London, England
November 2013
How you could easily take my man
"Rilla!"
"Here, Rilla! Look over here!"
"Show us your pretty face!"
"Why so glum, Mitzi?"
"Are you working tonight?"
"When did you last see Ken, Rilla?"
"How does it feel to be one of the staff?"
"Is it true he broke up with you?"
"Is that the same skirt you wore last week?"
Yes, it bloody well is. Normal people don't throw away a perfectly good skirt after wearing it once, you twat!
Of course, I don't say that. I don't say any of the things I'd like to throw at their heads. I don't tell them that Ken and I talked last night and that he very much didn't break up with me. I don't tell them that yes, normal people have to work, but that working doesn't make me a servant. I don't even tell them to get lost, even though I want them to with every fibre of my being.
But we've been through this, they and I, countless of times before and thus, we go through the same dance again tonight.
The odd thing is that it doesn't even upset me anymore. What was enough to have me lose my composure back in New York barely raises a shrug nowadays. There's resignation, even a bone-deep weariness at having to go through this three, four, five times a day, but it's not enough to raise any kind of strong feeling anymore. Maybe it's just such a regular part of my life now that if I were to still get upset about it, I'd never stop being upset. Easier just to shrug and deal with it.
Therefore, I just school my expression into one of neutrality, lower my head and walk onwards with measured steps. I can hear their shouts, trying to provoke me into reacting, but I just let the words pass by, not allowing them to touch me. When the photographers surround me and cut off my path, I stop and wait, unmoving, until they grow bored of perpetually taking the same pictures of me staring at the ground. When they draw back, I start walking again, calm and unhurried, as the cameras snap around me.
There seem to be more than usual, which makes sense on several accounts. For one, this event will draw enough well-known people to be interesting to them on its own, even without factoring me in. For another, it'll give them an opportunity to get a shot of me in front of a building with royal history, which must be like catnip to them. Banqueting House isn't an active royal palace anymore, but it is where one of the Charleses was beheaded by Cromwell's cronies, so there's that. (Ugh. Those headlines will really write themselves, won't they?)
Identifying myself to the security guy at the door, I slip through the tradesmen entrance at the side of the building. In doing so, I finally shake off my unwelcome followers, ignoring their shouts of protests. Apparently, they didn't get a good enough shot, which, naturally, makes me feel just devastated. (Not.)
I navigate my way through the building easily, having been here with Owen just this summer. (Did anyone know that after the monarchy was restored, Cromwell's corpse was taken from its grave and executed again, to prove a point? Weird, isn't it?) Sadly, with work keeping me busy most weekends, I see less of him and Persis than I have all year. He's perfectly polite about it, but she has voiced her disappointment more than once. Still, what to do?
As for Banqueting House itself, I didn't think I'd have reason to be back so soon, but then, I didn't think I'd be here today at all. It's a bit ironic, truly. I have the invitation to this shindig still lying on my kitchen counter at home, extended with the specific clarification that I was welcome with or without Ken. I declined, thinking it awkward to turn up without him present, and yet, thanks to Marcia and her employee roster, here I am anyway, just in a very different capacity.
It's not as a guest that I'm attending the dinner and reception to celebrate the engagement of Sir Hew Home of Wedderburn, 16th Baronet, to Lady Thomasina Wentworth-Watson, daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Rockingham (as the invitation so helpfully stated), it's as a lowly waitress.
Yeah. This is pretty ironic alright. No wonder the press is all over this, especially with Ken all the way up in Scotland.
But I wouldn't be my mother's daughter if I didn't take this on the chin. I've got a job to do and even if I may not want to do it, there's no shame in an honest day's work, as Grandma Bertha would say. All these rich, fancy people might think what they want, but I won't be bullied into being ashamed to be doing my job and to be doing it well.
Therefore, when it's time to carry the entrées into the big Main Hall, I square my shoulders, toss my head and raise my nose a little higher into the air than usual. I won't be cowed and I won't hide, no matter what anyone thinks.
Not that hiding is possible anyway. As I step into the hall with its many round tables beneath an ornate ceiling (by Rubens, according to Owen), it takes just moments for the first guest to notice and recognise me. And as I move between the tables to offer my tray with entrées, it once again becomes evident why I've become a bad waitress, through no fault of my own.
It's simple, really. A good waitress is invisible. I am anything but.
