Rich and Pretty (9 page)

“This is good, but this isn't a meal.” Karen is quite expert with her chopsticks. A new restaurant, an all-dumpling menu, and she's not wrong: The food is fine but unsatisfying.

Lauren knows it's small of her but she doesn't like going to a restaurant alone. She supposes this is a measure of her failure as a human being, a certain kind of human being, an evolved human being. How can you claim comfort with yourself if you can't sit and read
The New Yorker
while dunking something into a tiny plastic cup of inky soy sauce? You can't. Maybe she can't. But don't we all have those memories of hesitating, plastic tray in hands, while scanning the cafeteria for a friendly face, and aren't friendly faces hard to come by when you're eleven? She's always needed a friend. At eleven, at the new school, she was panicked. Who wouldn't be? The teachers didn't make her stand up in front
of the class and say something about herself, nothing like that, teachers don't actually do that, do they? But eleven is old enough to understand a lot more than some might think, and Lauren understood, eyeing the queue of taxis and town cars that morning, that things were going to be different.

Her mother had held her hand, then it was her mother who let go of it, her mother who understood she needed to not risk coloring her classmates' perceptions of her daughter. There were other parents in evidence, fathers and mothers who similarly sensed that they should play it cool for the good of their child's social capital. But there were unattended children as well: They'd gone to this school for six years together, this was not a first day, merely a return. Lauren took her place among them: They lined up, as they'd been taught to for half their lives, and disappeared inside the school's actually-ivied walls and Lauren said nothing, not even to the chubby girl who pointed out they had the same model backpack. She would need to make friends, but she would need to be discriminating. She saw the desperation on that girl's face and was not going to let it pull her into its orbit.

It is not clear to either Lauren or Sarah why they spoke. They can't recall who approached whom. But they met, almost right away; on that, there's consensus. Sarah nice enough, but still as fierce as her compatriots; no one is more fierce than an eleven-year-old girl. Even Lauren, eager, nervous, was defended—her need guarded, and because it was hidden, it was vanquished by lunchtime. They were friends by noon. That first moment, conversation, exchange lost to time, but twenty-one years later here they are still.

Sarah introduced her—introduced her! Explained who was who and everything, though certainly there couldn't have been
hands shaken?—to the other girls she deemed worth knowing. At her old school, Lauren had known the other kids her whole life. You learned who people were quickly, learned them alphabetically. Three weeks later, she was going to Sarah's house after school. By fall break, she was with her at their house in Connecticut—a whole other house, meant only for the weekends and days off, something she'd never considered. Her mother had made her send a thank-you card, and she'd been mortified when she went back to Sarah's house and the thank-you card in question was pinned to the corkboard by the kitchen telephone.

Lauren's mother used to lament Sarah's being an only child, feeling that explained some of the girls' incredible, instantaneous closeness. Of course, she wasn't truly an only child, but Bella never came to know Lulu well enough to learn any of this. Lauren didn't see Sarah's condition as solitude. She was envious: no big brother, burping in her face then laughing hysterically, none of that rank, powerful smell of teenage boys, the one that she understood much later has to do with the discovery of masturbation. At any rate, Sarah was never alone, so she couldn't have been lonely. She was always in a group, always a group of girls. Sarah had authority, she had presence. She was a leader, born to it. She had a kind of stardom, one that had nothing to do with who her parents were or how much money they had—everyone's parents were someone, except Lauren's, and they all had money, except for Lauren's—but it was something that came naturally, like the way her hair kinked when the air was steamy.

Seven years later, another first meal in another strange cafeteria; Lauren had never been so relieved to see Lulu's daffy face, Huck's dignified head. She didn't care if their classmates would
denounce him, later, as a war criminal. She just sat and watched Lulu poke her fork at a salad, exclaim over the fact that the salad bar had lentils, watched Huck eat a grilled cheese sandwich, which seemed at once incongruous and wholly fitting. He loved America so, et cetera. Sarah's glow was diminished, a bit, in this unfamiliar setting, a grand columned building that had suffered an institutional adaptation, stripping away its character, mostly by means of harsh fluorescent lighting, which is better for the planet. Maybe it had to do with Huck and Lulu. Her own mother and father had dropped her off, said their good-byes, and Lauren feigned sorrow though her chest was breaking open with excitement. The liberation of adulthood. She watched them disappear out of the parking lot in the maroon station wagon, and a burden lifted off her shoulders, flew away into the late summer afternoon. She had spent her entire life waiting for the next thing; this was the first moment she'd actually experienced that thing. It seems impossible and hilarious to her now that this was fourteen years ago.

