Ed. I'm glad to see you, but you're in far fairer company than you deserve. Who are these lovely ladies?"
A transplant from England who never relinquished his British passport, Marcus is a quintessential suave, debonair guy. With his perfectly coiffed salt and pepper hair, tailored suit, pocket square matching his tie, chain of a watch dangling from a buttonhole, he'd be equally at ease in a Downton Abbey milieu. But appearances can be deceiving. This guy is tough as nails, and one of the finest foreign policy executive producers this side of the Atlantic.
"This, old man, is Isabella Swan, who has the debatable honor of being my girlfriend."
"When she's not busy selling out Carnegie Hall. Your fame precedes you, Isabella. It's a privilege," he says, shaking Bella's proffered hand.
When his gaze lands on Ross, Marcus turns silent. His face reminds me of my dad's starstruck expression the first time he met Ross at the club.
"Hi, I'm Ross. Otherwise known as the thorn in Mac's side."
Always good at thinking on his feet, Marcus recovers in a flash and laughs at Ross's comment. "Oh, I believe he's finally met his match. Where is he?"
"Getting our drinks. There he is," Ross replies, angling her head toward Mac.
After distributing our cocktails, Mac turns to Marcus. "You're like a bad penny—you keep turning up." At Marcus's nonplussed expression, Mac, whose hands are finally free, claps his shoulder in his usual salute. "But it's good to see you, man. How's tricks?"
"Same shit, different day," he answers with a shrug. "But you won't believe this. I have two golden nuggets of gossip for you, if you'd care to listen."
His phrasing is ridiculous and completely in character. It's always been a thing with him—the gossip. He'd know who was leaving or joining the network, who was cheating, who was divorcing, who was dating on the sly. Somehow, he managed to produce a slew of segments per week, some of which required fieldwork, and he still kept a finger on the pulse of industry gossip. He could seamlessly transition to a job as editor of Page Six if he ever fancied a change of pace.
Mac snickers. "You're a force of nature. How long have you been here?"
"Immaterial." Marcus waves him off. "Do you want to hear it or not?"
Ross and Bella witness the scene, transfixed and silent. Instinctively, we all huddle closer together after Marcus throws a sweeping glance across the room, then turns to us.
"So, it's funny, but both things have to do with the two of you," he starts, waving a finger between Mac and me.
"How so?"
He steps closer, looping his arms around Bella's and Ross's shoulders. "Well, it's all in the six degrees of separation theory. Remember Dwyer? His dad's here."
Bella's face pales a shade or two as she grimaces at Marcus's words. "Which Dwyer?" she asks.
"Garrett Dwyer. He used to work with us at CNN, but now he's with—"
"Bloomberg," she replies.
"Beautiful, accomplished, wise, and well-informed. I don't know what she sees in you, Cullen, honestly."
"Uhm. It just so happens that Garrett is my step-brother."
Marcus, whose face shined with glee up until a second ago, turns serious. "Oh. I see. Do you know Dwyer senior, too?"
Bella shrugs. "In passing."
Ross pipes up, dispelling the sudden tension. "I have two questions. One, what does a hedge fund millionaire have to do with a gala celebrating the freedom of the press? Two, is he alone or in bad company?"
"I like people who don't beat about the bush. Now, to your questions … He's a major donor to the committee. He allays his capitalist conscience with tax-deductible donations, and once a year, he comes here and struts around like a proud peacock. And, no, he does not appear to be alone. Mrs. Dwyer—numero dos—is along for the ride."
"Well, shit. There goes my evening," Bella grouses, still pale.
Marcus looks puzzled, but he has the usual expression he'd get when mulling over complicated shit in his head. Without a doubt, he's drawing a mental family tree of Dwyer's family and trying to figure out how Bella's involved in all of it.
"Oh. I see." His typical, understated answer is starting to sound like a mantra. "Sooo …"
"Yeah, that numero dos is my mother. Only, I didn't imagine I'd be crossing paths with her at an event like this."
"Are you okay, love?" I ask, leaning into her. "I'm here for you, too."
She nods. "If she's here to play the trophy wife, Renée is less likely to be obnoxious to me. Phil wouldn't approve. There's a silver lining, after all."
Needless to say, I hadn't imagined I'd meet Bella's mother at the CPJ gala, but here we are. One thing I do know is that trophy wife or not, I will not allow her to treat Bella like crap in public—or in private, for that matter. Bella doesn't need to land on Page Six again after the whole James Fray fiasco.