But I'd be an even worse waitress if I allowed that to influence my work, so I fall back on the same trick I used on the reporters outside. Impassive face (though more polite than what the press usually gets to see), no eye contact, measured movements and nothing more than a non-committal sound in reply when anyone tries talking to me. I can't stop them from noticing me, but I can sure as anything take no note of them, beyond what is absolutely necessary on a professional level.
I really only allow the mask slip for a selected few people and even then only subtly. There are Ken's friends dotted around the room – with Hew, of course, at the main table next to his bride –, there's Teddy representing the royal family in Ken's absence, backed up by Katie and her boyfriend Adam (himself a refreshingly non-aristocratic presence in these circles), and there are Genie and Rolly Faversham, greeting me warmly and a little less subtly than I would have liked. (The absence of Tatty is noticeable, but then, she and the bride aren't exactly best friends, are they?)
All in all, dinner passes reasonably well, all eight courses of it. If I overhear people whispering about me in passing, my pride alone would prevent me from reacting, if my genuine fondness of Hew didn't already ensure it. My non-fondness of his bride keeps me mostly away from the main table, but it all seems to be working out rather well, and I breathe a private sigh of relief when the fruit plates are being cleared away.
Needless to say, the relief turns out to be premature. Because instead of concluding the evening when dinner does, the guests move on to the vaulted Undercroft for drinks and that's where it all begins to unravel.
It starts inconspicuously enough.
As I leave the kitchen with a tray of champagne glasses, I almost stumble over Teddy, who is loitering in the corridor leading to the Undercroft. He has no business being here, of course, but as usual, no-one dares to tell off royalty.
Except for me. "You're not supposed to be here," I tell him cheerfully as I try to move past him.
He stops me with a hand on my arm. "I just wanted to check up on you. Are you okay?"
It's sweet of him, if a little annoying. As if I need a prince – any prince – to save me!
"Perfectly good, thanks for asking," I reply and give him a smile. (It's not altogether true, but lovely as he is, Teddy isn't the person for me to tell my darkest sorrows to. I've seen quite a bit of him over the summer in Windsor, but still.)
He nods, but his expression remains unconvinced. "I just thought, because I know you got an invite to this party… you know, as a guest…" He trails off, looking uncomfortable.
Balancing the tray on one hand (no-one ever say years of waitressing didn't hone my skills!), I reach out to briefly put an arm around his shoulders. "I did get an invite. I politely declined and now I'm here working," I reassure him. "Just as I chose to."
That, too, isn't altogether true, because strictly speaking, it was Marcia who chose to send me here in a working capacity. But I chose not to come as a guest, so it's not altogether untrue either. We'll call it a stalemate.
"If you're truly alright…" Again, he leaves the end of the sentence dangling in the air. He really is the picture of awkwardness and I have to hide a smile. It is sweet of him, maybe especially because he is so clearly not at all comfortable with the entire situation.
"I am," I promise and give him a little nudge in direction of the party. "And now, I'm sure there are people in there who will be very disappointed if they have to leave tonight without having shaken the hand of a real-life prince."
He grimaces, but obviously can't argue my point. Giving me a parting nod and lop-sided smile, he pushes off back towards the Undercroft. I look after him, shaking my head slightly, but smiling at the same time. Bless.
The tray is getting heavy, so I quickly follow him, hoping to get rid of the glasses soon. The guests do me the favour – some even move past other waiters with champagne trays to get a glass from mine, which is super weird – and my tray is empty in no time. I'm in a little less of a hurry to get it filled again, so don't quite rush back to the kitchen.
As it turns out, I never arrive there anyway, because once again, I am stopped in the corridor. This time, it's not Teddy but Ken's friend Tony who steps in front of me and asks discreetly, "Do you have a moment?"
I don't, strictly speaking, but then, I'm not opposed to any excuse that gets me out of doing one or two champagne rounds. So, after making sure there's no-one to tell me off for it, I allow Tony to lead me to the small backroom where we waiters left our personal belonging earlier.
Stepping through the door he holds open for me, I just want to ask what's the matter, when I see that the room isn't empty. Standing by the window is a man I quickly recognise as Mark, Ken's other friend. Upon hearing us enter, he turns and holds out a phone for me.
I bite back a groan.
Morons.
I take the phone anyway, mostly because I can't not take it, but when Mark and Tony pass by me, I make sure to frown at them to express my displeasure. Tony lowers his head. Mark just smiles.
