She picked up her fags and lit one.
“You know…
you could work for me…
part time.” she suggested.
“I’d pay you…
and if you are going to go to college part-time…” she rambled.
“Would there be a dress code?” I cautiously asked.
My hand slid over my skirted lap and my mother’s eyes followed it.
“Only if you want one,” she replied.
“Don’t you need some new clients before you start taking on staff?” I asked.
“We have just lost one remembers.”
“You see that’s why I think you’d be good,” Mum said.
“You think of the practicalities.
Plus you can answer the phone,
do the filing,
scan and print…
and you tell me when I’m embarking on some stupid endeavor like pretending I’ve got a personal assistant.”
“But you didn’t listen.” I smugly stated.
“Well next time, I will,” she said.