With Friends Like These: A Novel (9 page)

Blowsy roses cut from my garden faintly perfumed the screened porch where we’d be eating. I considered playing some opera—
nah, overkill
—and popped in Sinatra. As I walked back to the kitchen, my phone rang again. “Hi, doll,” Arthur said. “Am I interrupting you and the ladies?”

“No, but I can’t talk.” I ground more pepper into the sauce. “Good real estate karma?”

“Fuck no,” Arthur grumbled.

When I’d mentioned the apartment in his building, within the hour Arthur had conned the doorman into telling him which unit was for sale, then insisted that I rush over to meet him in the lobby. The two of us sat like fools, feigning animated conversation, for almost an hour until the broker glided in, the kind of bitch who’d wait on you at Bloomingdale’s while she broadcast the not-so-subliminal message that you’d best stick
to the plus-size department in the store’s bowels. I detested her on sight, and didn’t care if the feeling was mutual. It only juiced my competitive streak and made me salute Arthur’s ingenuity—not that I didn’t want to piss in my pants as I crossed the threshold of a find that Quincy had laid claim to as if it wore a plaque with her name on it. I had to remind myself that there was no way she was going to get that apartment. If anyone deserved it, it was a person from the building. Let’s call that person Arthur.

“No luck? Well, that’s a bitch,” I said to him. The loyal girlfriend-me was galled, the friend part relieved. “What did the hag broker say?”

“She won’t return my calls.”

“Sorry.” I couldn’t cough up a
darling
or a
sweetie
, and wanted to ditch this topic. “What else’s going on?”

“Which movie should I rent for Friday?” So we weren’t going to a Broadway show. One thing about Arthur: with respect to being stingy, he was consistent. “I’m thinking that Jesse James flick.”

Pretentious, too. Nonetheless, I was about to wolf-whistle on the leading star’s behalf when the doorbell chimed. “You hear that? I’ll call you when they leave.”

Although my townhouse isn’t large or even detached, my end unit’s leafy backyard gives me the illusion of privacy. And it’s mine, all mine and the bank’s, from its Dutch door overlooking steps bordered with purple petunias to a fieldstone fireplace that climbs to the second floor. Two extra bedrooms are tucked into the eaves. I don’t invite tall guests.

Talia thrust a bouquet of daisies in my arms as we greeted each other with the usual kiss parade. “Love the sundress,” I said as she twirled, her white skirt billowing around long, slim legs I’ve been envying for years. “Very Marilyn.”

“Twenty bucks at a consignment shop.”

Like there would ever be anything for me at such a shop that didn’t look as if it belonged on my aunt Magdalena.

When Talia stopped spinning, her eyes surveyed the room. She missed nothing. “I love those pillows,” she said. “New?”

“If they’re purple, they follow me home.”

“For you.” Chloe stepped forward. She offered a gift that appeared to have been wrapped in origami and tied with a chiffon bow. “Where can I park these?”

“Hand them over, dollface,” I said, and put her present and travel brochures next to a platter of antipasto. “Help yourselves.” I pointed to the wine as I walked back to the kitchen, adding, “Quincy does remember we’re on, right?”

“Definitely,” Talia said. “I spoke to her this morning.”

“I offered her a ride,” Chloe shouted, “but she rented a Zipcar.”

Oh, holy Jesus, everyone had spoken to that woman but me. I walked out with a bowl of olives. “How are the kiddies?” I asked.

“Dash’s taking to Jamyang,” Chloe said, “who I suspect knows more English than she lets on.”

“Yesterday I noticed it was way too quiet. Henry had climbed into the bathroom sink, opened the medicine chest, and was about to try out Tom’s razor. The books don’t tell you to childproof cabinets five feet off the ground.”

When Chloe moved on to advanced potty training, she must have noticed me squirm. “How’s it going with Arthur?” she asked. Chloe, my matchmaker, possessed an owner’s curiosity about the relationship.

“He gives good phone.”

“The hands?” Talia asked. I’d drilled it into all of them that one of Jules’ Rules is that hands are second only to tongue.

“Hands good.” But I didn’t want to discuss Arthur. I was about to ask whether either of them knew what was going on with Quincy’s apartment search when she pushed open the bottom half of the door.

