52 Reasons to Hate My Father (3 page)

All activity flutters to a halt. Phone conversations are put on hold. Pens stop scratching against paper. Deft fingers immobilize atop keyboards. Every pair of eyes is on the man who walked through the door. Who now stands tall and ominous behind my chaise longue. I can hear him breathing. Feel his shadow fall across my face. I quietly suck in a breath and wait.

“What’s the situation?” he asks Bruce, stepping past my makeshift bed and stalking through the living room of the suite.

Bruce moves in step with him as if to loyally accompany him the ten lousy steps it takes to get to the dining room. “It’s being handled,” he assures him. “The store owner will not press charges. I have a judge on call who is willing to be lenient in the DUI sentencing. No jail time. Just a fine.”

“Good. And the press?”

“Caroline is handling the press.” Bruce nods to the Frenchwoman who escorted me here in the limo, and she dutifully rises from her chair at the table, brandishing a phone in either hand as if to provide visual proof as to exactly how busy she’s been.

“I’ve issued an official statement but I think a press conference with you in the morning would be a prudent move at this point.”

“Fine.” My father agrees with a slight wave of his hand, indicating that Caroline’s part in this conversation is over. She returns to her seat.

Bruce continues to ramble as my father paces back and forth along the length of the dining room table, every so often supplying succinct one- or two-word decrees when Bruce comes to the end of a sentence that warrants instruction.

Holly wedges herself between my inclined body and the back of the chaise and starts to tremble, her ears pinned back in fear. In the three years I’ve had her, she’s never taken a particular liking to my father and I don’t blame her. Holly has always been an excellent judge of character.

I scratch the back of her neck and whisper soothing words.

“What’s the total?” I hear my father demand after Bruce has finished his laundry list of damages.

Bruce takes a pen out of his suit jacket pocket, scribbles something on a hotel notepad, then rips off the top sheet and hands it to my father.

I watch his face carefully for a reaction but of course there’s none. It’s foolish of me to expect otherwise. To expect to see something magically appear where there’s never been anything.

That’s how my father got to be who he is. How Larrabee Media got to be the most successful media corporation in the world. Because of his uncanny ability to remain completely impassive. Completely detached.

Even in the face of disaster.

“Fine,” he says, allowing one authoritative nod. “Make it happen.”

He turns to the remaining eager faces that hover around the table awaiting their next directive like soldiers in a war zone.

“Good work, everyone,” he declares in a solid, unwavering tone. “Thanks for your diligence in this … unfortunate matter. I’ll make sure you’re well compensated for your extra efforts.”

Then he turns to me, acknowledging my existence for the first time since he entered the room. Without even bothering to sit up, I let my gaze drift toward him. Our eyes connect but nothing is exchanged. No information communicated. No emotions bartered. At least when Bruce shoots me one of his looks, I know what he’s thinking. My father’s eyes are empty. Void of all feeling.

Indifferent.

Once again, I’m not really sure why I expected anything else.

In one swift motion, his gaze breaks from mine, leaving me with the distinct sensation of falling. Like the inevitable snap of a single piece of fishing line that’s been holding me suspended two hundred feet above the ground.

“I’ll be at the Lighthouse if anyone needs me,” he announces as he stalks back through the living room. His large frame disappears behind the chaise longue and I hear the all-too-familiar sound of a door opening and closing.

Then the flurry of activity resumes as everyone goes back to work.

COST ANALYSIS

I don’t text Jia and T right away to tell them that the coast is clear. They’ll see my father marching through the hotel lobby soon enough. Instead, I shuffle over to the dining room table and, amid the commotion of phone calls, e-mails, and frenetic conversations, I manage to discreetly slip the small hotel notepad off the table and carry it, concealed against my thigh, into the bedroom.

“I’m going to sleep,” I say in a voice soft enough that no one will hear, and then close the double doors behind me.

I lift Holly onto the fluffy, white king-size bed and she quickly goes to work pawing at the duvet, arranging it to her liking, before plopping down and curling into a perfect little doughnut of fur. She’s relaxed now that he’s gone.

I wish I was that resilient.

I perch on the edge of the bed and remove a pencil from the nightstand drawer. Then I lightly brush the tip back and forth over the blank pad, watching the indentation left behind from the last note magically reveal itself through the zigzag of graphite scribbles.

