“She’s right Monet, Mum, but an expert at oblivescence. Can’t even remember my cell number to call me.”
“Stop trying to be epigrammatic, Jilly. Just say that the little tart can’t be bothered with you after your one night stand.”
Jilly and her Mum Sophia were having their weekly chat over tea at Starbucks on Conduit Street. The younger woman, hardly out of her teens actually, wrung her hands against the edge of the table as if it were wrought iron instead of wood. Sophia, who had always exuded sophistication and confidence, even when she was her daughter’s age, kindly tolerated the angst of her only child while examining the cheap vase sitting between them as if it were a spot of rust on a Lamborghini Venero.
“Are you trying to tangle my brain?” Why are you always so critical?”
“My dear, if anything, I’m attempting to tenon your rather random associations. Perhaps if you hadn’t overslept, you’d be able to consider this situation more objectively.”