In Drunken Matrimony ✔️

Twenty one - Family Dis-Fortunes

Hᴀʟʟɪᴇ

I harden my face as I walk through to office floor. They can't know - it's imperative they don't.

They can't recognise that I've cried for the past two days, for reasons that I can't quite isolate. Oliver leaving, the admittance of his feelings, or the lacking admittance of mine. It has all blurred, the severity of the situation softened only slightly by the two remaining tubs of ice cream he left in my freezer. I have finished the both of them, and other than bloated, I don't feel much more of anything at all.

The weather has dropped, leaving me slightly chilling as I pass through in my blazer dress and bare legs, cursing whoever thought it logical to leave the windows open. Realistically, it makes no difference, because I am bound to go hom and change within an hour or so, back comfortable in the joggers and jumper Oliver allowed me to wear. He never asked for them back, and I've found them far too comfortable to ignore.

Just as I round the corner, I falter, my path interjected with the tall form of my mother. Her hair is tight back, slicked into a top bun which pulls her skin taught, lifted her features in a way that makes her look as though she is permanently frowning. As always, she takes a moment to scrutinise the attire I am donned in, then checks my hair, and my makeup. She either has no complaints, or dares not to voice them.

"Why are you here?" She asks. I try not to huff at her predictability. No hello, no endearing form of acknowledgment at all.

"Dad asked me to do the financial statements for this year. I've come to do the balance sheet." The way she regards me almost looks as though she thinks I'm lying. She hums finally, and I expect her to stand aside to allow me past, but instead, she gestures southwards.

"Come to my office first. We need to talk privately." She clips away in her heels before I can even attempt to argue against that suggestion, and so I'm left reluctantly trudging behind her with gritted teeth. I click the door shut behind me and when I turn, my mum is already seated behind her long oak desk, the curved computer monitor twisted aside so she can see me perfectly clear, yet it is still in position to be viewed by the pair of us. "Sit." She instructs.

I hesitate momentarily, then comply, lowering myself into the leather seat which, despite its expense, is about as uncomfortable as I am currently in this situation. "What's the problem?"

As though practiced, she tilts the screen further towards me, on it displayed a picture of Oliver with his numerous bags, sat on the train, slouched with despondency. Just the sight of his face makes me want to begin crying all over again. "I've paid to have these kept from the media." I briefly glance at her, her expression cruel. "Trouble in paradise?" She mocks.

Immediately, I feel threatened - prey stalked by a predator with no where to run. Backed into a corner without any form of exit. Perhaps I had not been sure, but I had always suspected that my mother never quite believed this spiel Oliver and I have spun. It seems now, she believes her instincts to be correct.

"He's exhausted," I lie, my tone sharp against the accusation. "Tired of the stupid interviews, and the ridiculous dinners, and the overzealous parties. He's gone home to spend some time with his family. To relax. If it weren't so difficult for me to do the same, I might have well joined him."

The smug grin on her face soon drops to a frown, face hardening at the way in which I speak to her. "Hallie, I have raised you for twenty years - I know when you lie to me."

With my mood ever deteriorating, I find no qualm in scoffing derisively. "Please; you had less to do with mine and Helena's upbringing than dad did, and he was away two thirds of the year."