You're a Mean One, Matthew Prince, page 27
Later, the Radio City Music Hall marquee shimmers in red, blue, and gold above us. Its dazzling Art Deco style makes me giddy as we emerge from the Town Car. Together. A trio out on the town like the old days. I’m ten and tapping my toes to the music that floats out from the lobby doors.
Dad hands out the tickets over the sound of “Is that Anna Winston-Prince?” and “Do you think she’d sign my forehead?” Usually Mom would ignore this kind of chatter from the attendees shivering in the admission line, but instead, she beelines right for them, stopping for selfies and kissing babies. Quoting her series to a riotous round of “Huzzah, hurrah! For glory and our kingdom!”
Maybe what she said in the tea room was real. We’re all due for some growth. Perhaps this generous act is a small way to garner some good press in the wake of my scandal. Anna Winston-Prince making time for her fans while attending a sold-out show is the kind of thing that gets shouted about on all the forums and blogs.
I try not to read too much into it.
Inside the theater, the concentric golden arches welcome me home. It’s been an eternity since I’ve been here. A kindly usher hands me a program and a pair of 3D glasses. The three of us shuffle down our aisle, sink into comfy velvet chairs, and prepare to be whisked into high-kicking and a thousand bell-ringing Santas.
The lights dim. The chatter stops. Despite everything, as the curtain rises, so do my spirits.
Chapter 36
There’s no way to describe the Plaza Hotel on Christmas Day other than dripping. From the plush red carpets dripping out the front entryway and down its step to its ornate chandeliers dripping crystals, the gilded palace screams classic luxury.
Mom and I are primped to the nines for Christmas tea at the Palm Court, another bygone go-to from childhood. Back then, I hated being stuffed into my nice clothes and sheathed in a cloud of hairspray, but today, I sport my Givenchy metallic leather pants. The ones I begged a pranking Hector not to steal before I realized who he was and what was happening. The mohair jacket was the perfect touch to complete the ensemble.
I know it’s wrong, but I expect to be photographed. Again, if a photo of me in this outfit happens to float past Hector’s eyes while he’s scrolling on his phone, so be it. Revenge is a dish best served in hot pants.
We check in at the underground dining hall’s guarded passage with its gold railings, striking columns, and detailed floral carpets. Christmas trees alternate with palm trees on our right, making for a magical, if also confusing, indoor landscape. Ornate architectural motifs abound around us.
“Why is Dad meeting us here again?” I ask, nearly tripping up the steps I don’t see in time.
“He forgot a gift with his assistant again. You know him,” Mom says, blasé.
When we prepared to leave without him, I couldn’t hide the confusion, but Mom brushed it off. Dad has always been an early riser, but Christmas Day was the exception. Not hearing him scuttling around the apartment, dictating last-minute emails was puzzling, but I decide not to harp on it.
All in all, we’re back to basics (if breakfast at one of the most expensive spots in the city could be considered basic), and I don’t want to risk that. I’m just happy to be included. Even though it seems a tad too much—as Hector might say.
I would’ve been happy with a second round of cinnamon buns. I might’ve even put my Wind River baking skills to good use beside Oksana.
But she has the day off, and I’m trying to scrub myself clean of that place. So I shelve the uncertainty.
Dad appears in the lobby. He holds an impeccably gift-wrapped box, corroborating Mom’s story. He offers me another smile, another micro-hug.
The Palm Court is like tea in the Wind River Inn reading room on steroids. Faux orchids pop out of flower boxes behind high-backed booths. A stained-glass skylight stands as the centerpiece of a room sheathed in olive greens and bursts of vibrant pink.
We’re set up beside a voluminous, titular palm in a bulbous pot. Its fronds hit me in the face as I sit.
Dad doesn’t even let us see the menu. He orders the most expensive prix fixe—a decadent array of unlimited tea, coffee, and champagne. Promptly, a three-tiered circular display of clotted cream, finger sandwiches, and indulgent pastries gets placed in the center of us. My taste buds are eager for the festive treats. Especially the mini Bûche de Noëls.
