me.”
“Well . . .” I stop myself from saying, “She does have a point.”
“It’s just going to be boring. Cake after cake after cake . . . What am I supposed to do?”
I shrug. “What every person your age does: tune out, text, listen to music, play games, go on Facebook. I mean, does it really matter where you are to do that?”
Her eyes narrow.
“Besides, you’d be doing your mother a huge favor.”
“Huge is the word—have you seen the size of her? It’s just so embarrassing! Who does she think she’s fooling? Eat my delicious cakes and end up obese like me!”
“Stop!” I halt her. “I won’t have you talking about her like that.”
Ravenna scoffs at my objection. “You know, it’s really none of your business what I say about my own mother.”
“When you say those things in front of me,” I counter, “you make it my business. It is not acceptable to my ears. Have you got that?”
She stares at me. And then she stares at the floor. Eventually her eyes return to mine.
“You know, you’re right. It’s the least I can do for her.”
I can’t believe it. “Really?”
She nods. “Forget what I said. I just want to pick up a little something at Diesel and then we can head back to the hotel. Is that okay?”
“Y-yes, that’s fine. Let me just look up the directions.”
“Okay, I’m going to nip to the loo.”
Wow. That was a narrow escape. Maybe she’s more reasonable than I thought? I was worried I’d gone too far, but something obviously got through to her. Thank goodness!
I tap at my phone. Perfect! Diesel is just three minutes’ walk from here. We’d have time for a quick mani afterward, if she’s game. Maybe I’ll treat her to one of those rad new designs—I saw this dip-dye effect that I think she’d like. That’s if she ever comes back.
I turn to the shop assistant. “Excuse me, where are the restrooms in here?”
“Up on the sixth floor.”
Oh. That could explain it. She’s probably got distracted, looking at more goodies. Until today I didn’t realize Tiffany did so many non-jewelry items. There’s even a tea set (tea pot, milk jug and sugar bowl) in angular sterling silver with rosewood handles and jade cabochon accents: $23,000 a pop. But that does include a matching tray.
I strum my fingers. I wonder how Pamela and Gracie are getting on. She did mention she wanted to try the Cronut craze (croissant-doughnut hybrid originating here in Manhattan), but the bakery is all the way down in SoHo. I’m not sure she’ll have time. I look at my watch. I look at Tiffany’s watches—the rose gold, the diamonds, the ticking hands . . .
Still no sign of Ravenna.
Perhaps it’s best if I wait over by the door. I smile at the security guard.
“I’m just waiting for my friend.”
“The one you came in with?”
“Short skirt, crazy mess of hair . . .” I squiggle my hands around my head.
“She left.”
“What? When?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
Oh god. Oh god, oh god. She just totally played me. What do I do now? Once again I find myself freaking out in an entirely inappropriate environment.
“Krista!” I wail as soon as I get outside. “I’ve lost Babycakes!”
I find myself instinctively heading for the Apple store, as if I might be able to harness their technology to create some kind of tracking system using her mobile phone number. Not that I have it. And not that I can ask Pamela for it, since that would give the game away.
“Okay, let’s be logical about this,” Krista calms me. “It’s too early to file a Missing Persons report and there’s no better place for a person to disappear than in New York City, so scouring the streets isn’t going to work.”
“So what should I do?”
“Have faith.”
“Have faith?” I’m not convinced. “You think she’ll have her little run-around and then see the error of her ways?”
“No, I just mean that without her mum’s credit card, she won’t have enough money to
“Well . . .” I stop myself from saying, “She does have a point.”
“It’s just going to be boring. Cake after cake after cake . . . What am I supposed to do?”
I shrug. “What every person your age does: tune out, text, listen to music, play games, go on Facebook. I mean, does it really matter where you are to do that?”
Her eyes narrow.
“Besides, you’d be doing your mother a huge favor.”
“Huge is the word—have you seen the size of her? It’s just so embarrassing! Who does she think she’s fooling? Eat my delicious cakes and end up obese like me!”
“Stop!” I halt her. “I won’t have you talking about her like that.”
Ravenna scoffs at my objection. “You know, it’s really none of your business what I say about my own mother.”
“When you say those things in front of me,” I counter, “you make it my business. It is not acceptable to my ears. Have you got that?”
She stares at me. And then she stares at the floor. Eventually her eyes return to mine.
“You know, you’re right. It’s the least I can do for her.”
I can’t believe it. “Really?”
She nods. “Forget what I said. I just want to pick up a little something at Diesel and then we can head back to the hotel. Is that okay?”
“Y-yes, that’s fine. Let me just look up the directions.”
“Okay, I’m going to nip to the loo.”
Wow. That was a narrow escape. Maybe she’s more reasonable than I thought? I was worried I’d gone too far, but something obviously got through to her. Thank goodness!
I tap at my phone. Perfect! Diesel is just three minutes’ walk from here. We’d have time for a quick mani afterward, if she’s game. Maybe I’ll treat her to one of those rad new designs—I saw this dip-dye effect that I think she’d like. That’s if she ever comes back.
I turn to the shop assistant. “Excuse me, where are the restrooms in here?”
“Up on the sixth floor.”
Oh. That could explain it. She’s probably got distracted, looking at more goodies. Until today I didn’t realize Tiffany did so many non-jewelry items. There’s even a tea set (tea pot, milk jug and sugar bowl) in angular sterling silver with rosewood handles and jade cabochon accents: $23,000 a pop. But that does include a matching tray.
I strum my fingers. I wonder how Pamela and Gracie are getting on. She did mention she wanted to try the Cronut craze (croissant-doughnut hybrid originating here in Manhattan), but the bakery is all the way down in SoHo. I’m not sure she’ll have time. I look at my watch. I look at Tiffany’s watches—the rose gold, the diamonds, the ticking hands . . .
Still no sign of Ravenna.
Perhaps it’s best if I wait over by the door. I smile at the security guard.
“I’m just waiting for my friend.”
“The one you came in with?”
“Short skirt, crazy mess of hair . . .” I squiggle my hands around my head.
“She left.”
“What? When?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
Oh god. Oh god, oh god. She just totally played me. What do I do now? Once again I find myself freaking out in an entirely inappropriate environment.
“Krista!” I wail as soon as I get outside. “I’ve lost Babycakes!”
I find myself instinctively heading for the Apple store, as if I might be able to harness their technology to create some kind of tracking system using her mobile phone number. Not that I have it. And not that I can ask Pamela for it, since that would give the game away.
“Okay, let’s be logical about this,” Krista calms me. “It’s too early to file a Missing Persons report and there’s no better place for a person to disappear than in New York City, so scouring the streets isn’t going to work.”
“So what should I do?”
“Have faith.”
“Have faith?” I’m not convinced. “You think she’ll have her little run-around and then see the error of her ways?”
“No, I just mean that without her mum’s credit card, she won’t have enough money to
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