Chapter 6
SIX
HARLOW
One month later
“Take a seat, Harlow. Robert and I have something we wish to discuss with you,” my mother instructs as she reaches for Robert’s hand, curling her perfectly manicured fingers around his.
He’s been staying at our home in Beverly Hills for the past week, and their laughter, overt displays of affection, and very loud fucking has made my stomach roil on more than one occasion. To be fair, Robert’s a good looking man, tall and broad, with silver streaks in his dark brown hair, and penetrating steel grey eyes, so I can see why my mother’s attracted to him, but as much as I want my mother to be happy, I know where this is heading. It’ll only end in another nasty separation, and given the sizeable engagement ring now glinting on my mother’s finger, divorce number four, no doubt.
I sure hope Robert has a prenup in place.
Grabbing my glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, I traverse the kitchen island, and take a seat at the table, flicking my gaze to Robert who smiles at my mother adoringly. He’s got it bad. Maybe I’m just jaded when it comes to love, or rather when it comes to my mother being in love. I’m honestly not sure she understands the concept.
“What is it?” I ask, feigning ignorance as I take a sip of my drink before placing it onto the table. My gaze flits to the view out of the french doors behind them, fat droplets of rain hit the manicured garden beyond as thunder rumbles overhead, and I have the sudden urge to rush outside and let the September rain wash away the anxiety bubbling in my chest. Of course, I remain seated.
“Robert and I are very much in love. He’s my soulmate, darling,” my mother begins, giggling as he nuzzles his face in her hair.
“I see,” I reply evenly. I realise my response isn’t what she wants to hear, but this isn’t the first time my mother has made such a statement, and I doubt it will be the last.
“And we’ve decided to get married,” she adds, eyeing me as she flashes me her engagement ring.
There’s caution in her stare, a warning if you will. I know that look, it’s the ‘keep your opinion to yourself’ look that she’s given me on countless occasions in the past when she knows I disagree with her choices, but doesn’t want to listen to reason.
“When?” I ask, deciding that I don’t have the energy to give her my opinion, knowing this will happen whether I like it or not.
“Aren’t you going to congratulate us?” she questions, her eyes narrowing at me.
“Congratulations.”
“Harlow…” she warns, and Robert, picking up on her tone of voice, decides to pitch in.
“I love your mother. I want her to be my wife. Will you give us your blessing?” he asks.
“You’re adults, you don’t need my blessing,” I reply, wincing at how awful that sounds. I can see that he’s trying here.
“Well, that is very true,” my mother points out. “But it would be nice.”
I momentarily consider laying my thoughts bare, then decide against it as I force a smile on my face. “I hope you’ll be very happy together.”
My mother nods, and Robert’s smile widens. “Well, I think we should celebrate our engagement. How about dinner tonight, just the three of us?”
“Oh Robert, I was hoping we’d spend our last night together… alone ,” my mother says, cutting a look my way.
“I have plans tonight anyway,” I reply, getting the hint loud and clear.
I try not to let the disappointment settle inside of me, but it happens anyway. It’s not as if I want to spend time with them both fawning over each other, it’s just… I just wish she’d at least talked to me about it first, or had considered how I’d feel about having yet another step-dad. Then again, what did I expect? My feelings never factor into my mother’s decisions about anything, least of all something as important as a new husband.
Besides, I don’t have any plans. I never have plans outside of spending time in my room, writing songs when I’m not organising the minutiae of her life. She’s the sociable one with lots of friends. Any friends I had have long since given up on me, my mother’s unreasonable requests often preventing me from having a life of my own.
For a brief moment, I remember that night I’d spent in the arms of Sterling, a man I’ve thought about every day since. There’s a dull ache in my chest, and I absentmindedly press the palm of my hand there, trying to soothe it. I made the choice to slip away whilst he was sleeping, knowing that whatever passed between us would be better remembered with fondness, than tainted with the possibility of my mother ruining any chance of happiness. It’s why I gave him a false number, because I knew even before I agreed to spend the night with him that there could never be a future between us. My mother would make that impossible despite her constantly needling me about being a ‘spinster’.
“That’s a shame. Next time I visit then?” Robert adds, cocking his head to the side as his gaze flits over me.
“Sure. Next time… Will that be all?” I ask, itching to get away.
“There is one more thing,” my mother says, smiling sweetly.
“Yes?” I ask, my heart plummeting into my stomach.
“I need your help planning the wedding.”
Help? I know my mother well enough to know that she won’t be lifting a finger, that it’ll be me organising everything. It’s my job after all. Another well of sadness rises inside of me. If she were different, if our relationship were different, then perhaps arranging this wedding would be fun, something to bring us closer together as mother and daughter rather than employer and employee.
“We have lots to arrange since we’ve decided on a New Year’s wedding,” she continues, “And there isn’t anyone in the world that I trust more than you.”