Looking after them, I wait until they have closed the door behind themselves before raising the phone to my ear. "Hello."
"Hello," replies Ken. "How are you?"
"Good, good," I answer breezily, hoping I might fool him yet.
He doesn't beat around the bush though. "Mark said you're waitressing at Hew's party."
"Mark would be correct about that," I confirm.
Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "And…?"
I consider playing dumb, but neither of us has time for that. "And nothing," I therefore reply. "I'm good."
"You didn't tell me you were scheduled to work there tonight," he points out.
"Didn't I?" I feign surprise. "Must have slipped my mind."
"Rilla…" He's clearly not buying it, which, while annoying, must count in his favour. Kudos are usually awarded for awareness.
"It's not a big deal," I tell him, shrugging at the empty room. "I'm doing my job. End of story."
I'm not entirely sure, but I think I can hear him sigh very softly. "And you're truly alright with this? No-one's giving you a hard time?" He hesitates for a moment, before adding, "I don't want to be that annoying boyfriend charting your every step from afar. I just… want to know you're okay."
And just like that, he's got me. Like always.
Damn him.
"I'm okay," I promise, softer now, and more genuine. Instinctively, I've reached up to twist the charm of my necklace. "They stare, but I'm used to that. The paps will have a field day with it tomorrow, but that's nothing new either. It's really just another day in the life of Cinderilla."
I don't know if it's the weak joke or the reference to that old nickname of New York City days, but I can hear the smile in Ken's voice when he asks, "And is everyone being nice to Cinderilla?"
"Everyone is," I confirm. "Teddy even checked up on me."
"Did he?" Ken sounds surprised, but pleased. "That's nice of him."
I nod. "It was sweet. Awkward, but sweet."
"Typical Teddy," he replies, amused.
There's nothing to add to that, so the conversation lulls for a moment. Not quite ready to let him go, I ask "How was your day? Did they let you do that thing you talked about last night?" (I did not totally understand the thing they wanted to let him do today. But no prattling!)
"They did!" Immediately, Ken's voice rises in excitement. "It was a bit daunting in the beginning, but I acquitted myself quite well, I think."
"Tell me more?" I prompt.
He does, as I knew he would. I rarely understand more than half of what he's saying and am usually interested in even less, but whatever he's doing up there in Scotland with his Tornadoes, he's clearly enjoying himself and he enjoys talking about it. It's all gibberish to me though, so, while he goes into minute detail about some flying thing he did today, I tune out his words, instead focusing on letting his voice wash over me.
It always, always gets me. Just hearing his voice. More than once in the past two months, I've sat all alone in my crappy apartment in depressing Croydon after yet another day carrying trays and waiting tables, and caught myself wondering why I'm even doing this and whether it's really, truly worth it. But then he called and I heard his voice and it was an instant reminder that yes, of course, this is why. He is why.
"– and then I looked to my right and would you believe that there's a flying pig right next to me?"
Wait.
A pig?
"A pig? A flying pig?"
"Caught your attention, did it?" Ken asks and I know he's grinning.
"You had my attention all along," I insist, pouting.
"You weren't listening to a word I was saying!" he counters, clearly amused.
"I was listening to your voice," I explain primly. "It's a nice voice."
He laughs a soft, rumbling laugh and suddenly, I think I might cry.
"You know what? I'll take it," he replies, laughter still in his voice.
I swallow against the lump in my throat, trying to keep my own voice light. "You better!"
"I do," promises Ken. "And in the interest of equality, let me point out that you, too, have a very nice voice. In fact, it's so nice that I'd love to hear it again tomorrow. Are you free around eight?"
I nod, though of course, he can't see that. "I am."
I will be. And if Marcia wants to schedule me for yet another last minute waitressing job, she can stick her employee roster where she usually puts the clysters she swears by for skin hydration! (Don't ask. I didn't.)
"Great. I'll call you," replies Ken. Then, in a softer tone, "I love you."
"Me, too." I nearly choke on the words, barely keeping my voice level. It's for that reason that I'm almost glad when he says his goodbyes and cuts the call. I'm vexingly close to tears and I don't want him to hear that. I don't want him to worry.
