Rich and Pretty(11)

“Wait, are you trying to tell me I am a bad matron of honor?” Lauren reaches across the table as though to take Sarah’s hand, but doesn’t. “Is this an intervention? Do you not want me as matron?”

“Don’t be an *,” she says.

“You’re being the *. Just tell me what to do. I don’t know about matrimonial custom. Everything I know about weddings comes from sitcoms.”

Sarah remembers the years they lived together in the city. Sarah would handle the bills, and Lauren, in a gesture that approached, but did not achieve, the apologetic, would come home with hundreds of dollars of groceries—repayment not quite in kind. She’s not irresponsible, not exactly, she just has her way of doing these things, and it’s not Sarah’s way. She’s going to have to guide Lauren through this, which is fine, because Sarah wants only help, not to cede all responsibility. “Fine.” It comes out more meanly than she wants it to, so she says it again. “Fine. I guess to start, we should make a list. There’s the dress. There’s a party. Something bachelorettey, but not too, I guess. There’s the hair and makeup. The flowers, the cake. Photographer.”

“I didn’t realize this was going to be such a traditional wedding.”

“I don’t think it’s the worst thing in the world to want some pretty flowers around the day I get married.”

“I’m going to help, relax,” Lauren says, suddenly a little nicer. “We’ll find a dress that’s not too poufy but still implies that your hymen is intact.”

The food arrives. Sarah doesn’t say anything to the waiter. Lauren says something, a thank-you maybe, it’s not clear. Sarah picks up her fork, assesses the plate. She’s not hungry, she wants to leave but wants another glass of wine, too. She had a feeling that Lauren might make her feel this way about the wedding, a wedding done in a way that Lauren would never do things.

When the check comes, Lauren pays. Sarah doesn’t care. When they leave, they kiss on the cheeks, in a way that’s somehow different from the way Lauren kissed the hostess when they arrived at the restaurant. There is a taxi outside, so Sarah doesn’t walk Lauren home, as she normally might.





Chapter 4


The building Sarah and Dan live in was built in the 1980s and has a corporate feel that she’s never much liked, but the apartment is a good one: both bedrooms roughly the same size, a closet in the foyer that’s big enough to hold a bike, a kitchen with real walls and a window so when he cooks (it’s mostly Dan who cooks), the whole apartment won’t smell like puttanesca or stir-fry. He’s got a pretty small repertoire. They order in a lot.

There’s a doorman, which makes life easier with things like dry cleaning and UPS, and there’s a rooftop garden, though they rarely take advantage of that amenity. When she saw the apartment, she fell in love with its straight solid floors; its modern, hefty windows; how you could see but not hear the traffic below. Her parents’ house is so rickety, so idiosyncratic, by contrast. Windows swollen by rain and impossible to open more than an inch; in her father’s study, the chair, on casters, forever sliding across the crooked floor. Who needs character? She wanted comfort. So they bought the place, two years ago. They agreed they wanted two bedrooms, said it was for out-of-town guests, but in truth it was because eventually they’d have a baby, though they never said as much out loud, which seemed bad form, or tempting fate.

Dan is on the couch. The television is on, but he’s not paying attention. He’s looking at his phone, but also has his computer on his lap, and the newspaper crumpled up on the couch beside him. He’s a multitasker. It’s how his mind works—quickly, enthusiastically. His general knowledge of the universe always surprises her. He can talk to almost anyone about almost anything. The only thing people talk about anymore is what they do for a living, but he’s comfortable talking about people’s careers no matter what they do: doctors, real estate agents, financial analysts, computer people, journalists, publicists, cabdrivers, people who do things with art. A polymath, maybe that’s the word. He skipped the tenth grade.

“You’re home,” he says. He doesn’t get up.

“I’m home.” There’s a chair by the door where Sarah always puts her bag when she comes in. There’s mail on the table: junk, and a magazine she’s not interested in reading. “Did you have dinner?”

“Bethany ordered from that Korean place. I just got home.”

“Late night.” She slips out of her shoes, shoves the newspaper aside, and sits, their bodies barely touching.

“Hi.” He looks away from his phone, kisses her on the cheek. “Do you believe this thing with this congressman?”

She hasn’t been following the story. Staying on top of the news is her father’s job, one she’s never wanted for herself. She makes a noncommittal mm hmm. The way spouses communicate. They are as good as married already. It’s been a long time.

“Our exhibitionist representative is distracting me from my work.” He puts the phone down and turns his attention back to the computer. The television is showing a commercial for Boeing. The music is stirring. “You can turn that down.”

He knows she doesn’t like the television to be as loud as he does. She wonders sometimes if he’s a little bit deaf. She turns it down.