There had followed four years of meals together. Breakfast, which Sarah loved and Lauren did not, only coffee for her. Lunch, when their schedules allowed. Dinner, most nights. There was a fourth meal—they were college students, they stayed up late and thought nothing of a plate of Tater Tots at 11:00
P.M.
while discussing
Middlemarch,
a book everyone resented reading but would get much mileage, years thence, for having read. Once it seemed if not inconceivable then certainly odd that she and Sarah wouldn't dine together; now it seemed noteworthy that they had. Life, life is funny.

Karen has reddish hair and a sardonic laugh. She has a sardonic everything. She grew up in Ohio and has a strange way of
pronouncing everything. Her wryness has an accuracy to it. One of the first times they had lunch together—Karen had tendered the invitation, “Hey, let's have lunch,” and it seemed so logical Lauren naturally said yes, though it wouldn't have occurred to her to make the same offer, not ever—Karen had entertained her with her observations about their bosses. She pointed out that one of Mary-Beth's legs is shorter than the other, by a significant margin; you can tell it by the way she walks. Lauren had been there two years before Karen showed up, had never noticed. She wasn't that attentive, in the end, to the small details of other people's lives. Karen mimicked Mary-Beth's gait—not cruelly, more imitatively—and Lauren was astonished. Karen was perceptive. Maybe in the end being perceptive is better than being smart.

“So what's the deal with the temp?” Karen, nonchalant.

“The deal?” She can't look elegant with chopsticks. She's using a fork.

“He's cute.” Karen has a boyfriend, named Evan. He's an illustrator, which doesn't seem like a proper job, but he makes a living. He's nice, but he has a goatee. The three of them had a drink once, after work, last summer. Evan hadn't been wearing enough deodorant.

“Yeah, he's cute,” Lauren says, like they're discussing the weather.

“Oh fuck off like you haven't noticed.” This is another thing about Karen: She's foulmouthed.

“I've noticed,” Lauren says.

A
s a kid, Sarah hated Sundays,
felt itchy from first thing in the morning, not because of church, Huck and Lulu weren't church people, but from that awareness of the looming Monday, that quiet sadness of the city on a Sunday, though it was worse, worse by far, to spend the Sunday in Connecticut, as they sometimes did, and she'd lobby to leave the house by lunchtime so she could be home, safe, ready for something, some nameless thing that was gathering, that she could sense. She still doesn't love Sundays.

They wake early. Dan gets the coffee, she gets the paper, which the doorman has dropped in front of their door, pointlessly wrapped in its blue plastic bag. They don't lie around in bed, which she makes up the minute they're up because she hates an unmade bed, but they don't rush to dress either, and Dan will turn on one of those soft news Sunday-morning programs, folksy and upbeat, and do four, five things at once, drink coffee, watch television, check e-mail, read the paper, make notes, look at his phone.

Sunday nights are, it's understood, dinner as a family. There have been exceptions, as of course there would be over the course
of thirty-two years: illness, travel, work, college. Dan understands. Dan comes, it's nice to be four instead of three, some balance restored, contra the God they don't believe in, the one who killed her brother. This Sunday Dan's not there, he's at work; there's always that, because work is respected in this house, particularly Dan's work.

“You saw that the Westons are putting their house on the market?” Lulu flits. She doesn't like to sit. She'll eat three bites, get up and start cooking dessert. They never eat in the dining room, these nights, just the family: That's for formal affairs, when there's a caterer on hand. Sundays, they eat in the kitchen, talking while Lulu stirs and chops and takes breaks to dash back to the table for another bite or to get a sip of water. “There's bread, I bought it at a stand in Union Square just for tonight, I almost forgot it.” Lulu gets up again to fetch the bread.

“Where are the Westons going?” The same roast potatoes, the same crunch. It's comforting, as it's meant to be. Sarah sips her wine.

“The Westons are what we in the industry call ‘cashing out.'” This is a classic of Huck's: references to the “industry,” no matter what's being discussed. It's not funny, though Sarah accepts that he means it as a joke.

“Empty nest!” Lulu deposits the bread on the table. Slick and oily, a cross-hatching of rosemary on it. “The twins are out of college now, what do they need with that big old house, just the two of them? This looks good, doesn't it?”

It does look good. Sarah tugs at the end of it, no need for the knife—they're not formal. It's surprisingly gummy. “I'm out of college, Mom. What do you need with this big old house?”

“Can't break bread when the bread won't break, Lulu.” Huck tugs at the loaf.

“I'll get the knife.” This, said as she's already across the room, doing just that. “Don't think we haven't had offers on this house, Sarah. But I'm sentimental.”

