As the maître d’, the only human working in the restaurant, pulled back Liv’s chair for her and she took a seat, she thought she’d never seen her mother Penelope look worse. The undeniable fact that Pen was already sourly tipsy wasn’t helping matters. The attentive staff at the Empress Wharf would have removed any evidence in the form of empty glasses or olive picks, of course, but Liv suspected that Pen was already on her third martini.
At least. Pen’s organ-cleansing nanobots kept her liver clear of cirrhosis but couldn’t stop her from being a cranky drunk. Liv folded the crisp white napkin in her lap and avoided looking Pen in the eyes so she wouldn’t see the usual bitterness there. Maybe they had lost the luxuries that came with being the richest people in the world, but it’s not like life in the Manhattan Dome was a hardship existence, either.
And there were always new ways to push the boundaries of what was allowed. “You still go spy on him on his birthday?” asked Pen. Her face twitched in a failed expression that would have been called “raising an eyebrow” if her surgically-smoothed forehead had permitted it. From head to toe, Pen had lost the softness that had belied her sharp personality; now in style and substance she looked gaunt and tight. Her appearance might have been more appropriate to her true self, but her physical severity made Liv feel like wincing on her behalf.