I squint my eyes and hold the pad up to the dim light of the bedside lamp until I can make out Bruce’s messy handwriting.

The only thing that’s written is a number.

1.7

The cost of my most recent mistake. The financial burden my father will have to bear to make it all go away. To keep the family name from being marred by the muddy footprints that I manage to leave behind wherever I go.

There’s no doubt the estimate is in millions. When you deal in the kind of numbers my father does, the scale is implied. Writing it out would only mean superfluous zeros. My father doesn’t deal in hundreds or thousands. It’s simply not worth his time.

I toss the notepad aside and fall back against the pillows. This night has become a total disaster. First Mendi, then the crash and the press, and now
this
.

I allow myself thirty seconds of tears—no more—before quickly pulling myself together in preparation for my friends’ return. Fortunately, my makeup is already smeared so they can’t tell I’ve been crying when they burst into the room and collapse on the bed next to me.

As I listen to them go back and forth, taking turns asking questions and offering condolences, I can feel my eyelids start to get heavy. The events of the evening are starting to take their toll and the adrenaline is wearing off. Suddenly the only thing I can think about is sleep.

T must notice me dozing because she cuts herself off midsentence and says, “Oh, Lex, I’m so sorry. You must be totally knackered. We’ll be sure to stay so you don’t have to be alone.”

I smile through my haze. “You don’ haf to do that,” I garble. “I’m jus’ fine. Go home … call you when I wake up.”

“And we’ll go shopping,” Jia adds.

I nod dazedly. “Yes. Shopping. Equals good.”

I can hear them both giggle as T helps me under the covers and pulls them up to my chin, kissing me lightly on the forehead. “Four more days,” she reminds me as she gently touches my cheek. “Four more days and this will all be over, right?”

“Righ’,” I say in a ragged voice.

The door closes softly behind them and I roll onto my side and pull Holly into the crook of my arm, burying my face in her silky fur. She doesn’t protest.

I can still hear the din of voices outside the bedroom door but they’re drowned out by the sound of T’s words echoing in my ears.

Four more days.

Four more days and I can escape this place.

With that thought running through my mind, I manage to drift off to sleep with a smile on my face.

KEEPING UP WITH THE LARRABEES

I wake to the sound of my father’s voice. At first I’m far too groggy to fully comprehend the situation and for a moment I think that he’s actually here. In the bedroom of the suite. Talking directly
to
me. The thought jolts me awake and I sit upright in bed, frightening Holly, who darts up from beneath the covers where she’s buried herself somewhere during the abbreviated night.

Then I see my father on TV, addressing a roomful of cameras and inquiring members of the press, and I sink back down and relax.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand. It’s eleven in the morning. It certainly didn’t take Caroline long to organize that press conference she suggested last night. Not that I’m surprised. Things tend to move at a “right now” pace whenever my father is concerned.

I’m not sure who turned on the TV, but the remote is nowhere to be seen and I’m far too lazy to get out of bed to shut it off so I simply close my eyes and try to zone out the sound. This proves difficult as my father has a presence that’s nearly impossible to ignore.

“I am deeply saddened and distressed about last night’s incident involving my beloved daughter, Lexington,” he is saying. “It was a very scary moment for me and all the members of the Larrabee family and we are extremely grateful that she has survived it unharmed. Please be assured that Lexington is fine, albeit a bit shaken up and incredibly remorseful about her actions. I flew in from New York last night to spend time with her and comfort her through this difficult time. She is currently recuperating and was therefore unable to join me this morning but she asked me to communicate her deepest and most sincere apologies to the kind owners of the convenience store that was damaged during the accident. As you know, Lexington is my only daughter. She is extremely important to me and I love her very much. I assure you that her well-being is my number-one priority at this point and I am taking it upon myself, personally, to make sure she gets the help and guidance she needs to make a full recovery and to come out of this experience a healthier and more grounded person. Thank you.”

My hand grapples for something—anything!—on the nightstand. I clutch my fingers around the first thing I come in contact with—my cell phone—and chuck it as hard as I can at the screen. It manages to make contact with the mute button before falling to the floor with a horrible cracking sound.

