THE EDGE OF THE RAZOR
In all the sixty years of her existence, Mrs. Virginia Stephen Potter had never encountered a more stubborn man. It was as if her nephew deliberately thwarted her wishes, just to see her cool, poised demeanor crumble to ash. She did not doubt this theory much; he had become rather sadistic, ever since his parents' death twelve years ago.
"For the last time, James'" she said wearily, "will you please tell me the reason you broke up with Priscilla Grant?"
"There was never the need of breaking up with Miss Grant," interrupted the nephew in a haughty, bored voice, "because I was never engaged to her in the first place. Miss Priscilla Grant happens to enjoy publicity, and I proved a useful tool."
Mrs. Potter felt a growing inclination to slap the boy; he seemed to have forgotten that Priscilla was her step-daughter from a previous marriage. She however restrained herself with admirable fortitude.
"This is not the first time that such a rumour has reached my ears," said Mrs. Potter. "In the past two months, you have also been linked with Donna rosier, Vera Zabini, Patricia MacNair and Sophie Pretzel. Allow me to say, my dear nephew, that there is no smoke without fire."
"Perhaps," said James Potter, with a curt nod of his head, "but the fire has never been lighted by me."
Always the same answer….Would he ever learn to accept his responsibilities?
"May I remind you that you are eighteen years old, and you have already acquired the reputation of—of—being a—playboy?" she seethed at him with some difficulty.
James had the audacity to smirk. His aunt had wrung out the word "playboy" with such acrimony…. Perhaps she had been reminded of her own husband's unfaithfulness.
"The rumours do not affect me," said James, still smirking.
"They would affect your chances of winning a sensible and lovely wife," said Mrs. Potter with a scowl, hating his wild, unruly hair even more than his empty hazel eyes.
"I'm not interested in women. I find women dull and boring," said James Potter. "And I'm definitely not interested in marriage. Not now, not ever."
Mrs. Potter so truly looked the shock she felt, that James Potter was immediately sorry for his hasty words. He would never be able to escape from her clutches now.
"Are you—are you—do you bend towards your own gender, then?" she choked out, looking quite ill.
The laugh that escaped James was as cold as the rest of him.
"I'm not gay, Aunt Virginia, if that's what you meant," he said.
His aunt's sigh of relief was short-lived.
"I don't know why you should be so averse to women," she said, now quivering with indignation. "Or to marriage, for that matter. It is most unusual, and not to mention, extremely chauvinistic—"
"I'm not here for a lecture on the fairer sex," said James, standing up. "I have a meeting to attend; I must beg your leave."
"You sound more and more like your Uncle every day," she said, wondering what had become of the sweet, innocent boy she'd once known.
"I was merely repeating Uncle Stephen's words, Aunt Virginia," said her nephew in a tight voice, his hazel eyes hard and steely. "He believes in the same theory that love is but a joke. Perhaps your memory is failing you."
"One day you too will fall in love—" began Mrs. Potter, but her nephew's cold laugh cut across her words like a razor's sharp edge.
"And you would know such a lot about love, wouldn't you, Aunt Virginia?" he said with a contemptuous sneer. "You, who wanted to send me to an orphanage when my parents died…. You, who were betrothed to my uncle in exchange for the textile mills in Lyon…. You, who have never once been the Mother to me that you had promised to become….You wish to teach me about love?"
Mrs. Virginia Stephen Potter turned away to hide her tears.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------