“Anybody home?” she sang out. She met me with chocolates from Manhattan’s latest Willy Wonka. I peeked in the box. Each candy was so delicately designed I wished I could tile my bathroom with them. Quincy almost gave me a kiss, leaving more than the normal amount of air between her pouty lips and my cheek, then greeted Chloe and Talia with the
sort of full-tilt enthusiasm I usually receive. I doubted that Talia and Chloe would notice. It was all in the fine print: Quincy Blue, ticked off.

This struck me as an opportune time to bring on the home cooking. “It’s getting late,” I said. “Ladies, the porch.”

“Your meals are worth starving for,” Chloe said. “Which I’ve done, all day.” She meant well but delivered the line in the spirit of a woman who’s never said a Hail Mary before looking at a scale. Chloe had gained fifty pounds when she was pregnant, and for six months she’d looked like a teakettle, but now she was down to her prepregnancy weight plus, she said, a mere seven pounds.

As women do in the privacy of their gender, the four of us wolfed down our food, which did not disappoint. I batted away compliments. Not that I live for the praise—feeding people is how I care, which I admit without a teaspoon of my standard cynicism.

“Time to talk turkey,” I said after I nibbled crumbs from all four cake plates and served cappuccino. “And since it’s my house, I go first. Rome,” I began, “is the city of love.”

“Since when?” Quincy broke in. “Paris is the city of love.”

“Isn’t Paris the city of light?” Talia asked.

I ignored them both and proceeded to practically warble an aria to Italian men, Michelangelo in particular, the balmy climate, the Villa Borghese, soccer—or “football,” thank you, Quincy—the colosseum, the Spanish Steps, hazelnut gelato, and all the priceless art of Vatican City, along with the thousands of seven-foot-tall Senegalese guys who hawk wholly credible knockoffs on the bridge leading to it.

“I have to admit it’s sounding pretty sweet,” Chloe said. “The Italian part of
Eat, Pray, Love
was my favorite!”

“That’s everyone’s favorite,” Talia sniffed. “Strangle me with my prayer beads if I ever agree to stay even one night at an ashram.”

“Didn’t you love that because the author was such a squawk box the monks turned her into the ashram’s hostess?” Quincy asked.

“On point, gang,” I said shrilly, while I considered that if I were to visit
an ashram—an event as likely as me moving home to Staten Island—that’s the job the brothers would assign to me. “We’re still talking Rome. You know, the Eternal City.”

“We could be like Audrey Hepburn in
Roman Holiday
,” Chloe said.

Chloe and I share the belief that romantic movies peaked before we were born. “Or the women in
Three Coins in the Fountain
,” I added.

“There were three friends in that story,” Quincy said. “Who stays home?” This time no one could miss her blistering tone.

“What’s your problem?” Talia asked, turning.

“Actually, now that you mention it, the euro,” Quincy said, and buttoned up her face. Even in the flattering amber of my living room light, I saw a crease on her forehead that I’d never before noticed.

“You’re right,” Talia said without skipping a beat. “What are we thinking? Italy would be
molto costoso
.”

“Who said anything about fancy?” I said, failing to suppress my annoyance. “I know any number of reasonably priced hotels and restaurants.”

But Chloe was talking over me. “I got bedbugs once at a four-star hotel in Venice. Red tracks running up my arms like some sort of addict. I was mortified to show them to a doctor.” The other two seemed riveted by her account of dermatological distress. “I doubt we’ll get bedbug bites in Vegas.”

“I see,” I said. “You’d rather go to the ersatz Italy, the one in Nevada?”

“The fountains at the Bellagio are choreographed to opera,” Chloe said.

As if that were a selling point. “Go on,” I drawled.

“You can ride in a gondola at the Venetian,” she added.

“The gondolier will have a ya-you-betcha accent,” I countered. William Macy in
Fargo
had wormed his way into my brain in my attempt to see Arthur’s features as quirky rather than porcine; I’d been thinking about an article I’d read on sexual attraction that insisted that only unimaginative women require handsome men.

“I’ve read about great deals to Vegas,” Talia said. “You can stay at Caesars Palace for about a hundred bucks a night.”

Quincy cut in. “But isn’t it a dump?”

Chloe looked hurt. “Midweek every hotel’s a bargain in Las Vegas, even the Wynn.”

“Midweek won’t work,” I said, “at least not for me. We blocked out a long weekend months ago. I can’t change my schedule.”
I’m not like the rest of you, whose lives come with male safety nets
.

Chloe had retreat written all over her face. “Of course we’ll stick with those dates. But think of all the shows.”

I was trying not to.

