Chapter 1 Pippa #2
I adore my mother and father, but to say they’re out of touch is an understatement. Until six months ago, Mum hadn’t set foot in a grocery store in about nineteen years. She has “the help” do the hunting and gathering, as she likes to say.
From the pieces of the story that I’ve tried to put together, under duress, she needed something and went to the local market—she still won’t reveal what it was.
Five hours later, Dad received an urgent call from the manager.
She’d gotten lost in the dry goods aisle—perhaps fixated on the many options for paper towels, what with the ply count and whether to get a full sheet or partial.
Don’t get me started on the printed, seasonal styles.
I’m all too familiar with how decision-making can lead to overwhelm.
As for my father, he likes to believe that he’s a man of the people. However, if he turned on the radio, he wouldn’t be able to sing along to a single song. And yes, I specifically mean radio. He doesn’t know what music streaming service apps are.
This isn’t to criticize. No, Mum and Dad are wonderfully unique, kind, and generous. They’re just a bit quirky. #Relatable.
Gemma, my roommate before she got married, was watching the first episode of a television show that was called Something-Creek.
I can’t quite remember. I sat there spellbound because the main couple was a facsimile of my parents, but before they lost all their wealth.
The characters, not my parents. Nope, Mum and Dad Thompson are swimming in the stuff if such a thing were possible, but that seems like it would result in paper cuts.
Mum drips in jewels and Dad seems to replace his golf clubs with each outing.
But it’s new money, which doesn’t carry quite the same currency as old money—at least in their circle.
However, what they’re missing, and my mother reminds me of this with frequency, is a son-in-law. And by that, she means she wants grandbabies to spoil.
I’m not opposed to that at all, however, I have yet to meet anyone who isn’t a billboard for my parents’ arrival among the elite—someone who fits their mold or who will clinch a connection to elevate them fully into that world.
Or, and more importantly, someone who understands me because I’ve also been called quirky.
Standing in the bathroom of my youth, which is still well-stocked with luxury bath and beauty products—because my mother wouldn’t have it any other way—my limbs somehow go limp and freeze at the same time as a second realization sends the wiggly little line right off the Richter Scale.
“I might have to dance with him.”
“Who?” Phoebe asks, still on the phone.
“Him.”
“Boxy?”
“No, him. I might have to dance with him at Freddie’s wedding.”
“Does him have a name?” she asks, then she clicks her tongue as if piecing together my inner monologue that’s along the lines of Abort, abort, the mission. Do not attend your brother’s wedding because more than likely, the maid of honor—that’s me—will have to dance with the best man. Save yourself!
“I can’t do it,” I whisper.
“Pippa, Freddie’s wedding is months away. We have plenty of time to prepare. Don’t worry about having to dance with Chase, talk to him, or anything right now. Focus on the present.”
That reminder helps the dust a little bit. Not future tripping is among my many rules.
“Could you please meet me tomorrow?” My tone is one turn on the dial before begging.
“Here’s what you’re going to do—” Reliably, my sister comes through with what she means to be encouraging instructions to help get me ready for tomorrow.
My mother has a chaise longue in her dressing room that would come in handy right now because I feel like I could collapse. Tomorrow? I can hardly think about tomorrow when I’ll have to see Chase Collins at Freddie’s wedding.
“How about we get ready and then go together? You can be my wing-woman,” I ask, doubling down.
“I’m up to my elbows in thesis research on the other side of the city.” Phoebe is a graduate student in digital forensic science at King’s College.
“That’s never stopped Mum from insisting you attend things before.”
Phoebe clears her throat. “She thinks I’m in Brussels. Please, pretty please, Princess Calliope Avington Twinklebelle, don’t tell her I’m here.”
“Have you been sleeping in the library?”
Phoebe doesn’t reply.
“I just don’t want to go,” I all but whine. “What if something happens?”
“I understand you need a minder at events like the Smythe’s party, but just watch where you’re going, hold your head high, and avoid liquids.”
“It’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”
“Pippa...”
“I know, I know. You need to get back to studying. It’s just that—”
“You can do this. You’ve gone to swanky soirees countless times. You’re an etiquette teacher. You know how to hobnob.”
A laugh bubbles out of me at her word choice.
Phoebe also commented that I need a minder.
As in an escort, bodyguard, chaperone. All of the above.
It’s not that I get into trouble. No, it typically finds me.
Phoebe calls me the absent-minded professor.
But my degree is in chemistry. Meanwhile, my head is in the clouds.
“Pippa, don’t flake out on them.”
“Are you calling me flakey?” I ask, fake-insulted.
“Not flakey but definitely a biscuit.”
“I could go for one right now. Oooh. I bet I could make a biscuit-scented candle.”
“Pippa, go exfoliate. Then call me tomorrow when it’s time to shave your legs.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s what sisters are for.”
But it takes me a full minute before I set aside my nerves and talk myself into leaving my little haven on the sofa and get ready to scrub my skin so I dazzle my parents’ friends and strangers alike.
Actually, I better adjust my expectations. I settle on not sizzling, setting anything on fire, or causing anyone to summon the fire brigade. Knowing me, that’s probably more accurate.
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