“To another holiday here in New York. Good health and lots of happiness ahead,” Dad says. We tip our glasses together, but nobody makes eye contact, breaking the cardinal rule of toasting. I’m unsure, but Dad’s wedding band looks askew on his hand. Mom keeps dabbing her upper lip with the linen napkin, even though she hasn’t eaten a bite yet.
I’m about to take my first taste when Dad says, “I bet you’re wondering why we brought you here—”
“Matt,” Mom scolds. She never uses his nickname, especially not in public. Her held-up hand is a blinking stop sign. “Present first.”
Dad fishes for the gift he dropped beneath the table. I set down the sandwich I’d been planning to demolish in a single bite. My parents’ eyes are expectantly cast in my direction. They haven’t watched me open a gift with this much parental enthusiasm since, well, maybe ever.
Delicately, I pull the strand of silken ribbon and the box unfurls. In the center, wrapped in tissue paper, I find a Prada bifold wallet. My fingers brush over the pebbled leather and the metallic letters pressed into the corner. I know what I’ll find when I open it. My cards, all new, all shiny, all set to be linked to Apple Pay. They’re ready for me to resume my old life.
Shouldn’t I be ecstatic? I feel anything but.
“The social media blackout remains in effect until after the New Year,” Mom starts, taking the wallet and doing what my hands couldn’t. She shows me that I’m right. Untouched cards are nestled in the fine black slips inside. “But we thought it only fair you should be given access to your funds once more.”
“So you’re aware, the island sold for a little more than what you paid for it. Honestly, even I was shocked. I guess having the family name attached to it hiked up the value a bit. I was lucky to fob that island off on an acquaintance. I spun a few tales like the ones you told me—all that potential nonsense. Glad he ate it up. You’ll see that the profit has been deposited into your account,” Dad informs me, very businesslike, producing a bill of sale from his pocket. “Be sure to put that in the lockbox I gave you for important documents.”
This is all happening quickly. I thought they’d ease me back into the old way. It seems they are set on speedily moving past this. Which makes me wonder why those matching looks of upset linger on their faces. Mom takes a big gulp of her champagne.
“Th-thank you,” I stammer, unsure if I’m grateful for the letup or fettered by the shackles of these sharp pieces of plastic again.
“You’re welcome, Matthew,” Mom says in an unrecognizable voice. What is she doing with that napkin?
Uneasy and unable to ignore it through this whole meal, I say, “If it was that easy, it’s clearly not why you sent me to Wind River.”
My statement sends a shock wave around the table, maybe through the whole place.
The “café,” which is larger than most restaurants in New York City, grows louder. Families reunite. Tourists stream in with shopping bags and hugs to give. Overwhelming doesn’t even begin to describe it.
“We need you to be smarter with your expenses from now on, okay? Your mom and I work hard for that money, and now…with, uh…” Dad pauses.
“With what?” I ask.
“We just expect you to be more careful and considerate of your spending,” he finishes.
Mom speaks from the bottom of her first glass of champagne. “I think what your father is trying to get at is that, um, it’s clear you felt a strain on our family, and rightly so because…”
I brace myself for news of a big move, an affair they’ve parsed through without my knowledge, a work snafu that needs to be hush-hush covered up. The classics all my classmates’ families went through back in the day. That juicy gossip that got leaked to Deuxmoi.
“We’re getting divorced,” Mom concludes, voice low so no one overhears.
Right as she says it, an inexperienced server drops a portly white china pot nearby. The hot brown tea seeps into the lavish golden carpet. I watch as the stain spreads, begins to set, needing something to focus my eyes on that isn’t my parents.
“You’re what?” My ears are ringing too loudly for me to be certain I’ve heard correctly.
“Your father and I are getting a divorce,” Mom says again. Her statement is blunt, declarative. It punctures me. “This arrangement is no longer suiting us, so we’ve decided to part ways. So you can see why we need you to be less spend-happy as we split our assets.”