“What about you two?” Chloe turned to Quincy and Talia.

“Vegas is depressing,” Quincy said. “People gambling away rent money and chasing ninety-nine-cent shrimp cocktails.” I tried to catch her eye, to show that I agreed. She looked through me. “Graceland. That’s America.” She got up, hummed a few bars of “Don’t Be Cruel,” and announced, “I’m already holding the Gold and Platinum Suite.”

And they thought
I
was pushy?

“The hotel plays Elvis movies on a constant loop.” I saw Quincy’s mouth continue to move and Chloe and Talia respond. Had I really screwed Quincy? Absolutely not, since under no circumstances would she and Jake wind up with that Eldorado apartment. In that case, shouldn’t Arthur have a crack at it? He’d already lived for years in that pile of choice bricks. Bottom line, it had nothing to do with me. He and the young Blues could slug it out.

When I woke from my coma, Talia had transported us to Maine, with all its bushy-tailed wholesomeness. “We’ll burn calories every morning hiking or sailing or riding bikes,” her California voice-over was saying, “hang around the lake, go antiquing, and finish each day with lobster everything and corn on the cob, washed down with local wine.”

“Do we buy it at L.L. Bean?” I asked. “Does it come in a box? With a screw top?”

“Or we’ll drink beer and after dinner light a fire, make s’mores, read big beach books, and sleep like the dead.”

“What if it rains?” Quincy asked.

“Factory outlets.”

“I’ve never been to one,” Chloe said.

I had, and would pass on the chance to shop for seasons-ago five-inch Swarovski-crystal-encrusted Lucite heels that “may” be Christian Louboutin. “Hear, hear,” I said. “I call for a vote.” I sensed that Rome had not caught fire but, since we weren’t gamblers, Vegas was no better than going to Madison Avenue. Graceland appealed to me far more than Maine, no matter how many blueberry pancakes I could eat, but why should Quincy get her way? She’d had a loose hair up her ass all night.

We cast our secret ballots. Chloe, the evening’s designated Pricewater-houseCoopers tabulator, made a show of counting the votes. “We have a clear favorite,” she announced. “The winner is … the magnificent state of Maine.”

Talia bowed to our applause. “Don’t worry,” she said. “The indoor plumbing will be installed any day now.”

I was ready for every guest to leave so I could get to part two of the evening, since I wouldn’t exhale until every leftover had been plastic-wrapped and each pot all but sterilized, but I spotted the gift from Chloe. You could set your watch by that woman’s kindness. I opened the wrappings and found a bestseller. While I hugged her, I yawned. Chloe and Talia took the hint and said their goodbyes.

I hoped Quincy would join them. If she was ready to stick me in front of a firing squad over the fucking apartment, I’d defend myself, but what I really wanted was for her to go home. She’d disappeared into the bathroom and now walked back to the foyer, where I pretended to sort my mail while I felt her stare.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” she asked. There wasn’t an edge to her voice, which made me more uneasy than if she’d bombed me with four-letter words. “I’ve waited all week.”

I do outrage rather well myself. “Excuse me? If anyone should be pissed, it’s me. You ignored my e-mails.”

“How could you?” she said.

“Help me out here.”

“When were you going to tell me you looked at the apartment Jake and I hope to buy? That you told your boyfriend and he went after it?” The stiffness in her voice was freezing into anger.

“Oh, that.” I shrugged. “Good Lord, it’s no major Machiavellian plot. Arthur thought the apartment might work for him. He’s thinking of downsizing.” She continued to glare. “The doorman told him about it.” Technically, it was true.

“How did he hear about it?” Quincy’s face was getting red. “It had to be from you, my friend who hurried over to see my dream apartment the first chance she got.”

I folded my arms under my breasts and remained composed. Thank you, twenty-five years of acting classes.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” Quincy said when I wouldn’t react.

“Arthur had every right to look at the apartment.” Was my manner a tad imperious? Perhaps.

“You seem to be missing the point.” Quincy had balled up her hands as if she was going to throw a punch. “Maybe I need to put this in terms you can understand. If we were shopping at the Barney’s warehouse sale,” she began, dripping condescension, “and I spotted a pair of pants and took them to the try-on area, when I turn my back you don’t get to grab them.”

As if we’d ever wear the same size. This was an insult on so many levels. “Maybe I need to put this in terms you can understand,” I countered. “Arthur is entitled to go after the apartment—he already lives in the building.” That had to count for something.