“You never said I had to accompany you to see my father.”
This was highly unusual and made my heart beat wildly in my chest.
“I never said you didn’t. Come,” Pembrook said as he made his way toward my father’s office several doors into the first floor west wing. He expected me to follow, so I did.
Knock. Knock. Pembrook’s bony fingers rapped on the door of my father’s office.
“Come in,” I heard my father say.
When I walked in, my father was nose deep into a stack of paperwork on his desk as well as on the phone.
“No! How many times have I told you?! That is unacceptable, Stephen! I refuse, refuse to acknowledge their desperate attempt to hold the upper hand. Tell them I said the offer stands until midnight tonight and when it expires, the offer will not present itself again.” His crony must have been acquiescing and my father nodded curtly once as if the man could see him and promptly hung up.
He looked upon me and I very nearly vomited onto the carpet at my feet. I was scared of very few things but of those few things, my father stood atop the list.
“Ah,” he said, drinking in my appearance. “I see you’re alive.”
I nodded once succinctly. I was standing in the doorway and Pemmy prodded me forward. I glanced behind me briefly to scowl before fixing my expression ahead. Pembrook was on the verge of laughing. Sod off! I wanted to yell, to borrow a phrase from his people’s vernacular, but I kept my mouth shut instead not wanting to wake the dragon before me any more than he was already awake.
“Let’s see,” he said, settling into his creaky, leather office chair. He began to stuff his pipe. “A second drug offense, Sophie Price. I’m not exactly sure how I plan to keep this out of the media this time. PR has their work cut out for them, it seems. I can barely stand to look at you, so this will be brief. You are required to attend a formal dinner tonight. I expect you to get some sleep, remove those hideous bags from underneath your eyes, dress properly and entertain the son of Calico’s CEO. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I squeaked out.
“Do you? By entertain, I mean show the boy the house, make conversation. I do not mean offer him anything illegal.”
“I would never—” I began, but my father cut me short.
“Wouldn’t you?” He eyed me harshly.
I sank into myself and inadvertently backed into Pemmy. “Ugh!” I heard him say before righting me and setting me beside him. He rolled his eyes.
“Dinner is at seven, Sophie,” my father continued, ignoring Pembrook and ,me.
“Yes, sir,” I said, parroting my earlier acknowledgement.
I turned and barely contained myself from fleeing.
“Oh! And one more thing,” my father said, making me turn to face him. “If you’re caught again, I’ll disinherit you. Close the door.”
I closed the door, my chest pumping in air at an alarming rate and nearly sprinted for my wing of the house. I knew enough about my father to know he was in earnest. I also wasn’t a stupid girl. I knew there were things I needed more than coke, and his money was one of them.
When I reached my room a few minutes later, I opened the fifteen-foot double doors and closed them behind me. I started to strip, pulling off my garments and tossing them at the foot of my bed. I needed a shower. I was on the verge of one of my breakdowns and needed a place to hide away.
But first things first.
I went to the wall nearest my bedroom door and pressed the intercom, still undressing.
“Yes, Miss Sophie?” A staticky voice came on. It was Matilda, the house coordinator.
“Yes, ’Tilda.” I glanced at my nightstand clock. Eight a.m. “Can you ring Katy at home and let her know I’ll need her services at four this afternoon?”
Katy was lovely. Tall and slender, blonde hair and only a few years older than I. She was the beautician I used when I had one of my father’s soirees to attend. Katy never came alone though. She always brought Peter, her masseuse, and Gillian, her makeup artist.
“Of course, ma’am. Anything else?”
“No, thank you.” And with that, I headed toward my bathroom, securing the door behind me.
The bathroom was almost as large as my bedroom. On the far back wall was an estate-sized fireplace. It’s French-inspired marble mantel reached halfway up the wall. Situated in the center was the focal piece, the oversized, burnished cast-iron tub and swathed in polished stainless steel for a mirrored effect. The entire floor was bathed in three-inch octagonal tiles of Carrara marble. The Carrara marble continued on the walls in subway tile. Oval undermount sinks were fitted into the Carrara marble tops with custom washstands. The room was almost a duplicate of one I’d seen when I was thirteen on a trip to Paris.