Mort was the youngest of 4 from a family whose name carried some weight. It was one of these idyllic scenarios, family backed with money from parents self-made fortune and all the kids were good looking and gifted in one area or another, oldest brother – sporty, sister – drop dead gorgeous, brother – artistic, Mort – sporty and bright. Mort enjoyed a privileged upbringing with lavish holidays flying in his dad’s private jet, the best education, and not just a lovely house in a nice neighbourhood but a mansion in the best neighbourhood with original Matisse hanging on the wall.
So given this, you can rightly imagine that although my one meeting with his parents before we got engaged was all fun and fluff (after all I was just a quickie holiday romance) that there might have been a greater degree of scrutiny when I came back (yes, even though I had the diamond in my hot little hand).
His dad was always light and warm with me, because I too had come from a good family, was well-educated and well-travelled. I had also established a pretty impressive career path. So really, that was all golden with him. His mom, she was the tougher nut to crack. It was one of these passive aggressive situations. On the one hand she was in raptures that I was in Mort’s life because even as the youngest of 4 at 29 years of age, he was the only one who had even remotely contemplated marriage….and then the next step (which was what she was really hanging out for) children. Given that Mort and I had only known each other for a few weeks, and he was clearly from a backing of considerable wealth, I honestly can’t blame her for the phrase ‘gold digger’ possibly floating through her lovely weekly coiffed head.