The silence is beautiful but, unfortunately, short-lived. The door creaks open a few seconds later and a head pops in. It’s not someone I recognize, which means the night shift has been replaced by a new crew of lackeys.

“Is everything okay?” the woman asks, looking uneasily from me to the busted cell phone on the floor.

“No!” I bark. “My phone is broken. I need a new one.”

She nods. “No problem.” And backs out the door, closing it softly behind her.

The screen fills with the faces of eager reporters, jumping up and down like monkeys, vying for the chance to ask some stupid, pointless question and get an even stupider, more pointless answer. I don’t need to hear what’s being said to know that any response my father gives will be just as full of crap as his speech was.

We’ll make sure she gets all the help she needs …

My one and only beloved daughter whom I love so much …

Blah blah blah. I suddenly feel like throwing up. And it’s definitely
not
from the monstrous hangover that’s setting up camp in my temples.

In my seventeen years of life I can remember four times that my father has said he loved me … and every single one of them occurred on national television.

But that’s simply how the Larrabee family works. That’s how it’s
always
worked. For as long as I can remember. It’s all for show. For entertainment. For the benefit of the press. We’re about as genuine as a reality TV show.

And like any good reality show, everyone has a role to play. A character to embody. First and foremost there’s my father, Richard Larrabee, the founder and CEO of Larrabee Media. The world adores him because he’s self-made. Started out with nothing and now he has everything. It’s the classic rags-to-riches, American-dream story—lower class, below-the-poverty-line teen runs away from home, starts a business, and becomes a billionaire—and the press just gobbles it up and begs for more.

My mother was killed in a car crash when I was five. An eighteen-wheeler lost control and hit her head-on. She didn’t stand a chance. I don’t remember much about her, except for a few fleeting and hazy memories. And since nearly every photograph of her disappeared from our house after she died, those fuzzy memories are all I have to go by. But everyone who knew her tells me she was wonderful. Loving, maternal, supportive. Everything a mother should be.

Since her death there’s been a constant revolving door of “Mrs. Larrabees,” each younger and more unbearable than the last. The job requirements for “Mrs. Larrabee” are fairly simple and straightforward: show up for charity events, governors’ balls, society weddings, and openings; stay glued to my father’s arm the entire night, in an evening gown that’s just risqué enough to get people’s attention but not enough to cause a scandal; and act interested and engaged in the conversation around you, even if you don’t understand a word of what’s being said. Do all that and the rest of the time is yours to do with what you want—e.g., spa hopping or traipsing around my father’s private island in the Caribbean.

The women who hold this role traditionally don’t last very long. On average it takes about two to three years for my father to tire of them. Then they take their more-than-generous divorce settlements, complete with European villas, and move on.

Currently the position of stepmother to the Larrabee children is vacant. But for the past few months my father’s been courting a new recruit. Rêve is her name, according to Page Six of the
New York Post
. Although I’d be willing to bet anything that her birth certificate says something like “Gertrude” or “Ursula.” I haven’t met her yet but I’m sure she’s just as horrendous as the rest of them.

Before my mother died, she had five children. The famous Larrabee siblings. Thank God my dad underwent his little “anti-baby-making procedure” after I was born, otherwise who knows how many half breeds there’d be running around, trying to lay claim to a share of the Larrabee fortune. Four wives in twelve years? You do the math.

I’m the youngest and the only girl. Richard Junior (RJ) is the EVP of business development at Larrabee Media, dutifully fulfilling his obligations as next in line for the throne. He’s all right, I guess, but I hardly know him. He left for college when I was nine and I haven’t seen much of him since then. After him, there are the twins, Hudson and Harrison, who are both finishing up their law degrees at Yale and are expected to graduate first and second in their class, respectively. Then there’s Cooper, the child prodigy who graduated from college when he was only sixteen. He’s been playing Mozart’s Concerto no. 15 for Piano since he was three. Now he plays it backward with his eyes closed just for fun. Coop and I are only two years apart so we were close growing up but ever since he decided to join the Peace Corps and go on some hunger-relief tour around the world, we hardly ever talk anymore. Especially when most of the places he visits don’t even have running water, let alone cell reception. I usually don’t know where he is until I get a postcard in the mail.