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Vulnerabilities at the Dinner Table

"After that I have no idea. I might hang around for Tom's sake? I honestly haven't got a clue."

Of course, Tom's mother nods her head in agreement. It's only fair that Venetia will continue to live with her son until October.

"What happens when it's time to go home? Do you still live in England or..." the red headed woman's voice trails off. She carefully pours the piping hot water into four individual mugs, watching them turn the colour of Tom's eyes when the water touches the tea bags. Venetia watches, keeping her distance because she's a fidget and has made people - Tom - accidentally burn themselves.

The most important women in Tom's life fail to notice neither him, or Harry, casually stroll into the kitchen. The boys linger behind them, not saying anything because nothing needs to be said. Plus, they're both nosy bastards and want in on the conversation.

"I do. Well, did. To be fair we'll probably be sharing the same bed by then. Safe to assume I'm lumbered with him until the end of time," Venetia jokes, not thinking much of the casual 'I'm fucking your son' reminder. Tom, however, unknowingly flares his nostrils.

Shock - pure and utter shock - flashes across his features at her unexpected comment. So shocked, so lost for words, that he stumbles a step backwards. Harry witnesses his older brother's reaction and nervously chuckles.

"What were you saying about boundaries this earlier, Vee?" Tom reminds, reaching over Nikki's shoulder and grabbing a bourbon from off the plate.

Venetia doesn't let the embarrassment of him overhearing get in her way, she simply flashes a smile at Nikki and turns her body towards her partner.

"Now, now. We're all adults. There's no need get cranky over a fact."

In retaliation, he childishly slots a bourbon between his second and third knuckles and holds it up - as if it's his glorious middle finger. It's the most pathetic thing Venetia has ever seen him do.

"How are your parents, Venetia?" Nikki pours the milk into the tea's, careful not to make them too milky. "Are they still hosting awareness galas?" Tom and Venetia catch each other's eyes. He shakes his head slightly, as if she shouldn't answer if she doesn't want to, but Venetia ignores him.

"It's complicated," she smiles, falsely.

Ever since Venetia was a little girl, wearing pigtails and a gingham blue and white school dress, she has always disliked talking about her family. Her father is a very corrupt man. All of his scandals contribute to her disowning her birthright. She also doesn't want other people to think that she supports his views, or that he "influenced" Hollywood to give her a career handed to her on a silver platter - like Christabelle and Karolina. She never spent a single penny on her career. Venetia made her mark on the world without mentioning her parents once, with a cheap black blanket (for background) and her outdated phone that rested against a dusty Oxford dictionary from the late nineties. She earned each and every one of her Academy Award nominations herself – the hard way, full of rejection and self-hate.

Thankfully, the oven starts to beep before Nikki can answer and ask another question, unknowingly putting her son's partner on the spot.

Saved by the bell, Venetia thinks to herself.

After pushing the teas to the side, Nikki sits the hot tray down on the side of the countertop. Tom, Harry and Venetia drool over the luscious sight of the roasting pan holding a large pork joint, glistening with olive oil, and surrounded by rosemary sprigs. It seems that Nikki has tried following a cook book recipe.

"Oh my god," Venetia gasps, watching the moisture dribble into a greasy puddle below the meat while Nikki carefully carves the pork joint into thin slices. "This looks beautiful. Harry, don't this look beautiful?" Caught off guard, Harry cracks a smile and nods his head his head in agreement.