“I would be lost if we sold this house. Lost!” Huck, mimicking horror. “You've lived your entire life here, you don't want to see it sold, do you?”

She wrests a piece of the loaf off before her mother is back, chews it thoughtfully. “I'm teasing, Papa. No. But the Westons. I mean, I get it. Hey, this bread is good, Mom.”

Lulu beams as if she's made it herself. “I know, they had free samples, that's why I bought it. Free samples. I ate three!”

Sarah chews thoughtfully. She wishes, not for the first time, for Lulu's metabolism, but we don't get to choose what we inherit. She peels the skin off the chicken, which is unfortunate, because it's the best part.

“We need this house for our parties, of course,” Lulu says. “And I love it here.”

“Speaking of our parties, your mother's had a good idea. I don't know why we haven't had this idea yet, but leave it to Lulu.”

“I wonder where they'll go, the Westons.” Lulu slices into the bread. “Not Florida? People don't actually do that, do they?”

“They do, Mom. Maybe you and Papa should do that. Go somewhere warm.”

“We'll buy in Cuba the second Castro dies. Any day now!” Huck raises his glass in salute.

“Ridiculous.” Lulu reaches for the brussels sprouts.

“Okay, then, I'll bite.” Sarah looks at her parents. They've always been this way. The Huck and Lulu show. “What's the big idea?”

“I should add it was cheap, this bread, seven dollars, imagine, you'd pay seven dollars just for the rosemary, to be honest.” It's unclear to whom Lulu is speaking.

“Well, it was your mother's idea, but I'll do the talking. It's about your wedding, your nuptials, the ceremony; you should do it here, at home, don't you think? Why haven't we talked about this possibility yet?” Huck looks at her. He's in professorial mode. “I mean, not a church. There's the club, but you and Dan, you're not club people, are you? That's so old-fashioned.”

“So society page,” Lulu frowns. “The club. High WASP. Ridiculous.”

“We are not club people.” It wasn't just Chelsea Terrace. Sarah's been to see other venues—a woodsy old factory in Brooklyn, a tacky ballroom on the Upper West Side. Lack of space is the essential quality of life in the city. What space there is is expensive, and in high demand. None of those places is an option, not for next April, it seems. “At home?”

“You took your first steps in our bedroom,” says Lulu. “You can walk down the aisle here, too, only fitting, don't we think? And save yourself the trouble of all this planning. It's too much.”

The truth is it has occurred to Sarah, of course it has occurred to her, but she's hesitated. She wants this to be their day, hers and Dan's, not Lulu's.

“It's an idea, not a bad idea. I mean, venues are so expensive.”

“Just think, in the backyard, how pretty, and we can fit lots of people.”

“Two hundred, easily, definitely,” says Huck. “I know we've had two hundred.”

“I think we've had three hundred!” Lulu says.

“We are not having three hundred guests.” Sarah frowns.

“An intimate gathering, then?” Huck drums his fingers on the dining table. “We'll have to really look at the list, make sure we don't forget anyone important. Weren't you going to get a planner or something? We need someone to oversee all this business.”

“Not two hundred, not one hundred, more like seventy.” Sarah's done the count a few times now. Seventy is on the low end, but still where she'd like to aim. “And I'm working on the planner. I'm supposed to talk to her soon. Willa. The one Ellen recommended.”

Lulu purses her lips. She's filling the cobalt blue pitcher from the little spout by the sink that dispenses filtered water. “Seventy.” She pauses. “Yes, Willa, she's the one. Ellen spoke so highly of her, and Rachel's wedding was so beautiful.”

“A fine number, anyway,” Huck interjects. Ever the diplomat. “A fine number.”

“I told you we want to do something small.” Sarah doesn't want to argue the point. And she doesn't want to bring up the obvious: that her parents are going to pay for this wedding, so they're within their rights to want to have it at their house.

“But seventy, that's minuscule. In my estimation. Much too small. I'm just saying.” The pitcher comes down on the table with a thud. “Have it with the butter, it's the salty butter.”

“It's fine, it's fine this way,” Sarah says.

“You know, we still have half the bottle of that cabernet from the other night,” Lulu says.

“That was a good one.” Huck nods enthusiastically.

Lulu disappears up the stairs. Her father leans closer to Sarah. She sits at the head of the table, always has, since it was her high chair stationed there, decades ago. “Seventy people?”

“Maybe more. But small, Papa, intimate. It's embarrassing.”

“What embarrassing? You're getting married. A community rite. That's what it is, you know. It's not for you. It's for—your people. Your mom and your papa.”

“You eloped,” she says. “You sidestepped this whole minefield.”

