Vieux Riche

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Lydia's Mercedes pulls into the driveway as I get back from my usual morning jog. She's still wearing her garish new season crocodile skin Hermes that doesn't quite match her blue yoga pants.

"Morning Quinn," she chirps, sipping on her gluten free, GMO free, organic, vegan – whatever else is hip these days – kale smoothie.

"Morning Lydia," I reply, hitting the stop on my watch. 250 calories burnt.

After last month's benefit ball where Lydia was described as 'frumpy' and I was in the list of 'best dressed' in a tabloid, she's been at the pilates studio an awful lot more. Either the pressure's catching up to her, or she's banging the instructor.

She waits for me before we come inside to have breakfast together like one big happy family. "Morning hon," my dad says, kissing her on the cheek. "Morning Quinn," he says to me. I nod in response before grabbing a plastic to-go container of granola and adding two dollops of blueberry Greek yoghurt.

I know Lydia's salivating while she's forced to eat her single apple. The door creaks open and we all watch Nate back in through the front door, gently shutting it. His hair is disheveled, he's wearing dark sunglasses, and if I remember correctly – which I obviously do – he's wearing yesterday's clothes.

"What's happening Nathaniel?" I ask, breaking the silence.

"Quit yelling Quinn!" He exclaims, covering his ears with his hands. "My head is ringing ok?" He's trying to avoid Dad's gaze. "Also, it's Nate to you," he adds, tipping his sunglasses to glare at me.

"Nathaniel..." my dad begins. I can practically see Nate's heart stop right there in his chest. "Take off those sunglasses."

Before I know it, Nate's been grounded for a week for his underage drinking antics. He's the only Armington sibling who's been stupid enough to be caught by Dad. "Where's Cameron?" My dad asks.

"Probably still upstairs sleeping," I reply, knowing well that Cameron was never in bed before three in the morning.

"Call him down here will you?" Dad is flicking through the newspaper and sipping from his coffee. A smile tugs at the corner of Lydia's lips as I pull out my phone. The dial tone plays five times before Cameron's groggy voice answers with a "hello".

"Get your ass down here," I say.

"Are you fucking serious?" He groans. I quickly turn away in hopes that my dad doesn't add cursing to the list of Cameron's sins for today. I hang up.

"He's coming down now," I report.

"We should have breakfast as a family more often," my dad says. Nate's sitting at the kitchen table with a permanent scowl etched onto his forehead. Luckily, the blender was going otherwise this would be the most awkward silence.

"How's Benji?" Lydia asks, knowing this is a contentious topic that should be avoided at all costs in front of my dad.

"Uh – fine," I reply.

"Who's Benji?" is the question my dad follows up with, the question I've been dreading.

"Fuck buddy," Nate says under a cough. I'm going to strangle that kid.

"Just someone I was seeing. Was being the key word here," I respond.

"Benji who?" The topic has clearly piqued my dad's interest because he's taken off his glasses and placed them on the counter.

"Benjamin Walsh," I reply. "From the Walsh Trading Group." My dad nods slowly.

"Can't trust stockbrokers," Dad mutters under his breath. It's almost laughable because our family business is in hedge fund management.

Cameron finally comes downstairs. He looks disheveled and it's clear he hasn't bothered to even try looking presentable this morning. The toaster pops to break yet another painstaking silence. Lydia puts two slices of toast on everyone's plate. "I've already finished my breakfast, no thank you," I respond, pushing the plate away.

"That's not polite. Lydia's gone to a lot of effort to make breakfast for us all," my dad says sternly. Yeah, because toast is sooo hard to make. I just know Lydia's celebrating this victory in her head – she's successfully made me eat extra carbs. It's fine Lydia, we all know I'll look better at the next public function anyway.

We all eat in silence. Is it possible to mess up making toast? If so, Lydia's done it. It's drier than the Sahara Desert. Still, I can't butter it because the extra calories would be another win for her. Nate scoffs down the toast and angrily disappears upstairs.

Cameron washes the remnants of toast down his throat by chugging straight from the milk carton, earning looks of disgust from both my father and Lydia. He too then goes back to his room. By now both dad and Lydia have given up on the breakfast, and I'm left to clean up the mess. Of course, I just call Miranda, our housekeeper in early.

And that's why I never suggest doing things as a family.

Welcome to the Armington household.