Page 24

“Bowls create dishes. Dishes require washing. I’m conserving resources.”

My mother’s mouth does something I’ve never seen it do before – it twitches. A tectonic shift, deep beneath the surface, registering on instruments too sensitive for the human eye.

“Resourceful girl,” she says. She turns back to me. “Now then, Preston, darling. Sit down. I have news.”

“Must I be sitting for this news?”

“You should be sitting, hydrated, and ideally sedated, but I suspect your medicine cabinet is limited, so sitting will suffice.” She places Duchess on the armchair. The dog immediately tunnels under a cushion. “Duchess is having an episode. She has been having an episode since March. I believe it is emotional.”

“Mother, why are you–”

“I have divorced Frederick.”

“You’ve – wait.” I hold up a hand. “Divorced? You married Uncle Frederick? When did you marry Uncle Frederick?”

“Three months ago. It was a small affair, really. Very intimate. Only two hundred guests. The ceremony was on his island. I spent barely three hundred thousand on it. Quite modest, really. Almost quaint.”

“Three hundred thousand dollars is modest?”

“For a wedding, Preston, yes. Maxwell had his ceremony in a cathedral that smelled like candle wax and regret, and you had yours on a stage at somebody else’s reception, officiated by a drunk archbishop. At least my venue had ocean views.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us?”

“I sent an announcement. Cream card stock, embossed, with the York crest. It was tasteful.”

“We didn’t receive an announcement.”

“Then the postal service is incompetent. This is not my problem. I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal of it, honestly.” She removes her sunglasses. Folds them. Places them on the counter next to the Breville like she’s disarming a weapon. “The marriage lasted twenty-six days. I acknowledge this is not ideal. I do not, as a rule, acknowledge mistakes, so I would appreciate it if everyone in this room would note the occasion and never reference it again.”

“Twenty-six days?”

“Twenty-six days was more than sufficient to confirm that Frederick York is the most tedious man alive. Your father had many flaws, Preston – the affairs, the parrots, the mesh tank tops, the year he took up flamenco, the toast at your christening that ran forty minutes and required a costume change – but at least Alistair had a personality. Frederick has opinions about boats. Not one opinion. Opinions. Plural. He spent our honeymoon explaining the difference between a sloop and a ketch. On the third night, he asked me for a Benadryl – allergies, apparently – and I may have handed him the drowsy formula instead of the non-drowsy. An innocent mistake. He fell asleep during Tosca. During the death scene. I photographed it. Section 14, Subsection C did the rest.”

“Section 14, Subsection C?”

“The prenuptial agreement,” my mother says, “was designed by Frederick’s attorneys. They believed it was airtight, like the Titanic. It contained a clause that specified asset division in the event of irreconcilable differences, with a sliding scale based on the duration of the marriage.”

“And?” Elena says, from the couch, fully upright now and invested.

“And I ensured – during the courtship phase, well before the signatures were dry – that the definition of ‘irreconcilable differences’ included, buried in the appendices, a provision so specific that Frederick’s legal team did not notice it until it was too late.”

Elena closes her laptop. “What provision?”

“That if either party was found to have misrepresented their interests, hobbies, or personal character during the courtship phase, the aggrieved party could claim seventy-five per cent of the other’s pre-marital assets regardless of the duration of the relationship. Frederick told me he enjoyed opera. He does not enjoy opera, Preston. He fell asleep during the death scene. I have the photographs.”

“You handed him the wrong Benadryl on purpose.”

“I handed him a Benadryl. The packaging is very similar. One could easily confuse the two. I most certainly did. Once.”

Elena stares at my mother. My mother stares at Elena.

“You booby-trapped the prenup with a lying-about-opera clause,” Elena says.

“I prefer to think of it as an honesty incentive. One which Frederick failed to uphold.”

“And you got seventy-five per cent.”

“Of his pre-marital assets. Which were considerable. The man had three yachts. He now has three-quarters of a yacht. I have the rest.” She smooths her suit jacket. “The settlement was finalised last Wednesday. I flew in this morning. I am staying at the Pierre. Duchess and I require a stable environment, and the Pierre has an excellent concierge who does not ask questions.”