Quickly, I invent a fake Children of Divorce Dance. No parents allowed. Part support group, part drink-fueled rager. It’s at a Midtown pub with mirrored walls and low lighting. The signature cocktail is a Daddy Issues Daiquiri and the food special is Mom’s Not Coming Home Mashed Potatoes. (They even come with a tiny plastic mallet to do some heated mashing yourself.)
The details calm me enough to come around to it. It’s painful, sure, but it’s survivable. Right? It has to be.
“When you were young, you always said you wanted two Christmases,” Mom offers. I guess a half-ass silver lining is better than no silver lining at all. I nod heavily.
“Matthew, I think it’s fair to say your mother and I haven’t been happy together for a long time, and…” I notice Mom kick him under the table, prompting him to speak up. Not beat around the bush. Summon some of his businessman steel. “I’ve met someone.”
“He says he’s in love,” Mom tosses in for good measure.
“With who?”
Dad grows ruddy, won’t meet my gaze. “Ellie Barton.”
Dad’s a polished man with nice hair and a lean figure, but he’s leaps and bounds below former supermodel Ellie Barton’s level. She’s the kind of woman that breaks Instagram records for likes and follower counts. The kind of woman that leaves a trail of broken hearts in her wake.
Wow, I invited her to my New Year’s Eve party last year. Baz and Spencer introduced her to me. I introduced her to Dad. How stupid had I been?
I’m tempted to ask if this strange arrangement dates back to the party. Was I the catalyst for this cataclysmic corruption of our lives?
But then again, what about me and my selfish actions? I haven’t made it easy on them. I know that. Vying for their attention when they receive it in droves on such a grand scale became an obsession. I convinced myself I needed to work overtime to get them to see me.
Now, for the first time, maybe I’m seeing them.
“I want to explore what we have further,” Dad says. Suddenly, it clicks why we met him here. He’s been staying here. That’s why he wasn’t padding around the apartment this morning. Somewhere in his blazer pocket he’s got a room key. Ellie Barton may be up in a suite waiting for this charade to end, the other shoe to drop.
“Understand that with me on tour or on set or writing and him working and traveling and taking meetings, our lives are like ships passing in the night,” Mom says, calm enough to serve herself some chilled salmon, but shaky enough for it to be noticeable. “We’ll do the formal announcement, the family interview in Vanity Fair. We want to give this the proper send-off it deserves. After the New Year, we plan to weave a tale of lost love and mutual parting and a family unit that will survive on respect and shared parenting. We expect you to adhere to that.”
I exhale. “Okay,” I say, resigned, like Hector was when I left the cabin. There’s no fight wobbling inside me. I’m sure they were expecting an outburst, but I’ve matured since they last saw me. Wind River, even if it did betray me, taught me so much. If I can plan a stressful gala in two weeks, I can handle this.
“Oh.” Mom’s lips purse.
“Good,” Dad says, straightening his tie.
I blink back at them for a minute. They’re still holding their breath. “If it’s all ‘oh’ and ‘good,’ why does it feel like there’s more?”
It’s Dad’s turn to nudge Mom under the table. They think they’re being so discreet. I can read it all over their faces. When did their refined facades begin to fade around me? Maybe I’m just more observant now.
“I have something else to tell you,” Mom says, already pouring herself another flute full. Her hands can’t seem to be idle even for a second. “I made a…mistake.”
My stomach sinks. “What kind of mistake?”
“Less of a mistake. More like…” She’s doing what Grandma does, searching for the right word around the room. Their similarities have never been this striking. “An error of judgment.”
“Anna, tell him,” Dad says.
She’s balling her napkin like she balled her clutch the night of the gala. “It’s about the island-story leak.”
Hope instantly ignites in me. “You got the name wrong? It wasn’t Hector?” I’m pitched forward, impatient.
