“Oh, shit. This is bad.”

“You haven’t understood the worst of it. I can handle Father, but you have to tea with . . . what’s the American expression? Ah, ladies who lunch. Mum’s friends’ only care in the world is their station, the gossip about others, and appearances. I’m getting the better end in this bargain, and I’m going to be working alone all day.”

I am so fucked. And the worst part? I have to drink another cup of dirt water.

“So, have you heard about the new flat he’s renting?” a woman says behind a disapproving frown as she sips her tea. “Absolutely atrocious! And in the . . . well . . . up-and-coming side of town.”

The way she says ‘up-and-coming’ sounds like she’s being too polite to say ghetto. Or as though she can’t stand the taste of the word.

“Oh, my!” the woman to my left stage whispers. I’ve already forgotten her name, too struck by the absolute frozen stillness of her forehead. I vaguely wonder how much Botox that takes because she’s got to be pushing seventy and is completely expressionless. “It does serve him right after the way he ran amok on Patrice. The poor dear.”

Her lips don’t seem capable of smiling or frowning, but I still get the sense that she feels no real sympathy for Patrice, whoever she is.

The ladies gathered around the table hum agreeably, and I have to choke back a sip of tea. I’ve been holding on to being polite for the past half hour by the skin of my teeth, giving bland smiles as I listen to the gathering play social ladder scramble.

“Mary, dear, you mentioned your middle child has returned from the US? How is he doing there? Probably losing his mind with the change in culture.”

I think this lady’s name is Francis, if I remember correctly. And honestly, I’m using the term ‘lady’ pretty loosely. Oh, she’s dressed as a lady, cut from the same cloth as the rest of the harpies gathered around the table, right down to the antique diamond earrings and matching bracelets, sipping tea and nibbling tiny sandwiches with impeccable manners, but there’s nothing ladylike about this piranha.

Obliviously, Mary beams. “Yes, he is. Back home for a visit, though I hope to keep him a bit longer. But he’s doing well in the States, brought home his sweetie, Elle.”

She’s already introduced me, and I’ve already made it through the firing squad line-up of judging eyes that are an odd combination of Mean Girls meets Golden Girls. But those same clear and sharp eyes turn back to me once again.

“Nabbed yourself a fine one, eh?” Francis asks me. “Must be quite the fortune for a girl like you. You’re just his assistant, correct?”

My mouth drops open. It’s not the words so much as her obvious belief that Colton is somehow above me simply because of his bank account and station.

I swear I hear Margaret, one of the other ‘ladies’, quietly joke, “Ah, well, now we know what he sees in her.”

I close my mouth, my teeth clacking against each other harshly. I clear my throat and force myself to swallow down the vitriol I want to blast these women with. It would feel so good to just flambé them like a pig over a spit roast, but that would only prove their point.

That I’m less than, their un-equal. Rude, crude, and American to boot.

And as much as I hate to admit it, Colton might need his mother’s help on this business deal with his dad. Pissing her off, embarrassing her in front of her snobby friends, would sabotage that.

But I’m my dad’s daughter, and I’ve seen him play this game before. I’ve seen him win this game before. The best way, the only way to come out the victor, is to play their game better than they do.

I turn back to Francis slowly, letting the dramatic effect intensify and knowing that each of them is waiting with bated breath to be proven right about me. Even Francis’s lips are tilted up in anticipation.

“I do feel fortunate to be with Colton. He is such an amazing man who appreciates intelligence and independence. He sees me as an equal, a partner . . . though perhaps that’s a rather American ideal you would be unfamiliar with?”

I smile sweetly, as though I’m merely educating her on a minor cultural difference. “He values my mind and ideas, actually wants to listen to them and share his own with me. We talk and have fun, spending time together doing absolutely nothing but enjoying each other’s company. That is quite rare, wouldn’t you think?”

Francis’s tiny smile is falling, and I go in for the kill. She’s made some assumptions about me, but I’ve made some about her, too, after listening to them snipe, snipe, snipe about everyone and everything while simultaneously offering humble brags about their wealth, their station, and even their children and grandchildren.

“Sadly, some couples are rather exhausted with one another after a short period of time, or the women are relegated to being seen and not heard.”

I shake my head sadly, feigning disbelief that someone would settle for so little. “I certainly wouldn’t trade my education, my outspokenness, nor Colton’s interest in me for sitting around like an old biddy with nothing better to do than make myself feel better by downing others. That would be so distasteful, an utter waste of my days.”

Mary flounders, trying to smooth things over. “Oh, Elle, dear. Let’s not make a scene. Of course Colton appreciates such American openness, but we do prefer a less direct . . .”

The damage is done.

Her friends are sneering at me, and Mary looks heavily disappointed as she realizes it. There’s no salvaging this tea or this potential connection with Mary. If I’ve killed Colton’s chances, then I might as well go out with a bang.

I turn to Margaret, the woman who thinks my only redeeming skill might be blow jobs.

“And yes, Colton does enjoy my mouth.” Blink. Blink. I let them remember Margaret’s catty peanut gallery comment. “It’s not shameful or embarrassing to have a happy, healthy sex life.”

Ooh, the sharp hiss as I dare to say the word ‘sex’ over proper white tablecloth tea is loud enough to gather the attention of the surrounding tables. But fuck it, I’m on a roll.

I take my napkin from my lap, dabbing at the corners of my mouth with a quirked brow to emphasize my point. “Excuse me. I think I’ll find better company. At a local up-and-coming pub.”

I turn to Mary, one last sliver of regret in my belly. Her back is ramrod straight, her eyes frosty, in such contrast to yesterday when she was wilting beneath Edwin and Colton’s fight. I don’t know what type of ‘breeding’ or ‘training’ went into making her the way she is. And yes, I’m well aware that it sounds as though I’m talking about a dog, not a person. But I have no interest in becoming whatever it is she is. And thankfully, Colton doesn’t want me to be.

They’re already talking about me as I walk away.

“Well, I never . . .”

“That little upstart . . .”

“What did you expect . . .”

It takes all I have to not turn around. There’s simply no point. I can’t change their entire outlook on the world, about what is valuable.

Outside, the sun is shining, completely oblivious to the storm brewing in my day.

What had begun on a high note, working with Colton and hoping that I would be able to smooth over the roughness with his family, has turned sour, like an off-key note sung too loudly.