“New Year’s Eve, but that’s in three months' time?!” I point out, ignoring her attempt at stroking my ego.
She might trust me, but she doesn’t appreciate me. Asking me to organise their wedding is just another way to keep me so busy that I don’t have time to live my own life. I’ve been trying, and failing, to extract myself from her grasp for a couple of years now. Every time I get close, something pressing comes up and I’m reeled back in, doing her bidding once again.
Could I choose to get away from her by giving up my position as her personal assistant? Yes, but would that mean a lifetime of listening to my mother guilt-tripping me? Most definitely. Maybe her marrying Robert will finally give me the way out I need. That gives me hope, and it’s the only reason I entertain the thought of pulling off this wedding.
“Yes, we didn’t want to wait,” my mother explains.
“Three months to organise a wedding isn’t a lot of time, but I think I could do it,” I reply.
“Excellent!” Robert grins. “And I, of course, have the funds and the contacts to ensure that this wedding will be the best Princetown has seen. Whatever you need, you contact me, and I will make it happen.”
“ Princetown? So you’re getting married in England?”
“Of course we are. It’s Robert’s home, and soon to be ours,” my mother adds.
“Ours?” I flinch, cold dread skirting down my spine. “Yours, you mean?”
“ Ours ,” she insists. “You’re my personal assistant, Harlow. Of course you’ll be moving in with us. I need you by my side, darling.”
“I’m your daughter,” I remind her, my voice rising in pitch no matter how much I try to remain calm. “Don’t I have a say in where I live?”
She glares at me. “Perhaps this is a discussion we’ll pick up once Robert has returned home, yes?”
In other words, do not embarrass me, and do what you’re told. I blow out a breath, forcing myself to stay calm. I’m twenty-eight years old, not a goddamn child for Christ’s sake, but try as I might, I can’t seem to extract myself from her controlling ways. I also can’t blame my mother for everything that’s wrong between us. I’ve allowed her to treat me as no more than an employee. I’ve let her walk all over me for the last seven years since I’ve been her personal assistant, and this toxic relationship we share is as much my fault as it is hers. It’s unhealthy, bordering on abusive, and deep down I know the real reason that I’ve put up with her shit. I had once believed that being her assistant would bring us closer together, that she’d actually appreciate me as a person, see me as an individual, as her goddamn daughter . So far she’s always disappointed me, and it has to end.
“ This is my home,” I say forcefully, trying to claw back some self-respect.
She huffs out a breath. “A home is somewhere that you belong , Harlow. You don’t have friends here. You work for me. Whatever it is that you do in your spare time, you can continue to do it in England by my side. There’s no reason for you to stay in LA.”
God, I could wring her neck.
Of course this is all about her. Her marriage. Her happiness. Her future. Her life. Why did I ever think that my needs and wants would ever register in her brain for once? My happiness has always come second to her needs, and even though she might be right in saying that I don’t have friends here, that doesn’t mean to say that I can’t make some once she’s out of the way. Long term friends are hard to come by when your famous, self-absorbed, mother takes great pleasure in scaring them all away. As far as she’s concerned my attention should be on her at all times. Frankly, I’m more her property than her daughter.
How the hell did I allow myself to get to this place?
“There is plenty of room at Adaga Hall for you, Harlow. My home is your home now. I will do anything to make my beautiful wife-to-be happy, and that extends to you too,” Robert says, oblivious, or perhaps unwilling to see just how selfish his beautiful wife-to-be really is.
“Darling, you really are incredibly generous,” my mother simpers, a gleeful look on her face. “I can’t wait to see Princetown. God knows I’ve had quite enough of Hollywood for one lifetime. Truly, it’s getting more and more difficult to breathe without all the paparazzi buzzing around me all the time.”
The paparazzi that she loves to entertain more like.
“Don’t worry about the paparazzi, their obedience can be bought. I promise, you’ll have your privacy, and you will be quite the lady of the manor. Adaga Hall is a palace fit for a queen, ” Robert says, dropping a kiss to the top of her head.
“Oh, that’s such a relief. As you know, I’ve always wanted to live in England. Do you have horses?” she asks him.
She has? That’s news to me.
“We have a stable, yes. If you’d like, I could purchase you your very own horse?”
“Oh, yes, darling. I would love a horse!” My mother squeals in excitement, clapping her hands together.
I heard once that it’s almost impossible to spend a billion pounds because of the amount of money earned daily on interest alone, and according to the Forbes list of billionaires, Robert has several billions. Though, I’m pretty sure my mother would only see that as a challenge. She’ll make a dent in his fortune in no time at all.
“See, Harlow, it’s going to be so much fun!” she screeches, the excitement in her voice grating. “Haven’t you always said that you wanted to holiday in England? Now you can live there!”