Because while hearing his voice reliably reminds me why I'm hanging in there, despite the awful flat and the annoying job and the horrible loneliness, it also always reminds me of how much I miss him. I'm doing fine when I'm just going about my daily business, but then he calls and I realise, again, that I miss him. I miss him so much it hurts. I know it was right not to prevent him from going, but this separation –
"It sucks, doesn't it?"
I whirl around, almost dropping the phone. Standing next to the door, eyeing me with an indecipherable expression on her face, is none other than the bride-to-be, one Toppy Wentworth-Watson.
"It sucks, when he's up there with his airplanes, happy as a clam, and you're down here, miserable as can be, doesn't it?" she elaborates, eyeing me with interest.
I can do nothing but stare.
"Oh, don't look at me like that. I won't eat you," she informs me conversationally. "Despite what Tatty says, I'm not actually a harpy."
"Tatty didn't –" I begin, still trying to process her presence, but also knowing I must defend Tatty.
Toppy clucks her tongue. "Of course Tatty did. There's no love lost between us and there hasn't been ever since we were at St. Mary's in Ascot. It's nothing personal."
Um… isn't that the very definition of personal?
"She thought I was with him to spite her," Toppy continues, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Because they're friends and she doesn't like me. When he and I dated, she was forced to spend time with me and it annoyed her."
I stare at her, my mind whirring as I try to understand what the hell is happening here.
"That wasn't it, naturally," she continues, quite as if that should be obvious. "I wasn't with him because of his position either, however many people claimed it at the time."
There's something about the way she holds herself that is odd to me. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it almost seems… could it be… is she… drunk?
"I was with him because I loved him," Toppy asserts, swaying slightly as she comes a little closer. (Definitely tipsy!) "Just as you are with him because you love him."
She says it so certainly, so unquestioningly, that I am momentarily taken aback. "How would you know?"
"I know because I know," answers Toppy in a tone that implies this should make sense to me. "No-one would put up with all of this if they didn't love him. The lack of privacy, the scrutiny, the intrusions, the judgement. The loneliness. No matter what people claim, no sane person wants to become a princess, much less a queen. I didn't. You don't either."
I blink at her. Truthfully, it's a little disconcerting, to be told what I want and feel in such an assertive way by a perfect stranger. (It's not that she's wrong, though. It's not that.)
"You put up with it for him and because you love him," Toppy informs me. "I loved him, too. I'm aware that most people just saw my title and my breeding, but I only saw him."
She breaks off and her eyes suddenly focus on me, considering me for several long moments. My instinct is to squirm away, but I stand my ground, raising my chin a little.
"It's ironic that I should be followed by you in his affections," she decides. "You lack everything that made me a good match for him."
"On paper," I demur.
Toppy inclines her head, seemingly thinking over my words. "You might have a point there. He's kept you around for much longer than anyone thought he would."
"I stayed," I counter, not liking what she's implying.
"You followed him," she corrects, raising a pointed finger. (Damn her!) "Though I must acknowledge that he was willing to have a long distance relationship with you."
"And not with you." It's not a question.
Toppy shakes her head, her gaze slightly unfocused. "I thought he would come back. He told me it would be unfair to keep me waiting while he was in New York and I thought it would only be temporary. Even when the whispers started that he was seeing a girl, I convinced myself he was just sowing his wild oats. I thought that he'd return and we'd pick up where we left our relationship."
Her eyes meet mine, coolly calculating, and I have to fight the urge to look away.
"But you didn't go anywhere," she adds, her expression quizzical, as if confronted with a riddle she can't solve. "He came back and still you didn't disappear. All of a sudden, long distance wasn't such a problem for him, was it? Worse still, he brought you here – or maybe you came yourself. Either way, I thought you'd be history long ago, but you're still… here."
She frowns and I shrug. "Yeah. I'm still here."
Taking another unsteady step towards me, Toppy studies me closely and I realise that I'm the riddle in this.
"I wonder what he sees in you," she tells me, in a way that is matter-of-fact, despite the insulting implication of her words. "You're so normal, but maybe that's it. After the disaster with his mother, maybe normal looks just right to him. Everyone says his father adores you, anyway, and no-one knows better that breeding doesn't make a good queen than the King does. Maybe the King advised him to find himself a normal girl to marry."
"I doubt that," I reply, scoffing, because really, the thought of Ken going to Owen for marriage advice is plainly ridiculous. "And besides, we're not getting married."
