— This is humiliating! What am I supposed to tell my mother? She’ll eat me alive.
— Tell her the truth. That you’re a very budget-conscious son. Paula stood, picked up her cup, and walked toward the sink. At that exact moment, the doorbell rang sharply in the hall.
Mike jumped like a firecracker had gone off under him. He darted around the small kitchen, grabbing at a dish towel, then the empty sugar bowl. — Quick! — he hissed, grabbing Paula by the elbow.
— Get out that sushi, cut some cheese, do something! Paula coolly pulled her arm free. — Go answer the door. Your guests are waiting.
Pale now, sweat beading on his forehead, Mike shuffled into the hallway. The lock clicked. Instantly the apartment filled with the heavy scent of expensive perfume, powder, and absolute superiority.
His mother, Eleanor — a formidable woman in every sense — wore her fur coat like it was a judge’s robe, and her stare could have chilled boiling water. Behind her came Vanessa, Mike’s sister, a leaner, more polished version of her mother, with lips that always seemed fixed in a faintly dismissive smile.
Paula and Mike’s relatives had long maintained a state of cold diplomacy. They never truly accepted her, finding her too plain, not ambitious enough, and generally beneath their golden boy Mike. They saw each other only at family gatherings, exchanging little barbs wrapped in fake politeness.
Eleanor’s deep voice filled the hallway. — We were beginning to think you all had gone to bed. — Hey, Mom. Hey, Vanessa, — Mike muttered, trying to block the path to the kitchen.
— Block all you want, I need to wash my hands and sit down.
I’m starving. Traffic on the highway was a mess. Vanessa nudged her brother aside with one shoulder and slipped off her pointed boots. — Paula, come on out. We’re here.
Paula stepped into the hall wearing simple lounge pants and a soft cardigan. She looked relaxed and composed, which only made Mike’s jittery state more obvious. — Good evening, Eleanor. Hi, Vanessa.
— Well, happy birthday, I suppose. Eleanor gave her an appraising look, as if deciding whether the item matched the label. — Years go by and you’re still the same size.
At least give Mike credit for that. He hasn’t overfed you. Vanessa gave a little laugh, adjusting her perfectly styled hair. They walked into the kitchen and stopped.
The sight of the bare table, the lack of cooking smells, and the spotless order of the room hit them like a brick. Eleanor slowly swept her eyes over the immaculate kitchen. Then lowered them to the empty dining table…