In an attempt to defuse the tension and revert to lighter subjects, Mac intervenes. "What's the second nugget of gossip?"
After noticing we've all finished our drinks, Marcus declares we can't gossip without booze and flags a waiter, who promises to return with refills.
"And that is how it's done," Ross quips to Mac's detriment.
"Oh, I'm going to like you, Ross. A lot. But back to juicier things. The second notable presence of the evening is she-who-shall-not-be-named, and she's not flying solo either."
He's addressing the comment to me more than Mac, raising an eyebrow above the rim of his black-framed glasses. That suggests he's about to confirm what Mac and I surmised hours ago. The clipped, heated voices we overheard in a hallway on the twenty-third floor were, indeed, Kate and Lauren's.
"Ugh. I fucking knew it," Mac says.
"Wait a minute, what did you know, and when did you know it?" Ross asks him. For effect, she's even put a hand to her hip. She looks fierce.
I decide to get Mac out of trouble and speak up. "We suspected, Ross. We didn't know for sure. You and Bella were being beautified at the time."
Mac puts his hands up in defense. "We heard them arguing in a hallway, babe. We didn't see them."
"I take it your lovely ladies know who I'm talking about," Marcus states. It's not a question.
"We've run into Kate fucking Caulfield before," Ross explains. "Once was enough."
Marcus snickers. "Yes, that's a common occurrence, I'm afraid. Although, her presence here is more explainable than the Dwyers'. I suppose you'd rather avoid them altogether."
"They're not the reason we're here, M," Mac counters, stony-faced.
"Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news. I'm sorry if that was unsettling."
Marcus loves gossip. He's a sarcastic bastard who can throw barbs with the best of them, but he doesn't have a mean bone in his body. Knowing his scoops are unwelcome news and could be a harbinger of trouble for our evening clearly affects him.
I shrug it off. "You couldn't have known of Bella's connection to Dwyer. And, as you can see, Mac and I are all fresh out of fucks to give about Kate and what she does …"
He shakes his head, snickering. "Oh, man. Love becomes you, Cullen. It mellows out your cynical ass."
I know I'm smiling like a loon, but I don't give a rat's ass. I'm happy to be here with Bella. Months ago the mere idea of having to confront Kate here, among our colleagues, would have been daunting. Now I'm laughing it off. I pull Bella into my side, placing a chaste kiss to the top of her head. Anything more would be inappropriate for this venue.
We're all laughing at Marcus's comment when he stops in his tracks. When Marcus goes as silent as a church mouse, he's on the prowl. He has a radar for drama, and it must have pinged right now.
"It's about to go down, people. Turn to your ten, if you please."
We follow his instructions and our gazes land on the far end of the ballroom. There, someone we can't identify, tux-clad back to us, bumps into a tall platinum blonde in a full-length shimmery but modest black dress. The guy appears to have just dropped his champagne flute within a hair's breadth of the blonde's frock because of the collision. Beside her, an equally tall, strawberry blonde glamazon, I'd rather not recognize, is harshly tugging on the poor guy's sleeve with a thunderous expression on her face.
Three comments pop up in rapid succession from three distinct voices around me.
"What the fuck is she wearing?"
"Blimey. Not the VP of CBS. Not that guy. Of all the people here, not that guy."
"Catfight! Are we getting a catfight?"
Bella's the only silent one, but she looks up at me for answers and, no doubt, a spoonful of sanity. "Did you see the same thing I saw?"
"The guy bumped into Lauren. Harmless accident; they're cramming a high-traffic area. Marcus, is he really—"
"The VP of CBS. News division. Kate started a fight with a big honcho."
"Nobody's addressing the real disaster here," Ross protests. "What the fuck is she wearing?"
I can't even describe that frock, but I'm sure Ross will help. "What in the world is it?"
Mac squints at Kate; then, with an expression that borders on disgusted, he blurts out, "Is her belly button showing?"
The comment earns him an elbow to the gut courtesy of Ross. "No, doofus. But close enough."
"Can you believe this shit?" Bella finally says. She's reverted to her standard expression of general befuddlement. "Isn't this event black tie?"
"Yes, my dear," Marcus begins. "But so are the Oscars. Methinks someone's stylist was confused."
