Page 1 of Oliver

One

OLIVER

“So, son, how’s work going?” Father asks, his posh southeast London accent ever present as we sit around the table in my parents’ home, eating the pork roast, carrots and potatoes prepared by their housekeeper, Hannah.

It’s delicious, and Hannah is such a kind soul, always with a smile to offer whenever I’m here, and a soft kiss to my cheek. She’s a stout woman, older, probably late fifties, with dark hair that is graying, a round face and a thick New York accent. She’s been working for my parents ever since we moved to New York almost twenty years ago, though sometimes I don’t understand how she came to be in their employ, but I guess being paid well is as good a reason to stay as any. While Henry and Isabella Jones are a lot of things, cheap isn’t one of them. With the amount of work Hannah does, she deserves to be paid well, plus a rather large bonus for putting up with them, if I’m being honest.

I have the mother of all headaches brewing and I’m completely knackered after a long and very stressful day at workyet again. It’s tax season, and that means I’m working even longer hours than normal as an accountant, and dealing with a lot of pissy clients who waited until the last minute to do something that could have been done months ago. For whatever reason, the blame for that falls on me.

Being here is honestly just adding salt to the wound. Family dinners, if you can call them that, as family implies love, encouragement and support, are my least favorite part of every month. The only thing that makes it bearable is having my twin sister, Olivia here with me, and my two year old nephew, Freddie.

“It’s exhausting,” I sigh.

“Well, nothing in life is easy, son,” he responds. “You have to work hard if you want to make something of yourself.”

I grit my teeth and rub my fingers over my forehead, closing my eyes as my head begins to pound harder. Why I bother to be honest with this man is beyond me. Never once in his life has he empathized or tried to understand me. His focus has always been on status and wealth, and that’s what he expects of his children as well. He treats us more like property than people, the way you would a nice house or a car; things to make him look good; a statement about how well established he is in society. Which is why my sister getting divorced a year ago is something we still don’t talk about. Even though she got out of a toxic marriage after six long years, my parents were more horrified that they had “such a scandal” in their family than they were about the fact that she had been mistreated in the first place, telling her she needed to “try harder” to keep her marriage together because, “how will it look, dear?” It took months before Olivia was speaking to them again. She says they apologized, but I have a feeling she came around so that I wouldn’t be on my own with them. She’s older than me by about eight minutes, and we’ve always been close; each other’s protectors. She andFreddie even lived with me for a few months after the divorce until she could get back on her feet again. I honestly would have loved to have them stay longer, but she said it was important for her to have her own space, and I understood. I was incredibly proud of her for everything she did to make a better life for herself and her son, and very thankful she had friends on her side as well, as my parents were the opposite of helpful.

“How’s it going with that girlfriend of yours?” Father asks. “Amy, was it?”

“Amanda,” I correct politely. I’ve mentioned her several times over the past four months that we’ve been dating, what she does for a living, where she’s from, how we met, but the only thing Father cares about is the fact that she’s upper class and has a uterus. “It’s going fine.”

“Marriage on the horizon?” he asks. “You’re thirty-six, son. And your mother and I aren’t getting any younger. We’ll be dead before we have another Jones in the family at this rate. It’s your duty to carry on the family name.”

“For Christ’s sake, Father, we’re not the bloody royal family,” I retort. “There are other aspirations in life besides children.”

“Preposterous,” he retorts. “No point in getting married at all if you aren’t going to have a family, the way God intended.”

“Amanda already has a son, Father, an adult one. I’m not sure more children is what she wants. She’s very career minded.” I don’t bother to tell him that children are not something I want, either, because I am not in the mood for more lecturing.

“Oh, she’ll change her mind when she’s settled down,” Mother pipes up. “Every woman wants a miniature version of her husband.” She squeezes father’s arm and he pats her hand.

For fuck’s sake. Why is it so hard to get them to listen? It’s like every goddamn thing I say goes in one ear and out the other.

“Well, you could do worse, I suppose,” Father says. “You said she’s a lawyer, yes?”

I nod. “And a very good one.”

“Well, lots of women put their careers on hold for the sake of having a family,” Mother says. Though I’m not sure what she would know about it since she’s never worked a day in her life. And it wasn’t like she was much of a mother either, always passing Olivia and I off to nannies so she could go to the next luncheon or social event with her lady friends. I don’t begrudge her having a life, but it bothers me that she seems to think she was in any way an involved mother when she was anything but.

“Mother, I just love your bracelet,” Olivia chimes in, and I cast her a grateful look. She’s come to my rescue on more than one occasion when it seems the only topics of discussion are my single status and their disappointment in my ability to provide them with an heir. It’s not about grandchildren, it’s about continuing the family line. Never mind the fact that Freddie is sitting right here. To them it’s as if he doesn’t bloody exist because he is Olivia’s son, not mine. It’s my job to marry a well to do woman and then convince her to put her career on hold to pop out babies.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” Mother preens, showing off the diamond jewelry dangling from her bony wrist. “Your father got it for me as an anniversary gift.”

We eat in silence for a moment longer before Mother speaks again.

“Oh, Henry,” Mother says, her slender fingers resting on Father’s shoulder. “Did you hear about what happened to Agnes and Richard? Such terrible news. They can’t show their faces in public, the poor things. After the scandal with their son.”

“What’s that, dear?” Father asks.

If gossip were an Olympic sport, Isabella Jones would win a gold medal. She’s intelligent, though you probably wouldn’t know it listening to her speak most of the time, and beautiful, with her long blonde hair up in a bun and wearing a dress thatprobably costs more than my entire wardrobe. Which is saying something because my suits are not cheap.

Olivia is the spitting image of our mother, with her blonde hair and green eyes, and her fair complexion, while I in turn, look more like Father. The same auburn hair, blue eyes, and a sharper jawline, fuller lips, and a slightly darker skin tone.

“You know their son, Phillip?” Mother says, “such a shame, because he’s such a handsome boy.” There’s a pause as she shakes her head.

“Go on, dear, don’t keep us waiting,” Father says. Mother’s thin lips purse.

“It’s just awful,” she says. “Poor Agnes. She’s just beside herself. He is a homosexual, darling, and they didn’t know it until recently. They caught him in public with another man, and Agnes was mortified. Can you blame her? So awful. She doesn’t know what she did wrong. And she’s so ashamed and embarrassed.”