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Post by Mrs. Sheppard on Oct 9, 2009 17:55:29 GMT -5
Vivien found nothing wrong with her constant state of indulgence. She had worked very hard to get where she was at, and now her life was about her, as it should have been. Of course she did care about other things, like her daughter, just not as much as she cared about herself.
To Vivien life was a schedule of what was proper and what was not, she had arranged her life, bending the rules here and there and now she was the wife of an important man, living a life that most would envy. But it wasn't always easy, she had plotted and planned for her life, and now it was time for her daughter to do the same.
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Post by Natasha Davenport on Oct 9, 2009 18:19:47 GMT -5
Receiving the owl that told her to meet her mother at the spa Natasha concluded her business affairs for the day and followed her mother's instructions. Childishly she wanted to blow the woman off, but she knew things went better for her if she did as she was asked, besides what harm was there in going to the spa? She could use a bit of relaxation after everything else.
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Post by Mrs. Sheppard on Oct 17, 2009 4:11:39 GMT -5
"Natasha. There you are darling." Mrs. Sheppard cooed toward her daughter to which she received an equally false smile and endearment while her daughter came and kissed her cheek. Their relationship was a distant one, both simply stayed out of each other's way and neither poked their heads into each other's business, until now.
Now Vivien had something vital to inform her daughter. It was time to find a husband.
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Post by Natasha Davenport on Oct 24, 2009 1:08:44 GMT -5
"Yes, here I am mother." she replied dutifully. She had already requested one of the masseuses and seeing as how they would be there shortly, she disrobed and prepared for her massage, all the while her mother talked.
She supposed she might have paid more attention if she didn't have other things on her mind. That kiss for instance still haunted her, as well as the identity of the kisser. She was still having problems with Devon, and there was a sudden new player in the mix by the name of Justin Scotts. He was quite perfect actually.
Her mother would positively burst were Natasha to start dating the guy, but she found herself treading a little warily around him...he was a wild card after all.
Then she droned out what her mother was saying when Mary began to work on her tense muscles.
She was just nearly relaxed when her mother said the most unimaginable thing.
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Post by Mrs. Sheppard on Oct 24, 2009 23:30:02 GMT -5
"Did you hear me dear?" she asked catching Natasha's stunned expression. Of course she knew her daughter wasn't listening to her, but she knew at least her last sentence would catch the girl off guard.
"I think it's time you found a husband." she repeated, then watched as her daughter lost her coloring. It came back quickly enough, along with an incredulous expression, but Vivien was set on her course and would not be deterred, "No, no protests from you. You're in your seventh year of school...it's time for you to start thinking about your future, most girls your age are already betrothed."
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Post by Natasha Davenport on Oct 25, 2009 18:39:00 GMT -5
Natasha was sufficiently quieted by her mother's words. She couldn't form any of her own to save her life, or her freedom for that matter. Blinking she felt her stomach drop, she knew this was coming but yet she seemed unprepared for it.
She didn't want to get married. She didn't want to sign her life over to someone and perpetuate the facade of sweet innocence. She thought briefly that if she had been able to she could marry someone like Devon...someone who knew what she was like and yet...cared for her anyway.
She wasn't idealistic enough to believe in true love and happily ever after. She assumed her husband would eventually cheat on her, and that she would eventually do the same. It was just the way the world worked.
Her mother seemed pleased that she didn't say anything and continued to talk this time of all the prospects, who would be acceptable to marry and so on and so forth.
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