"Or she pissed off the stylist and that's retaliation," Ross counters. "That's a Zuhair Murad, for heaven's sake. But I wouldn't attend an event like this in a full-length pleated gown with a slit that parts like the Red Sea. Not with all that bling, and not with a full view of my stomach. You can almost run an ultrasound on her and tell what she had for breakfast. And that's from far away. Yuck."
I guess it's time for me to show my hand as a total fashion ignoramus. "So, let me get this straight. It's not a bad dress, per se, but it's inappropriate."
Ross nods, then continues. "It's over the top. It screams 'look at me'."
"Plus, if I may," Bella adds. "That color washes her out. Her complexion and her hair need bolder hues. Powder blue is a tricky color, and it doesn't work on her," she states with a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. "Look at Lauren—that's a classy dress for this gala."
Ross continues the fashion review. "Black column gown, full-length with enough of a flare at the bottom to make walking and moving easier, cap sleeves, a barely there shimmer. Someone understood the assignment."
Mac snorts. "And someone else either didn't give a shit or thought rules don't apply to her."
"I feel like I walked into an episode of the Fashion Police," I blurt out, with a snicker of my own.
This behavior is par for the course with the Kate I knew. Rules are suggestions and made to be skirted or disregarded. Any publicity is good publicity. And most of all, look at me. She may have overplayed her hand in this setting, though. Here, nobody cares how many thousands she dumped on a frock she's wearing for one night. Some people tonight had to have Department of State protection to be able to attend because their governments persecute them in their home countries. Shiny frocks don't mean shit to them. Only the job does because they take it like a mission.
"Now, she never does anything by chance," Mac says, distracting me from my musings. "So, why is she wearing that tonight? At an event where she's not the queen bee of the evening? I smell a rat."
"And you would be right," Marcus answers. "Rumor has it that her ratings are in the tank. She might very well be shopping herself around."
"Ugh," Mac replies with a grimace.
Bella then folds her arms in a pensive posture. "Maybe picking a fight with the VP of one of the big three is not a great idea, let me guess?"
"I swear, these two ladies are too beautiful and too smart for two knuckleheads like you. But, dear Bella, to your question. No, that was a supremely idiotic idea on her part. Not a great calling card."
At that, we all laugh until Marcus once again sobers up.
"Uh-oh."
"What's up now, M?" Mac asks.
"That's one odd scene I couldn't have predicted even with a crystal ball," Marcus says.
"Crystal ball? Why do I have a feeling you have one of those?" Mac asks with a raised eyebrow.
Well, color me stupefied.
Kate and Lauren are still standing at the far end of the ballroom. Once again, they appear to be in a heated discussion. Standing toe to toe with displeased frowns on their faces, Lauren is hissing at Kate, pointing a finger to the spot where Lauren risked an almost-collision with the CBS executive a minute ago. Luckily for him, the man's gone and isn't witnessing the umpteenth lovers' spat between the two ladies. Kate, true to form, stands with her arms crossed, pushing her exposed décolletage together, sporting a positively haughty expression. She absently listens to Lauren, except to chew out a few words here and there. I can only imagine the kind of barbs she's throwing at her fiancée. At this point in my observation, it might not be far-fetched to assume there's trouble in paradise.
But if possible, things are about to get worse. For them, obviously. We're merely here to enjoy the free sideshow.
Because the crowd at these events is always dynamic, we find that we're now standing a lot closer to them than earlier. It seems we've moved nearer to the action, no doubt attracted to it like magnets.
"This is turning into one of those 'Who Wore It Better' posts, but I have a hard time choosing," Marcus says.
The witty remark is, of course, on point.
Another lady is walking across the ballroom on the arm of an older, dignified gentleman. What's so remarkable about the lady? Well, first of all, she appears to be a decade or two younger than her escort. She also stands out because she's wearing the exact same gown Kate chose, only in a bright, obnoxious shade of orange. Even to a fashion derelict like me, the effect is devastating. It's not doing her any favors, especially since she's rather petite, her skin sports a bad fake tan, and her tits are, to put it bluntly, spilling out of the dress.
Bella's and Ross's comments are, again, a clue that something more than a fashion disaster might be afoot.
"Oh, shit!" Laconic, to the point—Ross.
"Oh, no! She didn't!" Disbelieving, outraged—Bella.
Mac and I also turn toward the new disaster brewing; after comments like those from the girls, it can't be otherwise.
