long, depressing day. And it isn’t even nine o’clock yet.
I just manage to get a K-Cup in the machine when my intercom buzzes, telling me someone’s downstairs. I shove my mug under the spout and hit the brew button before heading into the living room to answer it. A girl’s gotta have priorities. Whoever’s down there, they can’t be more important than coffee.
The buzzer goes off again, three times in rapid succession. My mystery visitor is an impatient little fucker.
I puff a stray lock of hair off my forehead and hold down the talk button. “Hello?”
“It’s your mother.” Her voice makes me shrivel like I’ve been doused by a bucket of ice water.
“Mom.” I’d sink to the floor if I could, but my arm’s not long enough for my finger to stay on the stupid intercom button. I settle for leaning against the wall for support. “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t a mother visit her daughter?”
Not my mother. Not in this lifetime.
Hell, I wasn’t even sure she remembered where I lived. Or maybe I was hoping she forgot.
“Ainsley?” I can almost see the look of haughty disdain she’s worked years to perfect. “Are you still there?”
I sigh and stab at the intercom button. “Come on up.”
It’s not like I have much of a choice. As much as I’d like to, I can’t very well leave the woman who gave birth to me in the lobby.
I glance around my studio apartment, my eyes lighting on all the things she’s sure to find fault with. The dirty dishes in the sink. The piles of papers everywhere. The basket of laundry I haven’t gotten around to folding yet.
I fleetingly consider doing a quick cleanup, but fuck it. She’s the one who showed up unannounced. If she doesn’t like my housekeeping skills—or lack thereof—that’s her problem.
From down the hall, I hear the elevator ding, followed by the staccato click-clack of my mother’s ever-present designer pumps—I don’t think the woman’s worn anything with less than a three-inch heel since grade school. I open the door and step aside to let her in.
“Darling.” She brushes past me, striding into my humble abode like she owns the damn place. Not that she’d ever lower herself to live south of Central Park. “I’ve been worried sick about you. You haven’t returned any of my calls or texts.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. Things have been crazy.”
I cross my fingers behind my back at the lie. Not the sorry part, the crazy part. I really do feel bad for giving her reason to be concerned. And not just because I know how much she hates the worry lines she gets around her eyes and mouth.
She pushes aside a stack of magazines, daintily brushes off the couch cushion and sits, crossing her legs and smoothing her perfectly tailored pencil skirt over her slim thighs. I have to hand it to her. For a woman over fifty, she’s in damn good shape. My mother has always prided herself on her appearance.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t feel the same way about me.
“You look terrible,” she says, pursing her lips.
“Gee, thanks.” I stare down at my respectable but pedestrian outfit—boyfriend jeans, a V-necked top and a white blazer. I guess I should be thankful. If she had come an hour earlier, I’d have still been in my Hello Kitty pajamas. “If I knew you were coming, I would have put on my Sunday best.”
“That’s not what I mean.” She clucks her tongue at me like I’m a rebellious teenager. Or one of her staff. “You’re pale. And the circles under your eyes are getting darker by the minute. Are you sleeping? Eating? Have you been taking the multivitamins I suggested?”
Not enough, too much and what multivitamins? I must have tuned out that lecture. Something I did frequently when my mother got on a roll. It was a matter of self-preservation.
“I’m fine. Like I said, I’m just busy.” I remember my coffee and head for the Keurig. “Can I get you anything to drink? Water? Coffee? Tea?”
Or I could open a vein and let you drink my blood.
She waves me off. “Work is going well, then? Business is booming?”
I sip the sweet, caffeinated heaven, taking my time to savor it before answering, and flop into the bean bag chair I’ve had since college. It was the first piece of furniture I ever purchased, and I don’t have the heart to get rid of it. Plus, it’s more comfortable than it looks, and my mother despises it. She