“Something like that,” Mom says. Dad chides her again. I’m growing agitated the longer she draws this out.
“So?” I ask.
“So, I lied,” she says quickly, head bowed. “There was no young man. I made that up in the heat of the moment based on your assumptions. Hector reached out to Sarah about an unrelated matter earlier. He had informed her of your charitable work with the gala, thinking she could sprinkle out some goodwill for you in the press, but he had nothing to do with the island-story leak. I fabricated that as a cover.” Her truth nearly topples me right out of my chair.
“Wh-what?” I’m dumbstruck. Stuttering. Confused beyond belief.
“An anonymous source came forward saying they had proof your father and I were divorcing and would run the story unless we gave them something more sensational. We sent you away and tried to snuff it out, but their insistence and the pressure kept mounting. Sarah said we had no other choice…We gave them the island story in exchange for our privacy. I’m sorry, Matthew,” she says, apology profuse and unrehearsed. I haven’t heard her say that in so long. It’s strange that it’s coming now and not for any of the other times she’s put her needs before mine. “Things got out of hand and, well, you have to understand that these matters are delicate. Our careers hang in the balance of…the image we sell.”
“Why did you wait so long to tell me? And why today? Why here of all places?” I ask-shout, an anxiety attack nearly as big as the one from the night of my almost-escape shimmying up my spinal cord.
Everything I said to Hector in the basement comes rushing back to me. None of it was true, and all of it was cruel. He’ll never forgive me for not letting him speak. I can’t believe I silenced him when I should’ve taken his help.
“Because…well, because we knew you would get like this.” Mom’s tone is tart.
Like this. It’s practically code for anxious, a kind way to tiptoe around the fact that I have a GAD. Her fingers drumming on her forearm are sending a telepathic message to my father.
“Which I know you get from my side of the family, from…” Mom’s flabbergasted voice grows more frog-like. I have no idea what she’s hinting at but, in a second, she’s off like a speeding train in the other direction. “I–I–I panicked, okay? I panicked when you asked who did it. I was so impressed by the Matthew I met in Wind River and all you did for that town.” She holds her heart right below her necklace. “My old town. I was riddled with guilt. The source wasn’t supposed to run the island story until the New Year. We were going to contain it. The number of outlets that picked it up the other day blindsided us. Can’t you see?”
I can see.
I can see how one person’s heated, selfish, spur-of-the-moment action can cause a domino effect of destruction. Something I’ve done a time or twelve million in my twenty-one years. It’s just a shame I’m sitting in the rubble of someone else’s right now. That I hurt someone I care deeply about because of it.
“So, that’s what all this was? The movies, the cinnamon buns, the show, this tea?” I push my plate away from me, stomach burrowing into the depths of the earth. “This was all some big show to assuage your guilt? One last hurrah before we break apart?” It’s almost evil, downright diabolical. Show me what I had, let me revel in it, and then snatch it away again, all the same. I wish they’d just been straight with me. It would’ve saved me the second heartache.
Mom sits up taller. “No, Matthew. No. We wanted to make one last family holiday memory together. We thought that’s what you wanted.”
“You have no idea what I want,” I mutter.
Dad chimes in. “Matthew, your mother’s indiscretion aside, you must see that we’re letting you off easy.” His volume lowers, and his tone becomes piercing. “That island could’ve cost us a lot. We cleaned up your mess for you. Yet again, I might add. You’re seeing a lucky payday off a massive misstep.”
I squint at him, hoping if I distill him into something smaller he might make more sense to me. He’s crunching everything into facts and figures, blacks and whites. If I was expecting emotional honesty, I don’t think there’s enough champagne in the world to make that happen. He’s a walking, talking calculator. And missing the point entirely. I don’t care about the money anymore.
I only care about Hector.
“How could you let me believe Hector did this?” Mom doesn’t answer right away. “Just because you made me doesn’t mean I’m a character in one of your books. You know that, right? You can’t just rewrite something if it doesn’t suit you.”