That's when Marcus adds his voice to the choir. "Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Please tell me they're not on a collision course …"
"Boom," Mac whispers.
The face-off between the two identical frocks is comical for us observing at a safe distance. It's also one incident in the middle of a busy, crowded ballroom. Scores of people are talking and mingling around them, which might be a silver lining because it makes them less conspicuous. The general public around them is going about their business; two identical frocks barely register on their radars.
But we're transfixed, still rubbernecking at the first disaster while the second one is about to erupt.
"Hang on a minute. Do you know that woman?" Mac asks, turning to Ross and Bella. He's reading my mind.
Bella rolls her eyes. "Yes, Mac. The wrinkled Halloween pumpkin who just rolled onto the scene is my mother."
"Oh, shit. Which means that the dude beside her who looks like Alfred the butler is—"
"Garrett's dad," she mumbles.
Uneasy silence descends as the two ladies face off, à la the O.K. Corral. Bella's mother gives Kate the once over with a sneer—misplaced, I might add. Her husband whispers something in her ear, at which Renée smiles gleefully and averts her gaze from Kate and Lauren. The Dwyers walk past them, avoiding a public confrontation.
"Ugh. Phil must have reminded her who paid for that orange catastrophe," Bella comments. She's hiding her face in her hands.
"Are you okay, love?" I whisper into her ear for the second time tonight.
"Yes. It's second-hand embarrassment—don't mind me. I'm hoping she won't walk in this direction."
Ross is shaking her head and hiding a snicker. "Marcus, I can't believe I'm going to say this, but Kate wears it better."
"That's an understatement," Mac pipes up. "And shit, I can't believe I'm saying that either."
"Oh, crap," Ross says. "They're coming this way, Choc. You ready?"
"To throw a mojito in her face? Hell, yes. But I won't because I'm that polite."
At that, Mac and I can't hide a collective groan.
Ross remains undeterred. "Well, flying mojito or not, Pumpkin and Alfred incoming at our two o'clock."
"Do I have to smile, babe?" Mac asks.
Ross turns serious before answering. "Let's put it this way. We're all making Bella's life easier for the next ten minutes. You can gag all you want when Mommy Dearest leaves."
"Fair enough. I'll be brave for piano girl."
A tense minute elapses while we all watch the Dwyers walk toward us. I'm trying to get the measure of them from afar, but it's not easy.
Mr. Dwyer's expression is hard to read. With his lips forming the bare hint of a smile, and his eyes roaming the ballroom, he looks more like someone who's gauging the battlefield around him than someone about to greet his stepdaughter. His wife's arm is curled around his, but otherwise, there's almost a foot between them. Cozy, they are not.
With one look, Renée's confirming all the horrible things Bella told me about her, and that's without delving into her chosen attire for the evening. Sadly, this woman is clinging to a youth that's firmly planted in the rearview mirror. Even a guy like me, who resorts to hand lotion only in the winter, can spot multiple attempts to hide the ravages of time with the help of a skillful and no doubt costly plastic surgeon. A pair of too-plump lips sends the proportions of her face out of whack. With the fake tan, her face is almost as orange as her dress—not a good pairing. Her skin is too smooth, to the point that she has no discernable expression other than the condescending smile she's sporting.
From what Bella's told me about her parents, Renée must be younger than Esme but appears far older. At least, when I look at my mom, those wrinkles and gray hair remind me that she's lived; she carries those years with grace instead of refusing to acknowledge them. Renée, on the other hand, may have staked everything on appearance, and yet seems unhappy and bitter. That is not the face of a content woman. At all. I wonder what drives her, but I don't have time to dwell on it because they're getting closer to us.
When they reach us, Bella squeezes my hand and looks up at me.
"I'm here for you, Ladybug."
"Isabella," Renée says curtly. She's not greeting anyone and is intruding on our conversation, but she doesn't apologize. Strike one.
Mr. Dwyer, however, mildly redeems himself. "Bella, it's been so long. Good to see you," he tells her, opening his arms for a greeting.
Bella approaches him with tentative steps, giving him a brief, perfunctory hug that Mr. Dwyer reciprocates with a warm expression, while his wife stands there with the grimace of someone who just sucked on a lemon.
"Would you introduce us to your friends, dear?" Mr. Dwyer again.
He's left to do the honors because his wife is still perusing Bella's figure with a critical eye, and her sour lemon face looks sourer by the second. I'm dreading what her mouth might spew whenever she decides to address her daughter.
