He’s so confident that my parents are going to love him. Hell, they already do half love him and they’ve only met him for thirty seconds. How is Rufus? Did you have a good date with Rufus? What a good influence Rufus has on you, we’ve been trying to get you to eat vegetables for years. “Haven’t half got a good opinion of yourself,” I mutter.
He grins like he was waiting for me to say it. “There’s my bratty girl.”
* * *
An hour before he’s due to arrive for dinner I get a text from him. Can I fuck you in your frilly bedroom?
Do you want me to have a panic attack?
Breathe, babygirl. What’s my name?
Rufus.
Good girl.
“Abby, could you get some red wine out of the garage?” my father calls from the kitchen.
I’ve hidden myself in the laundry to text Rufus. “Yes,” I call, and I tuck my phone into my jeans pocket and go and get the wine. The good wine is in the garage. Rufus is deserving of the good wine. I make a face that Rufus would call bratty, and go and get it.
He arrives dead on time, of course, and my mother opens the door. The smell of her perfume is all through the house and she practically twitters up at him, “Oh, is that your car? How smart.”
I get a kiss on the cheek and a sly wink, which makes me blush, and he hands my father a bottle of wine. I recognize the label. It’s the same wine we drank at the restaurant the first night we slept together.
I’m not able to do much talking at the dinner table except for “Yes,” “No,” and “Thank you.” Rufus keeps up his end, though, asking my parents about their plans to move to the country and talking sensibly about the state of the housing market.
My mother has made a roast even though it’s Monday, because I told her once that Rufus never gets Sunday dinner because he’s always working. She seems to think this is about as tragic as the erosion of the ozone layer and has cooked him an enormous joint of beef. She’s forgotten that I don’t ever get Sunday dinner, either.
Rufus doesn’t pass me the dishes of vegetables. He serves them for me, and I see from my mother’s expression that when he leaves she’s going to go on and on about his old-world charm. I almost want to call him daddy so they’ll know how corrupt he really is.
My father has noticed the vegetables as well, and that I’m eating them. “Rufus, we’ve been trying to get Abby on a decent diet her whole life. How did you manage it?” He finishes with a laugh; he’s half joking, probably thinking I’ve done this myself because I want to impress my boyfriend or something.
He looks me right in the eye and says, “Oh, I just asked nicely.”
My mother simpers at him. I am going to kill him.
When we’re finished my mother says, “Why don’t you give Rufus a tour of the house while I get the dessert ready?”
I noticed that she says dessert and not pudding. In our house we always call it pudding, but that’s not good enough, apparently, for smart Rufus with his smart car.
“See,” he murmurs in my ear as I take him out to the back garden. “They love me.”
“Yes,” I agree. “It’s disgusting.”
He looks at me in surprise. “Princess. What do you mean?”
“My mother,” I say in a stage whisper, pointing toward the kitchen, “has said pudding her whole life, and then you show up with your nice car and your manners and suddenly it’s dessert.”
He grins. “I think she likes me.”
“You don’t deserve it.”
“No, I don’t,” he agrees. “I don’t deserve you, either. Come here.” He puts his arms around me and I resist a little, but let myself get tugged toward him.
“You’re a very bad man,”
I tell him.
“The worst.” And he kisses me.