‘You’re dating someone in fitness, huh?’ David says, flashing a grin at one of the other suits like I’m the lamest thing in the world and he’s just said something incredibly clever. The other suit enthusiastically returns this grin (so clearly, David is his boss) and soon they’re both grinning like Neanderthal dumb-fucks that have just pulled up the ladder to the “boys only club” tree-house.
It’s all very Teen-Witch-Top-That—and if you don’t know what I mean by
that, click the link, you’re in for a treat.
I really wish Patrice were a witch right now. That way, he could rub his magic
handbag and turn me into a badass who comes up with snappy responses that are actually clever (not just things that
seem to be clever because I’ve got my goonies around me to act as a laugh
track, like David). Actually, any response at all would do, because I’ve got
nothing. So I just stand there. Like a giant knob-head.
Suddenly, Samson Greene starts muttering, ‘Bernier…Bernier…hmm,’ completely
oblivious to the Cold War happening around him. He slumps down onto the white
sofa and assumes the pose of The Thinker, eventually saying, ‘I believe I must
know another Bernier…I’m thinking it’s…ah yes, Fernand Bernier! You know, with
the Bernier wine. Any relation?’
I groan internally and tell him that Fernand Bernier is my dad. This
causes Samson to jump back up with enthusiasm and go from resembling an iconic
bronze sculpture, to one of the Wiggles. ‘Yes that’s it!’ he cries, pointing
his finger at me, ‘He buys quite a lot of art from us, doesn’t he? Wonderful
man. Do tell him I said so.’
‘I surely will,’ I say, avoiding any acknowledgment of David’s stupid
smirk, which I can see in my peripheral vision, and feel in my clenched, ready-to-knock-a-fucker-out
fists.
Also, I just lied to Samson Greene because I will do nothing of the
sort. As if my father needs any more flattery. That the director of art and
events at my work is gushing all over him would probably be one of the last
things I’d mention. It would just give him and Mum one more reason to utter
silly and pretentious things, followed by Dad saying, “a toast to us? Go on, Sybil,
darling, shall we pop open one of the Moet & Chandons then?” to which Mum
would respond by placing her hand over her chest, tilting her head back, and producing a weird,
tittering type of laugh that sounds a bit like a hooting owl.
And anyway, it’s not really
my father everyone gets so excited about, is it? It’s his wine business—a.k.a.
his bank account.
I really don’t know what it is about money that everyone is so fucking
fascinated with. Of course, it’s important to be able to support yourself, and it’s
great to live comfortably. And if you’ve got the money (ahem, earned the money), then that’s great too—go
on and treat yourself. Upgrade to a nice Lexus or have a fancy meal at Sheridan’s
Steakhouse. But in what world does anyone need a bright-fucking-yellow Lamborghini
that costs 250,000 pounds, has a black lightning bolt down the side and
suicide doors? I mean, if you’re going to be ridiculous and spend that much
money on a single thing that you don’t need, why buy something that looks like
it’s been stepped on by Optimus Prime? At least buy something original, like a
hot air balloon made of Aztec gold and dinosaur bones, that can fly to Mars and
runs on Marmoset breath.
And speaking of suicide doors...actually, let's just speak of suicide doors. I mean, come on, suicide doors? Really? Who the fuck decided
that name was a good idea? Unless, of course, it was the result of an office
mix up at Door Naming Inc. or something.
Perhaps, instead of receiving the proper car-door-name-suggestions,
Lamborghini ended up receiving the crazy, neo-Nazi bloke’s idea about putting exit
doors along the external walls of the Empire State Building’s top floors. And then
the geniuses at Lamborghini thought to themselves, “eh? Suicide doors? That’s a
bit weird…and yet, sounds kinda snazzy…would be a very fast way to go…and a
furious one too…” and then the rest is rich-tosser-history.
I think my real problem is with the people who make wealth
their identity—and especially, those
who use someone else’s hard-earned wealth to do it. Seriously, why do so many people
suddenly find a partner more appealing if the partner turns out to be rich? Why
do so many people settle for partners they don’t even find appealing at all because they’re rich? So they can be
secure in knowing that they never have to actually use their brains again? Because
they’re lazy fucks that want the monetary and material rewards of hard work
without actually doing any of it? Because they are just that superficial and they’re brains are just that empty, that they need to distract themselves with toys, and
then use those toys to buy the approval or envy or “respect” of others?
I think I’ve steered off course…
More to the point, why does a person suddenly become inferior or
superior based on their net worth? And then people, like Samson Greene, feel
the need to get on the good side of a person who has a lot of money, probably because
they think they might be able to benefit themselves from the relationship in
the future. It’s all selfish and silly and, unfortunately, something I can
never avoid. Because when it comes to money, my father has it.
He has a lot of it.
Dad’s family is from France. His grandfather had owned a small vineyard
just outside of Chablis. Since then, each generation of his family has spent
their lifetimes expanding the vineyard into vineyards and living off of selling
their wines.
What my father did, along with his brother, Dionte, and his sister, Fantine,
was turn Bernier Vineyards into one of the largest French wine exporters in
Europe. Dad had moved to England to run the company here, Dionte had stayed to
run the one in France, and Fantine had gone to Spain. Dionte’s son, Ricard, had
moved to Italy to work on starting something over there, but last time I checked
the Italians had their own wine so I don’t know how well that venture is
working out.
The point is that Dad’s a wine mogul. And people get a whole new
attitude with me when they find out this information, so I like to keep it as
quiet as possible.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate ‘being set for life’ and never really having to worry about money. It’s
a nice safety blanket and all, but I was never one to rely on living off of my
parents and doing nothing with my time. I’m not really the Paris Hilton type.
That’s why I went to university and got a degree. That’s why I insist on having
a job and paying for my shitty flat myself. I'm kind of like Rachel from Friends. My mother has trouble wrapping her
head around it. When she finds out the square footage of where I live she’ll
probably have an aneurism. Or jump out of a suicide door. But at least she won’t have a Lamborghini.
This reminds me—I have yet to speak to my parents since I’ve been back
from New York. And on an even brighter note, they probably have yet to notice.
I make a plan to stop by their house on my way back from work. Mainly
to see the dogs, and also to show Mum my fake Louis Vuitton bag. It’s the only
reason I bought it (from a man on the side of the road, for the steep price of
twelve dollars). At first, Mum will think it’s real and she’ll be so excited
that I’ve finally given in and bought “a proper handbag.” Then I’ll tell her it’s
a knock-off and she’ll probably give me a smack on the arm, and say, ‘why do
you do such things to my frail heart?’ But the look on her face will be worth
the smack, I’m sure. To be fair, the plan works in her favor too, since my
attack on her so-called “frail heart” will give her a reason to open a new
bottle of Bernier Vineyards Chablis.
And in the words of Sybil Bernier, a.k.a, dearest Mumsy: ‘how can a good
wine ever be a bad thing? Am I right or am I right?’
You’re right, Mum.
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