Toppy looks surprised. "Oh, but he will marry you if you hang in there. This air force gig is his last hurrah in the military and he knows it. Come next year, he'll be thirty and settled into royal duties and maybe a cushy job at some army office to soften the blow. He'll start thinking about the future and for him, a future inevitably includes a wife and children. If you're still around at that point, it'll make sense to marry you."
Right. I don't know whether to feel pleased or insulted by that. Surely, that's a feat?
"You must marry him, you know," Toppy adds, still in that very certain tone she's used for this entire conversation.
I almost choke on my own spit. "Excuse me? How is that any of your business?"
"You must marry him because –" For the first time since ambushing me, Toppy's voice falters. She raises a hand and waves it haphazardly in the air, but doesn't finish her sentence.
She doesn't need to, either. Because this time, I study her closely and realise that not only is she drunk, she's also close to tears.
I must marry Ken because if I don't, she might have had a chance but for marrying one of his best friends. I must marry Ken so her marriage to Hew won't turn out to be a mistake.
How fucked up is that?
"I'm fond of Hew, don't get me wrong," Toppy continues, only now, there's a note of urgency to it. "We're fond of each other. He's very generous and considerate and he makes me laugh. We're a good match."
"But you – you don't – you don't love him," I stutter.
She dabs her eyes with her fingertips. "Love is a luxury you have to be able to afford. I can't afford it. I was… I was brought up to be chatelaine of a great country house. It's the only thing I know how to do. I don't have… your freedom."
My freedom? What the…?
"Hew's estate has a good size and is profitable enough. We'll live comfortably. His castle isn't as big as Daddy's, but then, no castle is. I shall be happy there," Toppy asserts, though who she's trying to convince, I'm not sure.
She's trying to smile bravely, but her watery eyes belie the attempt. And, really, I wouldn't feel like smiling either. I mean, she's at her own engagement party, partly drunk, unburdening herself to the girlfriend of the man she's very probably still in love with.
Honestly? I'd be crying, too.
Something about the sight moves something within me into action and before I've had time to think it through, I already find myself gathering my handbag from a corner of the room. "Sit down," I tell Toppy. "I'll touch up your make up. You can't go outside like this."
Surprisingly, she doesn't fight me, just placidly sits down on a chair and turns up her face for me to administer to. She has also seemingly said everything she wanted to say, because while I work, neither of us speaks. It's only once I've repaired her eye make-up and have moved onto dabbing some shine from her face that she informs me, very pleasantly, "We are not friends."
"No," I agree. "I didn't think we were."
"Good," replies Toppy and lapses back into silence.
I finish powdering her forehead and take a step back. "There. All done."
"Very kind of you," she responds, the picture of genteel politeness.
I nod, dropping my powder compact back into my bag, and dare hope that maybe, this most surreal of evenings might herewith be over, but then the door open and one look tells me that this already too long day hasn't yet concluded.
"Hew!" I exclaim, too loudly, as my brain frantically grapples for an explanation. "Are you looking for Toppy? Her make-up got a little smudged, but I touched it up and she's all set to go again."
As far as lies go, it wasn't my worst one by far (perhaps not even my worst one this evening), but Hew just shakes his head tiredly. "It's okay, Rilla. Thank you." Holding his hand out for Toppy, he asks her, "Shall we, Tops?"
Toppy looks up at him, her head swaying very slightly in a way I'm not sure is a nod or not. But then she takes his hand and allows him to help her to her feet. She's become even more unstable than before, so Hew has to firmly take her arm to stabilise her as he leads her from the room.
I follow them more slowly, stopping just past the door and looking after them as they go back to celebrate their engagement. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mark walk up to me, his gaze also fixed on Hew and Toppy.
"Tell me," I ask, still looking after this very strange bridal couple, "tell me that he doesn't… I mean, that he doesn't know that…?"
"What do you think?" replies Mark amiably, turning to look at me.
I consider his expression for a moment, but the only answer I see there is the one I can't believe. That yes, Hew very much knows. (I wonder if Ken does.)
"But how…" I stammer. "How…?"
Mark shrugs. "Something we all learned very early on is that Ken always comes first. He might not ask for it, but in this country, everything and everyone revolves around him. The rest of us must take second place by default."
The way he says it is very calm, like it's just an unshakeable fact he's arranged himself with, but my mind refuses to accept it so quickly. "But that's madness!" I protest. "You can't build a proper friendship if one person always comes first. I mean, how is that supposed to work?"