"All, this is my stepfather Phil Dwyer, and my mom, Renée Dwyer." Then she turns to me and announces me with a proud look in her eyes. "Mom, Phil, this Edward Cullen, my boyfriend. You already know Ross; the guy beside her in navy is Emmett McCarty, and this dashing gentleman is Marcus Hughes."
"We are delighted to meet any of Bella's friends. Where do I know you from?" he asks, his gaze trained on Mac and me but still talking to Bella.
"Edward and Mac work together at The Back Bay Tatler in Boston, Phil. Marcus is with—"
"CNN," Marcus supplies helpfully.
Phil Dwyer nods at our explanations but doesn't offer further comment, which might also be because his wife chooses this second to talk over him.
"I don't know why you insist on wearing inappropriate footwear, Isabella. You'd look so much better in heels, petite as you are. Look how beautiful and statuesque Rosalie is with those Manolos." And there she goes, putting Bella down. Strike two.
Bella's smile contracts into a thin, stressed line while her hand grips mine tighter. I can almost see steam coming out of her ears; she's steeling herself not to curse a blue streak at her mother in public.
"Ross is almost six feet tall; statuesque is a natural condition for her, Mother. But my attire here is of no consequence. We're here to honor people who report from conflict situations. Nobody's looking at what the ladies are wearing." Bella's explanation comes in a torrent of clipped words. She's holding her temper by the scruff of its metaphorical neck.
"Hi, Renée. It's been a while. How are you?" Here's Ross, deflecting attention away from Bella. God love her.
"Hello, Rosalie dear. How is your family?"
The one-eighty in Renée's demeanor is jarring; the vitriol she used with Bella is nowhere to be heard with Ross. She drips honey with every single syllable, and her smile looks almost pleasant; it's a shame the Botox doesn't allow for a lot of variance in facial expressions.
Ross barely hides a sneer, and her voice is dismissive when she answers. "I lose track of them, frankly. Dad works all the time, and God knows what Mom is up to these days."
"Give them my warmest regards, won't you? We missed them in the Hamptons this summer."
Ah. There we go. Ross's family must move in the same social circles, which makes her a desirable friend in Renée's eyes.
"Sure." Ross's mumbled answer puts a stop to the subject, also because Renée unleashes more of her judgmental crap on Bella.
"I don't understand why you choose to live in that old dilapidated house. We sent you a lot of suitable properties to look over, but did you deign to thank us? No, you didn't."
More vitriol aimed at Bella. And now she's dissing Wisteria House, which Bella loves because of everything it represents. But, of course, Renée wouldn't grasp the notion of "home;" it's all a matter of putting down stakes in the right zip code. Strike three.
"Nobody asked you to understand it, Renée. Now, if you're done insulting me, I think my friends and I will go find our table for the night. Phil, it's been a pleasure, as always."
Phil, who so far didn't bat an eye at his wife's antics, just turned a darker shade of puce and is frowning with the best of them. Alfred the butler is pissed, and this might be as much as he's willing to show it.
"Renée, that's enough. Bella's an adult and makes her own choices." Then, he turns to Bella. "Dear, will we see you again while you're in town?"
Bella's own grimace dissipates at his friendly, supportive words, but I can tell she's hurt. More, she's ashamed of her mother's blatant disregard.
"I don't know, Phil. We're not staying long. Thank you, though."
Phil drops Renée's arm like a hot potato and extends his hand to Bella, pulling her into his side. "Do call me when you have time, sweetie. I've missed you."
Bella nods, bussing him on the cheek. She steadfastly refuses to acknowledge her mother, who leaves in a huff and has to catch up with Phil while teetering on heels that look like stilts.
Another tense, uneasy silence blankets our little group. The witty banter we've been throwing around for the last half hour has all but dried up.
Until Mac decides he's had enough. "Well, that was fascinating. Do you think we'll have a throw-down later for who's the most wicked witch of the East Coast? Because, suddenly, I feel like Kate's title is in danger."
Bella looks at him, still frazzled by the whole incident. Then she shakes her head and erupts in an unrestrained belly laugh. "Oh, Mac. I needed that. Thank you."
"Let's go, piano girl. You need that mojito now."
And ain't that the truth.