He puts his hands up in surrender. “I'm only saying what your mother is too sad to say. She wishes her parents had been there, when we got married. She likes that whole business, the aisle, the flowers, the music.”

Sarah nods. “Well, the flowers. The music. Everyone likes that stuff.” She doesn't want to disappoint—she never has liked to disappoint.

Book club is every three weeks.
A month was too long, by group consensus. You lost momentum. You didn't want to get together, or you didn't remember that you were supposed to or the nuances of the relationships in the group. Two weeks isn't long enough to read a book, or it can't be guaranteed. Three weeks is just about right. There's a page limit on the books they'll read. They're on Didion now. It's fine, but it's irritating, somehow. Part of Sarah suspects people only like to read Joan Didion because she's thin and glamorous, or was, anyway. The edition she's reading has a prominent photo of the author on the cover, looking chic.

Sarah's hosting tonight. It's good timing. The cleaning lady comes alternate Wednesdays, so it's only been a day, and the bathroom isn't covered in errant blond hairs, which proliferate, surprising even her, and the stove gleams. Even the inside of the refrigerator is orderly, clean, everything lined up in order of descending height. The cleaning lady has a touch of the obsessive-compulsive. Sarah leaves the house with a list: wine (there's always wine at book club), snacks savory and sweet (everyone will bring something, but her conscience won't allow her to be caught unawares should everyone forget their obligations), flowers (you can't have people into your house without buying flowers first, it's like putting on lipstick before a meeting).

She's read the Didion before: She went to college. Arrived there with dreams of reading books, smoking cigarettes, having sex, staying up into the night feverishly discussing something, anything, with someone, anyone. Lauren had gone into it with much the same expectation. They'd been on the same page about it. They'd chosen the college together.

High school was demanding, of course; they'd read
Pale Fire,
they knew about Marx, Ned Rorem, Watson and Crick, and the salon at 27 rue de Fleurus. Sarah didn't need to discover too much, didn't need scales to fall from her eyes, didn't need Judy Chicago or Cindy Sherman or Mary McCarthy (well, not her; they didn't read
her
at their college) or John Cage to give her a whole new way of thinking. She had that way of thinking. Mostly, Sarah looked forward to more of the same—lots of A's, the respectful pride of the professors—while she indulged herself in a little badness. A little exploration. A little shedding of inhibition. She could never get up to that, in high school. Her heart wasn't in it. But she would
go to college, and no one would know what she was already like, no one but Lauren. So she'd cut her hair, maybe, or wear peasanty dresses, or learn to sing Joni Mitchell songs in a quavering, quiet soprano, or fuck a girl.

They knew so many girls like that. That's the thing about clichés. There's a reason they persist. So many girls—women, they were women, everyone said so, some of them even proclaimed themselves
womyn
—from so many schools like their own, from their city or other cities or other places, who arrived on a campus still drunk on summer, verdant and sunshiny. Thirty thousand dollars a head got you a lot in terms of landscaping: flowers everywhere, popping through fresh mulch. Huck, conservative hero, wasn't expecting much in the way of a welcome. He was used to visiting campuses and being met with creatively angry signs, or students disrupting his discourses to stand, turn their backs to him. They never discussed this, but he treated it, as he treated everything, with a mild bemusement, and preferred to spend his time with graduate students.

“You see, the drive is not so long,” Lulu kept saying, then sighing because it was, actually, sort of long, the traffic of matriculating teenagers and their parents like the salmon congesting a stream. Her meaning was clear though:
You'll come home, often
. It was forbidden for freshmen to bring cars of their own, but the train was more than serviceable.

This parting was hard on Huck and Lulu. They were a small family, just the three of them, now, and of course, things had gone so horribly wrong with Christopher. Sarah was their second child and their second chance, the opportunity to redeem themselves, to do it right.

Her roommate was a delicate and angry girl named Ariel, who had grown up in Berkeley and was horrified when eventually she figured out who Sarah's father was. There was a damning assertion about Huck—an assertion, Sarah wasn't sure, she never investigated—in a documentary that was much talked about at the time, something about U.S. involvement in domestic politics in Latin American countries. Latin America was, for some reason, a pet cause of Ariel's—all of it, the whole continent. She read Marquez for pleasure and overly enunciated her Spanish words. After two months, Ariel requested to have her room reassigned. The authority overseeing this kind of thing was not pleased—the very idea of having a roommate, in college, was to further your experience of the world, to meet, and engage, and learn to live, in a very literal sense, with people different from you. Ariel was not buying this. Sarah wanted peace, prevailed on Lauren to swap, and for the next four years was wholly ignored by Ariel.