Chapter 21 Olivia
OLIVIA
Rebecca wears a white pantsuit that is just begging to be covered in my mimosa. Her silver hair is cut in a blunt bob that frames her face. It’s pretty, in a cold, distant, violent sort of way. Like how knives can be pretty.
“Margaret! What a delightful surprise.” Her gaze shifts to me. “And Olivia. How lovely.”
We’ve spent the last three years artfully avoiding one another. I know she follows me as closely as I do her, but we outwardly pretend we don’t know anything about each other.
Until now.
My mother’s smile is tight, but just this side of friendly. “My daughter and I were just catching up.”
“Well, I certainly don’t want to intrude on mother-daughter time,” Walsh says with false modesty, even as she slides into the empty chair.
“Nonsense. We’ve barely started.” My mother signals for another mimosa. “How is everything at the center? I heard your expansion plans are moving forward.”
We should be stoning Walsh after what she did to me, but my mother would never burn a professional bridge. The sharp look she throws my way seems to say, Friends close, enemies closer, darling.
Walsh beams. “Beautifully. The new wing breaks ground next month. We’ll have twice the capacity by fall.”
“Wow, that’s fast,” I comment. She has enough funding to fast-track an expansion; meanwhile, I’m barely keeping the lights on. It’s a miracle that my voice remains plausibly neutral, because inside, I’m burning up with envy.
No, scratch that. It isn’t jealousy burning on the back of my tongue.
It’s rage.
“Efficiency is everything in our field,” she replies with a proud look. “My patients can’t afford to wait.”
She places special emphasis on my patients that lets me know she’s talking about my patients. All the people who have fled my clinic for her bottom-of-the-barrel rates.
“Speaking of patients,” my mother interjects, “that speech you gave at the symposium last week was brilliant, Rebecca.”
I hide my grimace behind my water glass. At this rate, I’m gonna need to find a potted plant to puke in.
“Thank you, Margaret. It’s simply about surpassing expectations. Over-deliver, and they stay loyal.” Walsh turns to me with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “How is your little clinic doing, Olivia? Still in that charming converted townhouse?”
I clench my teeth. “We’re selective about growth. Quality over quantity, as the kids say, right?”
I hate myself as soon as I let out the high-pitched little laugh that follows. I hate everything about this, actually. I want off this ride.
Walsh’s own laugh is bell-like and flawless. “Such a luxury these days. Though I imagine with your new… connection…” Her eyes flick to the newspaper. “Well, perhaps resources might become less of a concern soon?”
My mother practically vibrates with excitement. “Olivia connected with Mr. Safonov at the charity gala.”
Before she can continue raving about my new “friend,” the third mimosa arrives in a glass that doesn’t match the others—a slight that must be amended immediately. Mother pulls the server aside and starts reprimanding her in a low murmur.
While she’s discussing with the waitress, Walsh bends closer. “How convenient for you. A fertility specialist struggling to keep her doors open suddenly catches the eye of one of Boston’s wealthiest bachelors. If only all of us could solve our professional challenges so… horizontally.”
“I figured I had to start catching up with you!” I reply in a bright, sickly-sweet voice. “You already have so many of those kinds of ‘connections.’”
Her lip twitches like she wants to sneer but she’s too self-controlled to let it happen. “Professional networking is essential in our field. If you knew that, perhaps things would’ve turned out differently for you.”
Walsh turns to my mother before I can respond. “Margaret, how is the research coming on your cardiac stem cell paper? I hear Harvard is very interested.”
My mother obviously didn’t hear any of our conversation. She glows under Walsh’s attention. “I can’t believe you remembered! We’re making progress. The preliminary results are promising.”
I remembered the paper, but she couldn’t have cared less about talking to me about it, could she?
“I’d love to discuss it with you sometime. Perhaps over coffee?” Walsh suggests. “I have some contacts at the NIH who might be interested in funding your next phase.”
Or she’ll kick off my mom and scribble her own name under the title instead. That’s what Dr. Walsh does best: backstabbing thievery.
I observe them as they chatter. This is the world my mother wanted for me. Lies and bullshit pseudo-flattery exchanged over ludicrously expensive mimosas.
Where’s that potted plant? I really do think I might yak.
“Well,” Rebecca says suddenly, jarring me from my thoughts when she rises and sends her chair screeching backwards on the checkered tile, “it’s been a pleasure, ladies. Margaret, we must catch up properly. The research committee meets next Thursday—join me for drinks after?”
My mother smiles. “I’d be delighted.”
As Walsh saunters away, my resolve crystallizes into something cold and hard. I don’t want to be anything like Rebecca Walsh.
Whatever this thing with Stefan is—business arrangement, momentary madness, or something far murkier and more dangerous—I’m in too deep to back out now. But I’ll win or lose the Mass Gen partnership on merit alone. My work, my clinic, my methods.
I won’t stoop to that bitch’s level.
I turn to find my mother watching me with an expression I’ve seen countless times. “You should be more strategic with Rebecca,” she admonishes as she starts carving into her salmon tart. “Antagonizing her serves no purpose.”
“She stole my research, Mother. She’s systematically poaching my patients.”
“And now, she has better funding, better equipment, and apparently, better connections. So I’d say everything has worked out nicely for her.”
My mother sets down her knife with a soft clink and fixes me with a hard stare. It’s a stare that informs me her money line, the thing she truly brought me here today to say to my face, is on the tip of her tongue.
“Unless, of course, your connection with Safonov changes that equation. So let me ask you: Will it?”