&&&IVORIES&&&
Two hours and a few mojitos later, we're in the lobby, saying goodbye to Marcus. He's taking his own sweet time in hugging Bella and Ross for all he's worth, the suave bastard.
"Hands off my girlfriend, Marcus."
That's the third hug he's given Bella. How many times do you need to hug someone, then leave?
"I've been waiting for years to hear you say that, Cullen. Didn't you learn to share in kindergarten?"
"Nope. Only child, remember?"
He shakes his head, snickering. "I've said it earlier, and I'll say it again, my friend. Love becomes you." When he releases Bella, he moves on to me, clapping my shoulder. "Hang on to that one, will you?" he asks in a lower voice only he and I can hear.
"I plan to, M. I plan to."
He nods sagely and pats my shoulder again. "Good to know."
Just then, two loud, frenzied voices resonate behind us. This space, much like hallways, carries sound like a charm. It doesn't hurt that I catch a glimpse of shimmery powder blue silk out of the corner of my eye. We all turn toward those voices because we've recognized them.
Mac approaches me and Marcus, leaning toward us. "Is that them, again?"
"Sounds like it," Marcus replies. "Shh, let's listen to this new drama unfold."
"I'm done with all of this, Katie. Done. I can't deal with it anymore."
Lauren stands a few yards away from us with a rigid but dignified posture. Her voice is breaking, though. Her eyes and the set of her lips radiate sadness. Kate tries to grasp Lauren's hand and draw her closer, but Lauren is having none of it.
"Please, Laurie. Don't do this to us. We're happy, aren't we?" That's as desperate as I've ever heard Kate's voice. She's pleading, but it sounds more like whining. Now that's something Kate is very adept at. Whining.
"Do this to us? Do you even listen to yourself, Katie? Happy? How can we be happy while you're stuck in the past? The one thing I don't get is why."
Kate's face crumbles at Lauren's accusations. "I'm not … stuck. I just … I don't … Please, Laurie. Don't. Don't do this now. Don't do this to us."
Lauren's contemptuous grimace says it all. "Who's us? Tell me that, at least. Be honest, for one fucking time in your life. Who's us? You and I, or you and your dad? You and your pretentious, judgmental, elitist family? Huh?"
Kate remains silent, as if the questions stumped her. Ouch. That must hurt—for Lauren, that is.
"That's it. You can't even answer me. It says a lot. I'm done, Katherine. Done with your bitterness and your lies. We're done."
Kate, who's shedding tears now, tries to interrupt her, but Lauren has more to say. She's standing taller, with a stern, detached posture. She looks like someone who's made a life-altering decision and has made peace with it. Depending on what she's about to say, her decision might have devastating consequences for Kate.
"I don't want to be with you anymore, Kate. Sure as hell, I won't marry you. Not to be a pawn in your family's power trips, not to be the rebound girl, or the thrill you haven't tasted before. This is my life. This was all real to me, you fucking bitch. I'll have someone vacate my belongings from your condo tomorrow, and my publicist will contact yours to coordinate a statement. Please don't contact me."
Lauren walks away, without allowing Kate another rebuttal as she sniffles alone in the lobby of the Grand Hyatt.
People zip back and forth around her, nonplussed at her plight. They don't even see her, unless they're trying to avoid colliding with her while they stride across the marble expanse around us. It's getting late, but the hotel is busy with a packed, high-profile event taking place here tonight. Too busy for one personal drama to be noteworthy. It flashes by at the speed of light, like everything else in the Big Apple.
The scene we just witnessed has stunned us all into silence. I've lost count of how many times we've gone speechless tonight. Little did I know the evening would be so animated.
"Holy shit," Mac whispers before long.
"Well, look who'll be on Page Six this week. And it won't be me for once," Bella states. She turns to me, winding her arms around my waist. "I've had enough excitement for one evening. Shall we?"
"Is that all the excitement you'll have? Or can I entice you to some more?"
She leans her head to the side, flashing me one of her alluring smiles. "Does it involve you, me, and a lack of clothing?"
I lean down to whisper in her ear. "Absolutely no clothing."
She shivers when I kiss her neck to distract her.
"I'm in, baby."
Trainwreck, anyone?
Pics of everyone's attire for the night are in the Lair, my FB group: type LaMomo's Lair in the search bar and join us for RobPics, fanfic talk and visuals, and other assorted shenanigans.
Also, thank you to everyone who voted in the Golden Onion Awards.