She’s right, I have always wanted to visit England, but on my terms, not hers. She’s taken my dream and twisted it into something I don’t recognise.
“What about your family, Robert? How do they feel about all of this?” I ask pointedly. I know he has a son, my mother mentioned him in passing, surely he has a say?
“You and Melody are my family now,” he says firmly. “Besides, it’s my home, and who I invite to live in it is of no concern to my son so long as he continues to defy me.”
Defy him? I open my mouth to ask what he means by that, but my mother glares at me, and I slam my mouth shut instead.
“Well, that’s settled then. You will arrange our wedding, and move into Adaga Hall with me and Robert after the wedding takes place. It’s going to be so wonderful. Thank you, Robert,” my mother adds, turning her attention to him as she palms his face and pulls him in for a kiss that I have no desire to witness.
“I’m going to take a walk,” I say, pushing up from the table, and heading towards the door.
“Before you go, darling, I’ve sent you an email with a list of things to start working on for the wedding. Perhaps you should get a head start now and we can discuss it further in the morning? No point in going out in this weather, you’ll catch a cold and we can’t afford for you to be lying in bed for days when there’s so much to do,” my mother calls after me.
“Chance would be a fine thing,” I mutter.
As the sun slips past the horizon, and the sky turns an inky-black, I place my laptop on my bedside table and stretch my arms above my head, pleased with the progress I’ve already made on the wedding plans. My mother and Robert left for an early dinner a couple of hours ago, and I’m looking forward to making a grilled cheese sandwich and taking a long hot shower before they return.
I didn’t go for that walk, not because of my mother’s concern for me catching a cold–which I know wasn’t concern at all but a big fat fuck you to me doing anything that’s remotely enjoyable–but because I figured if I’m going to have any chance at finally loosening her grip on me, then getting their wedding arranged has to be a priority. I can only hope that she’ll be so distracted by Robert and the extravagant lifestyle his money can afford that she won’t care about what I choose to do with my life. Picking up my phone, I scroll through my Pinterest board, smiling at the photos of the life I’m hoping to manifest, one where I’m living in a small cottage by the sea penning songs and writing lyrics for other artists somewhere far, far away from my mother.
“One day this will be my life,” I tell myself, already feeling a little bit lighter.
As I’m about to discard my phone it vibrates, making that little buzzing sound when a notification is received. I groan, expecting to see a message from my mother but when I glance at the screen, I notice a notification from Instagram instead, informing me I’ve received a direct message.
“Weird, I haven’t used that account in years,” I mutter, clicking the app open.
For a brief moment, I look over my old posts. The last recording of my voice was uploaded over two years ago. In an attempt to keep my identity hidden, I chose @FridayI’mInLove as my account name, a nod to my favourite song, and of course my stage name. Then I posted footage of something scenic with my music playing over the top, hoping that the viewer's focus would be drawn to my voice and nothing else. At one point, I’d had the grand idea that one of my videos would go viral, but they never did, and I guess I just didn’t have it in me to keep posting.
It’s been a while since I’ve checked the account, and I can see that since I last checked I’ve had quite a few messages which I haven’t been notified about before now.
“There must’ve been some kind of update and these are just a load of spam, or perverts sending dick pics,” I mumble, clicking on the first message.
“Do I want help with social media advertising?” I read, rolling my eyes, then deleting the message and moving onto the next.
Want more followers , the next one reads and I groan, deleting that too. I keep opening the messages finding nothing more than sales pitches or marketing companies offering me help.
When I open the next message on the list, I’m surprised to find something altogether different.
Your voice is stunning. Why haven’t you posted in such a long time?
Stunning ? I stare at the screen, the message blinking back at me as I frown. A surprising feeling of warmth unfurls in my chest at the compliment, and I consider responding to the message that was only sent a few days back, but what would be the use? I don’t use this account anymore, and frankly I should’ve deleted it ages ago. Still, I chew on my lip, debating whether to reply. In the end I simply respond with a thank you, then click out of the app, throw my phone onto the bed and head into the shower.
Twenty minutes later I’m clean and wearing a pair of soft cashmere joggers and hoodie, standing barefoot in the kitchen, eating the last bite of my grilled cheese sandwich. My still damp hair is hanging loosely around my face as I pick up my generous glass of chilled white wine and head into our living area, wandering over to the record player in the corner of the room.
I’ve always loved the scratchy sound that a track makes when played through a record player. It reminds me of the days when my mother showered me with affection, singing and dancing with me in the living room when I was a kid. It’s those memories that I cling on to every time she does something to disappoint me.
We loved each other fiercely once.
That seems like a lifetime ago now. When I look at her now, I don’t even recognise the person staring back at me. Where has the woman gone who used to care about my happiness, who would watch me dance and sing, often joining in as we pranced around our living room, filled with joy and love for one another?
