Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
He claims my hand, and I watch as he takes in air, obviously bracing himself, and then leads me down the curved stairs. “Oh God,” I whisper, when I see my mother sitting on one of the chesterfield couches in the lobby, my dad pacing in front of the window. Jude squeezes my hand tighter and nudges me with his shoulder, and I look up at him.
“I’ve got you,” he says, raking a hand through his mussed-up hair, prompting me to do the same. I must look like a sack of potatoes, all crinkled and flushed.
“Amelia!” Mum sings, hurrying up from the couch.
Jude releases my hand, allowing me to hug my mother. “I can’t believe he’s done this,” I whisper in her ear, and she laughs, loud and uneasy. “Mum, this is Jude.” I open up the way for her. “Jude, my mum, Jenn.”
“Well, it’s lovely to finally meet you officially.” She gives me wide, excited eyes when Jude dips and kisses her on each cheek.
“What a pleasure,” he says softly.
“And this is my dad, Dennis.” I lock eyes with my father and mentally beg him to rein himself in and control his impulses. “Dad, this is Jude.”
“Wonderful to meet you, Mr. Lazenby.” Jude extends his hand, and Dad does a terrible job of smiling. It’s tight. Forced. It doesn’t bode well and begs the question of why he even came. It’s exactly what I feared. He’s not had enough time to get used to this.
My father doesn’t correct Jude or tell him to call him Dennis. “Likewise,” he says, making his shake quick, then pulling away and holding his hands behind his back. A horrific silence falls, and I shift uncomfortably, scratching through my head for something to say.
“Perhaps we’d be more comfortable in the Library Bar,” Jude suggests, motioning the way.
“Oh, yes.” I point across the lobby. “The Library Bar.”
“You say that like there’s more than one bar,” Dad muses, gazing around again.
“There is.” I motion to the other end of the lobby. “The Piano Bar is through there, and there’s another in the club across the grounds.”
“So there’s three bars?” Dad asks.
“Four if you include the wine and champagne cellar.” Jude leads on, leaving me to follow with my parents, still praying this is over with fast. “Can I get you a drink?” Jude hands the cocktail menu to my mother as he directs Dad to a table in the corner by the fireplace.
“Oh, there’s a cocktail called the Amelia!” Mum sings, delighted. “I’ll have one of those.”
“It’s new. Inspired by your daughter.”
Mum’s hand slaps onto her chest. “Oh, Dennis, did you hear that?”
“I heard,” he says, lowering to a chair. “It’s a very extravagant place you have here, Mr. Harrison.”
Mr. Harrison? Give me strength.
“Please, call me Jude.” Jude looks at me discreetly, and I send a million silent apologies to him. I bet he’s regretting this. “Drink?”
“I’ll have a tonic water, please.”
“Coming up.” Jude doesn’t wave for service but rather goes to the bar to order with Clinton. He probably needs a break from them already.
I turn my eyes onto Dad, who does a damn fine job of avoiding my accusing glare. “What is this?” I ask, sending Mum into an instant fluster. “Showing up unannounced. What on earth were you expecting to find, Dad? Me chained in a cold, dank cellar mid-brainwash by the beast?”
“Now, now.” Mum smiles like an idiot. “He seems very lovely.”
“He is,” I say, eyes back on my father. “Very lovely.”
“He owns all this?” Dad motions to all this.
“Yes.”
“And this appeals to you?”
“What?”
“All this extravagance and money. It appeals to you?”
“What’s your point?”
“Well, you’ve always been so set on your independence, but I don’t see much independence being had when the man in your life is stinking rich.”
“Money means nothing to me.”
“And yet you want to be successful and make lots of it.”
I recoil, injured, and Mum reaches for my knee, rubbing as if trying to hold me down in my chair before I bounce off around the room in a temper. I can’t be dealing with this. I preferred him when he was a pigheaded old fool one hundred percent of the time rather than giving me glimmers of hope that he might pull his dinosaur head out of his arse and accept my choices.
“Do you think my desire for success hangs on making piles of money, Dad?” I ask, sitting forward in my chair. “Because it doesn’t. What success means to me is achievement. It means happiness and fulfilment. Self-worth.” I stand up. “And to prove to my prehistoric father that I’m bloody capable of running his precious family business with my younger brother.” I’m done. This was a terrible idea. I don’t know what I was thinking to hope he might change. He’s immovable. “You can see yourself out.” I dip and kiss my mum, feeling her clutch beggingly at my hand.