25) The Jungle

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                            “Oh great," I said.

                        My gaze slid over the elegant woman wearing sitting cross-legged in front of me. She wore a grey fox fur spiral trim cape, cream slacks, tasteful boots, and her hair was twisted up into a tight bun.

                        “What kind of greeting was that?” Mother demanded, her shaped eyebrows rising as far as her plastic face would allow her. “Do you have any idea how worried I was about you? You weren’t answering any of your calls. I cleared my schedule and came to your apartment. Imagine my surprise, to find that you moved next door!”

                        When I didn’t respond, she stood up from the bed, offering her arms in an unquestionably cold hug, which I reluctantly took. Her perfume somehow reminded me of my childhood home, and I started to feel very sick. Now was my opportunity to tell her everything: that I had been drugged, tied to a chair, and suffering from Stockholm syndrome. That my neighbor was in the mafia and although I had slept with him in the same bed the night before, I was terrified of him…

                        “Say something, Scarlett! Are you and him serious?” Mother pulled out of the hug and smiled—or at least I think she was smiling. That damn Botox…

                        I avoided her prodding, feeling as though a dark haired Italian boy was a mere two feet outside the bedroom. “How are you and Greg?” I asked.

                        “He’s wonderful!” She looked past me, smiling. Oh god, why did you let her talk about herself? “Yesterday we picked out a new hot tub for one of our houses!” She pressed a finger against her lip. “I think we installed it in the one in Vermont. We haven’t used it yet, of course, but we will eventually.” Not. “We’re spending Christmas there, I believe!

                        “That’s nice.” Don’t invite me. Don’t invite me.

                        “Oh, darling”--Mother lowered her voice to a whisper-- “Ferro’s a dream. He’s so handsome, polite…and rich. He complimented my hair, offered to make me coffee. I approve.” Approve. That wasn’t a word I heard from my mother often. “But those bruises on his face were so dreadful at worst, I thought he was a criminal or something!” She laughed, her extremely high cheekbones never budging, like concrete. “I don’t know how he does it. Kickboxing, that is. I always wanted to take it up with my trainer, but my manicure would get ruined! He must be very good!”

                        I bit back a smile. “He does love his kickboxing…” Aka getting his head kicked in with my foot.

                        “Excuse me ladies,” an Italian lilt announced, startling me. My gaze shot over my mother’s shoulder, and I made eye contact with the Linguini Sex God himself. “I’ve made espresso for you both.”

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