My fingers linger on the LP of You Are The Sunshine Of My Life by Stevie Wonder, and the memory of us singing this song to each other fills me with a hopeless kind of longing. Taking a sip of my wine, I place the glass on the side cabinet, pull the LP from the sleeve and place it on the turntable, hovering the needle above it, before pressing the play button. Within moments the music begins to sound through the speakers, and I close my eyes letting the memories of that time wash over me.
I don’t even realise that I’ve been singing along to the track until I hear someone behind me clear their throat. Heat rises up my chest as my hands drop to my sides, and I turn to find Robert and my mother standing in the entranceway staring at me. My mother is scowling, but Robert…? His eyes are wide, mouth open in… Shock? Surprise? Appreciation?
“Harlow, what on earth are you doing? We could hear you halfway down the drive!” my mother admonishes, flicking her gaze to Robert who is still gaping at me.
“Just remembering,” I reply softly, my heart pounding in my chest.
Please mom, just remember who we were , I find myself thinking.
“Remembering?” Robert asks, swallowing hard, his throat bobbing up and down as he looks between us, sensing the tension, not understanding it.
I’m not sure I do either. When did it all go so wrong?
“Mom and I used to–” I begin, but my mother interrupts.
“Harlow fancies herself a singer, don’t you? I’ve told her time and again that her voice isn’t up to scratch,” she says, her nasty comment like a knife straight to my gut.
I reach for my glass of wine, gulping back a mouthful before shaking my head. “I don’t fancy myself as anything. I just sing sometimes, that’s all.”
“Your efforts would be far better focused on organising my wedding. I take it you’ve not even read the email I sent you?”
“I have actually–”
“Focus on that, not this…” she waves her hand in the air, “This fantasy of yours.”
“That’s enough, Melody,” Robert scolds, his voice cold as he glances down at my mother.
If she’s taken aback by his remark, then I’m even more so.
“I just meant–” she begins, but he cuts her off.
“Harlow, you have a beautiful voice,” he says, and I hear his sincerity, see it in the warmth of his eyes.
“Th-thank you,” I stammer, not sure how I feel about his compliment if I’m honest.
Part of me is grateful for his kindness, the other part knows only too well that my mother will hate me for it. I glance at her, and she narrows her eyes at me. God, I’ll never live this down. “I should go to bed, leave you both to continue with your celebrations.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that Harlow could sing?” Robert asks, casting a look over his shoulder at my mother as he strides into the living room and takes a seat on the sofa. I watch as he unbuttons his suit jacket, flipping the material aside to make himself comfortable.
“It never occurred to me,” she replies, still very obviously annoyed by the whole situation.
“Harlow, will you stay a while? I’d love to hear you sing some more,” Robert offers, and it feels like an olive branch, one my mother will expect me to ignore.
I shift on my feet awkwardly, lifting my gaze from Robert to my mother as she approaches, settling beside him on the sofa. Her mouth is pressed into a hard line, her eyes screaming at me to deny him.
“I was just heading to bed. Maybe another time?”
He nods, disappointment skirting across his features.
“Goodnight then,” I say, stepping away from them both.
“Wait a moment,” Robert says, reaching for me. His fingers curl around my wrist and I pause, hating the way my mother’s eyes fix on the spot where he’s touching me. I gently pull my arm from his grasp.
“Yes?”
“How would you feel about singing at our wedding?” he asks.
“You want Harlow to sing at our wedding? I’ve already made a shortlist of musicians that I’d like to perform at our reception,” my mother says quickly, not quite able to hide the surprise in her voice.
“Not at the reception, but perhaps Harlow could sing at the ceremony?” he suggests.
“Harlow has no experience performing in front of an audience. I’m sure she would find it overwhelming, wouldn’t you, darling?” she says, hiding her annoyance behind a sickly sweet smile, incorrect in her belief that I’ve never performed for an audience before, but wholly correct in her assumptions that I would find it overwhelming. Performing as Friday Love is one thing, but as myself, quite another.
“You’ll be amongst friends, family ,” Robert continues. “I think it would add such a personal touch to the ceremony. Not to mention, a voice as beautiful as yours should be enjoyed.”
“I don’t think so, but thank you for asking. It means a lot,” I reply pointedly.
I don’t know Robert well, but I do appreciate his kind words. It’s more than I’ve ever received from my own mother, and that alone makes me warm to him a little more.
“That’s a real shame, Harlow. I do want you to feel involved in this wedding, as I’m sure your mother does too. Why not sleep on it?”
“She said she doesn’t want to, Robert. Harlow isn’t one to be center stage, she just doesn’t have it in her,” my mother says, eyeing me.
What she really means is that she doesn’t want anyone else to take away from her on her big day, and even though I would never want to do that, her cruel remark just makes me want to defy her.
“You know what, I’d love to,” I reply, and before my mother can say anything to the contrary, I turn on my heel and leave.