Marrying Mr. Darcy (Love Manor #2) - Kate O'Keeffe Page 0,43
hop around at the mention of Geraldine.
“We were just going to meet Uncle Hector,” I say.
“Uncle Hector can wait. He’s deep in conversation with Rasmus, anyway.”
I take a deep breath and steel myself. We make our way through the crowd. Geraldine is propped up on her walking stick, a glass of what looks like sherry in her hand, talking to a man I’ve not met before as Jemima listens in.
“Hello, Granny,” Zara says as she gives her a kiss on her cheek.
“Zara, darling.” She sweeps an appreciative eye over her granddaughter. “Divine as always, if the skirt is a little short.” She looks pointedly at Zara’s bare knees. “Couldn’t you at least have worn a pair of pantyhose?”
“Granny, no one under sixty wears pantyhose anymore. And besides, pantyhose are just plain weird.”
She presses her lips together. “If you’re going to deride an item of clothing, dear, at least try to make better use of the vernacular. ‘Weird’ is an utterly ubiquitous term that’s come to mean next to nothing.”
“Weird means weird, Granny,” Zara replies, unperturbed.
I, on the other hand, am feeling thoroughly perturbed. My dress is just as short as Zara’s, and not only did I not consider wearing pantyhose tonight, I don’t even own a pair.
“Hello, ma’am,” I say to her with a nervous smile. “You look terrific. In fact, I love the way you’re all dressed in black. It’s like it’s Team Huntington-Ross's color tonight.”
And I’m the only one left out.
She throws a look in my direction. “I find the best eveningwear is black,” she replies.
Right.
I try a different tack.
“I also love the way you’ve combined pearls with…more pearls.”
Yes, I know, I’m a total suck. I feel no shame. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
And as a side note, she is wearing a lot of pearls right now.
She regards me for a moment before she turns toward a piece of art on the wall. I’ve been so busy dealing with the people side of things, I haven’t given a second thought to the art.
“I do find this piece intriguing. Don’t you, Emma?” she says.
I run my eyes over it. It’s a white canvas with what looks like a hair on it, one not from your head, if you catch my drift. “Sure is. Real intriguing.”
“What do you think it says?”
Someone wipe this hair off me?
“Oh, I, ah, I imagine it’s a comment on soap,” I say, grasping at the first thought that pops into my head.
She arches her thin eyebrows. “Soap?”
“You know, how if you use a bar of soap after your roommate there might be something stuck to it that you don’t want to be stuck to it?”
Beside me, Zara snorts. I shoot her a look.
“How very…original of you,” Geraldine replies.
She was testing me, and I failed.
“Well, I think it’s just splendid,” Jilly says. “And Emma’s very astute. Although it’s my understanding the artist is making a commentary on the impermanence and transitory nature of 21st century life, I can absolutely see how soap can be a part of that conceptualization.”
I nod along as though whatever Jilly just said made perfect sense. “Indeed,” I say, touching my chin as though deep in thought. Which I am. It’s just I’m thinking “What the frigging heck is she rattling on about?” rather than anything about “conceptualizations” and the like.
Geraldine widens her eyes and shoots me a look that suggests I add something more to Jilly’s assessment.
“Jilly’s totally right. That’s what I meant about the soap thing.”
I flash her a grateful smile. It’s so good to have Jilly on my side, someone who’s close to the family but not in the family, someone who can help me navigate these new, murky waters.
Geraldine’s smile is pleasant and totally unconvinced. “Tell me, what do you think of this piece?” She gestures at something behind me, and I turn to see a toilet bowl, filled with some sort of goopy pink liquid. It looks like it’s been plunked in the middle of the room for no good reason.
What the heck do I say about that? If the last one looked like an errant hair stuck to a bar of soap, this one is a step waaay too far into the bathroom for me.
“Oh, this?” I ask, and I notice in horror as a couple of other people have joined our group around the toilet bowl, awaiting my expert assessment.
“Yes. This,” Geraldine replies, and I’m sure I spot a glint in her eye.