Carrero Series 2: The Carrero Influence

Wilma Munro is a shock to the system. She’s Scottish, and her accent is thick but hints at a lengthy New York residency. I can understand her for the most part, and she’s a resolute force to be reckoned with.

At only four and a half feet tall, Wilma has dark coppery, curly hair and huge brown eyes set in a heart-shaped face. She immediately catches me in her whirlwind of enthusiastic energy. Loud but not in a commanding way, she is direct, friendly, and slightly terrifying. She whisks me into my new domain, assigns me a desk near her office, and outlines my responsibilities as part of her team, thrusting a box of files at me. She believes throwing someone in at the deep end brings out their inner worth.

“I’ve heard enough about you, Miss Anderson, to know you were being wasted at Carrero Tower. I’ve great expectations of you.” She smiles warmly, soft eyes twinkling merrily as she fawns over the files.

“Mr. Carrero seemed to imply I was only seconds away from dismissal,” I respond drily, instantly regretting letting my mouth jump in before my head. I look away nervously, my fingers finding my jacket to twist the hem anxiously.

Nice move. Just tell your new boss how useless you are.

“I’m particularly good friends with Margo Drake, my dear. I spoke to her only this morning when I was informed you were coming to me. She only had good things to say about you…and maybe some insight on recent behaviors.”

I spin to look at her with sudden shock on my face, blood draining away and leaving me cold, as I get the gist of what that might mean.

What did Margo say to Wilma? What did Margo know? Surely Jake didn’t tell her about sleeping with me? And everything else that happened?

My head is reeling. Of course, he would. He tells Margo everything about anything; she’s like a surrogate mother to him and my old mentor. She would’ve pushed him to give her the real reason he let me go, unsatisfied with excuses and seeing through untruths. He would’ve told Margo about that night for sure, that we had sex on the hotel floor.

But would Margo have told this woman?

Even when I was with Jake, I kept Margo up to date with how he was doing; she always wanted to know. She always seemed discreet to me, so I hope right now she has been. Wilma winks at me knowingly, and I pale. My body turns colder as the blood leaves my veins and my mind almost crumbles hysterically.

Oh, my God.

She must know!

The pain is almost overwhelming. I feel sick and betrayed by my old mentor. I swallow hard, unable to think of a response, but Wilma doesn’t dwell. She sweeps away from me with a wave of her hand, leaving me reeling in panic with nothing more to say on the matter.

“The schedule is on top of that file, Emma. We’re arranging dinner and a dance for the Carrero anniversary. Please read the files; we have press releases and a guest list to sort out. That’s going to be your job. The suggested guest list is in there too. Look over what’s been arranged already. Then we’ll talk.”

Gobsmacked and completely overwhelmed, I watch her walk away; my head is somewhere in outer space, stunned like a tornado has hit me, but I push it all down deep inside and stare at my hands as they tremble around the file I am grasping.

Forget Margo. Forget Jake. He owes me nothing. This is my life now, and they owe me nothing.

Wilma doesn’t seem to care about the past, so neither should I.

Dismissing all of it, I turn my attention to the box and focus on work as it’s what I do best. The schedule looks full and exhausting, but I see the potential. I can work my ass off on this and regain some of my reputation. This job should be easier than facing Senior Carrero and handing out coffee like a mindless minion daily. This is precisely what I need, a new challenge and distraction. It’s time to get my complicated head back together and file everything into that little black lockbox in my mind. I can be the old me again.

I set to work, finding myself engrossed in tasks I’m more than capable of, and the hours fly by for the first time in weeks.

Glancing up, I see people leaving and realize it’s already the end of the workday. I had been so in the zone that I hadn’t noticed the time.

This is exactly what I needed to forget him.

***

The apartment seems quiet when I open the door, and my heart pounds through my chest as I wonder if Sarah made my mother leave, but something deep down tells me she hasn’t. I open the door slowly and take a deep, steadying breath to calm my nerves. The small hall that opens into the sitting room smells of food being cooked, and I sigh, anxiety riling up again.

Sarah won’t be home from her shift at work, and Marcus is unlikely to cook, so that means someone else is here. I stiffen as I walk in, glimpsing my mother leaning over the stove, her arm still in a cast. A young brunette woman is hovering by her side, helping with whatever she is currently massacring in the pan.