Something flits over Mark's face and I need a split second to recognise surprise. "But you know how it works," he tells me. "You've built a relationship on much the same grounds, haven't you?"
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Jolene' (written by Dolly Parton and released by her in 1973).
To JoAnna:
Your comment made me laugh! If they were real people, you wouldn't mind throttling them, would you? ;) You'd be utterly correct, too, because they're both bungling this. I tend to blame Ken more, because he created that situation, but Rilla certainly isn't doing much to change circumstances for herself and that's on her.
Her job is utterly miserable, mostly because of the awful people she works with. Waitressing in itself is a perfectly respectable profession, but it's not what she was hired to do and besides, this does have shades of her boss selling her to the best paying client. She only has to carry trays and serve drinks, so it's not that bad, but it's disrespectful of her as a person. Rilla realises this, I think, but doesn't really consider quitting, partly because of her situation and partly because of who she is.
It's true that she needs to figure out what she wants and needs and learn to communicate it, both in her relationship and at work. I think partly, what's holding her back is that she doesn't think very highly of herself. She is used to thinking of herself as the ugly duckling of the family (though "ugly" in this case would better be rendered "stupid"), so she thinks there are limits to what she can demand of others without them shutting her out. That affects both her acquiescing behaviour with Ken and how she just accepts her job situation. She should absolutely go out and get a better job, but she doesn't think she can get one, so she'd rather not risk the one she has. She can be pretty confident in a lot of situations, especially of the social variant, but she views herself as someone who will never achieve much and she acts accordingly. That's no excuse for how she lets others dictate her life, but it's at least partly why she doesn't stand up for herself.
As for Ken... it wouldn't have hurt him at all to ask Rilla properly whether it was alright for him to go. It also wouldn't have hurt him to discuss this with her beforehand and involve her in the decision making process, instead of presenting her with a fait accompli. But Ken is... well, he's a prince and that has to show in some ways. He's generally a nice and caring guy, but he's also used to being the centre of the world. As Mark says in this chapter, everything revolves around Ken and it always has. He doesn't consciously want people to acquiesce to him, but unconsciously, he does kind of expect them to, simply because everyone always has. There's a sense of entitlement to him that comes with his position (it's also pretty evident in some real life princes out there...) and it's situations like these when it shows. Not a good excuse at all and something he has to work on speedily, but that's my reasoning for why he acts like he does.
To Mammu:
Sorry to hear that you've been sick! I hope you feel better now? Sending many healthy wishes to you either way!
Grandma Bertha often has a point with what she says. She isn't necessarily always kind about the way she says it, but what she says is very often true. She's a convenient character for me to have, because I can use her as a mouthpiece to say "well, this isn't working" whenever Rilla is doing the oistrich-thing and hiding her head in the sand.
Ken is far removed from being the perfect boyfriend! You're right in that he shouldn't give up his dreams, but he should have found a way to involve Rilla in the decision and work out a solution that is manageable for her, too. As you said, he could have asked her to accompany him to Scotland, instead of just assuming that she was staying in London. Not that that would necessarily have been the perfect solution, but it would have been an option that they should have talked about. It's the lack of talking where Ken fails as a boyfriend right now. He locks her out and that's shoddy.
As for Rilla, yes, she is passive and yes, in her passiveness, she can be annoying. She's technically the heroine of this story, but she has her short-comings and failings. She gets things wrong, to the point that she is in need of a good shake, but that's how I want her to be. She has good points and bad ones and sometimes, the bad ones make her totally annoying, but, hopefully, also more interesting than if she were Super-Rilla.
With regards to what drives Rilla and Ken at the moment, I'd like to point you upwards to my reply to JoAnna. I wrote it first and it saves me from simply repeating myself ;). What I said there about Rilla not believing in herself when it comes to measurable success and about Ken having a sense of entitlement also applies to what you (rightfully!) criticise about their current behaviour.
Oh, and just to be clear: you didn't sound rude at all! For one, I agree with what you said and actually intended for it to feel that way when I wrote it, so it's really pleasing to me ;). For another, voicing an honest, well-reasoned opinion is never rude. Even if I disagreed with it, your opinion would be absolutely valid and what's more, it would be welcome to me. There are few things as helpful to me in writing this story as readers' honest opinions, so please always keep them coming!