Figures. My mother’s cooking expertise stops at heating a can of soup.

I take a moment to realize that the brunette is the nurse Jake’s still paying to take care of her. He’s honoring his promise to Sophie, the runaway we met when she lived with my mother in Chicago, and is now being adopted by family friends of the Carreros. Despite cutting ties with me, he’s kept his word to Sophie that he would take care of my mother until her injuries are fully healed. It causes a dull, aching lump in my throat, and my eyes well up with tears. I refuse to cry. My heart is breaking all over again.

Throwing my briefcase on the nearby couch, I tense up, readying myself for this little altercation. They haven’t heard me come in, too busy making noise in the kitchen with bubbling pots and pointless chatter. My rage simmers at the sight of her in my home, taking over. I’m still reeling from the fact that she let Ray Vanquis back in her life after everything, yet here she is.

“Mother,” I snap loudly and firmly with no warmth; both heads spin around, minor surprise replaced with quick smiles.

“Emma!” my mother gushes as she comes out of the tiny kitchen toward me, her face still bearing some yellowing bruises from being beaten to a pulp by the so-called man in her life. She attempts to hug me but meets my icy stare and statue-like posture. I flinch at her touch, so she quickly recoils to awkwardly stand a foot away from me.

I notice her nurse hovering in the background, her face a picture of confusion and embarrassment. At least she has the good grace to turn back to the stove and continue cooking, acting like she hasn’t seen anything.

“Are you still mad at me?” my mother whimpers like a child, causing my anger to flare again. She has that childish, wide-eyed expression of hers, the one I’ve seen a million times on her frail, little innocent face, the one reserved for an audience. I turn away from her before saying something I can’t take back.

“I’m going to get changed,” I snap and walk off, leaving her to stand in the center of the room like a lost puppy. I take satisfaction in the hurt on her face; maybe it’s about time she knew what it felt like to have someone who’s a part of you treat you like you don’t matter to them.

***

In my room, I sit on my bed and take a moment to inhale slowly. Despite my outward frosty reception, I’m shaking inside from her visit. She affects me in ways I’ll never understand, no matter how I try to deny it. The woman knows how to make me feel worthless without trying.

She always pulls the rug out from under me; is that the curse of her being my mother? On some level, that child inside me still wants her to wipe away my pain, unaware she’s the one who causes most of it.

I smart at the thought, and my eyes wander to my closed door.

I know that I dislike who she is, but I don’t hate her. I don’t know if I love her anymore; I don’t know what I feel.

I get up and change into casual clothes, jeans, and a loose top, glad to be out of the confines of a suit. I used to love dressing in my business attire, but it feels stifling and claustrophobic nowadays. My hair, already loose, has grown an inch since I had it cut; it brushes my shoulders constantly with its wild waves. I look in the mirror at my head of tawny hair, brushing it back to reveal tired eyes and a sad face.

Do I look like this all the time? Or is this Jocelyn Anderson's effect on me just by walking through the door?

I push away the sad expression and lift my chin defiantly, pasting on the face of self-preservation that I’ve perfected over the years, refusing to let her see my pain.

Returning to the sitting room, I glance into the kitchen and see her trying to help dish out beef stew into bowls with a smile on her face, bad moods pushed to one side and forgotten, like always. This is just the way she is, acting like nothing has happened. The sad story of my life with her.

I bristle and grind my teeth to curb the raw fury which rushes up. I’m on edge just watching her as she acts like this is the most ordinary scene in the world. I glance at her young nurse; she seems capable and has a maturity about her.

I wonder how much she knows. I wonder how much Jocelyn Anderson has let her see.

“Food’s ready,” the young woman chirps brightly upon seeing me, laying the bowls on the small kitchen table. I watch my mother hesitantly stay back. She’s waiting for my reaction before she makes a move.

I slide into a chair at the table and concentrate on picking up the cutlery and starting to eat. I know I’m being cold and rude, but I don’t care. The last time I saw her, she was in a hospital bed, battered and broken, and I’d just learned that the man responsible was the same one who tried to rape me when I was eighteen. She’d gone back to him, the abusive prick, without a second thought about what it might do to me or our relationship.