Rich and Pretty(43)

Meredith has more to say. Lauren can see it, in the tense hunch of her shoulders, the expectant gleam in her eye, which is trying to fix on Lauren, hold her, as a magnet might. Meredith is lonely. Lauren has been lonely, of course, everyone has been lonely. But she’s not sure she’s been lonely in the way that Meredith is lonely, in this public, ravenous way. Her loneliness is like a smell, it’s there, you’re aware of it. Lauren is relieved by her own imperviousness to this kind of loneliness. It afflicts so many women it seems like it’s the normal way to be.

Sarah and Fiona come into the restaurant, join them at the table, beckon for the waitress, exchange their good mornings. They, too, are dressed for the beach—they’re enjoying every last minute of this.

“I’ve forgotten about every part of my real life,” Fiona says, dreamily. “I guess that means this has been a very successful vacation.”

“Yeah.” Sarah studies Lauren’s face, then turns over her shoulder to consider the sea. “It’s nice to leave reality behind. Get away, drink. Misbehave.” She pauses, looks back at Lauren. “Don’t you think?”

So Meredith has told her. This is not surprising. Meredith doesn’t seem like the secret-keeping sort. “I guess so,” Lauren says. “No hangover, at least.” She taps her temple. “I hydrated.”

“You’re so smart, Lauren. I’m in awe.” Sarah smiles, not a real smile. It’s not a rebuke. It’s something else. Discomfort, embarrassment.

Lauren knows how Sarah feels about sex. Her embarrassment, that hint of awe, they don’t mask a curiosity—they are symptoms of a disinterest. Lauren knows, she’s fairly certain, every guy Sarah’s ever f*cked: Alex Heard and Dan Burton, yes, as well as the two in between them. Only those four, fewer than a handful. Lauren’s not being teased, she’s being scolded. Sarah’s so reluctant to talk about sex that this is how it will come out: oblique conversational jabs that would sound odd to Meredith and Fiona were either of them listening.

“You know what?” Lauren slides away from the table. “I think I’m going to head to my room and pack up before the beach. So I don’t have to later. I’ll meet you out there?”

She’s wrong: Sarah is capable of more than veiled verbal sparring. She knocks on her door only ten minutes later. Lauren knows it’s her before even opening it.

“What’s up?” Lauren’s already packed, so she’s just been lying on the bed, half reading an issue of The New Yorker from several months ago. She’s very far behind in her reading.

“Hi. Can I sit?”

“Sit. Obviously.” Lauren doesn’t sit. She stands by the door, looking down at Sarah. “You ready to go home?”

“Look, I—” Sarah stops. “Meredith told me what she saw, and I am just. A little surprised, or something. I don’t know.”

“Well, I don’t know what Meredith saw, but . . .” Lauren barely has it in her to protest.

“Meredith saw enough. She’s annoying but she’s not stupid. You f*cked the waiter, Lauren? Seriously?”

“It’s a vacation.” She is surprised they’re discussing it at all, but not surprised by the tone in Sarah’s voice: disgust. She’s barely trying to conceal it. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Embarrassing, though, right?”

“Embarrassing for whom, Sarah? Am I embarrassed that Meredith, who is your friend, not mine, saw something, and gossiped to you about it like a prude? I don’t know. It’s her choice. But you know. It happens. I f*cked a guy. If this were Afghanistan, you could stone me.”

“It’s just embarrassing. It’s just . . .” Sarah pauses, looks around the room as if willing the right word to appear. “It’s tacky. What about that temp? I thought you were interested in him.”

Lauren laughs. “The temp?” She can only barely conjure his face. “What does he have to do with anything?”

“You liked his shoes,” Sarah says, ridiculously.

“What can I say? I’m tacky. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that this private thing that has nothing to do with you, and certainly nothing to do with Meredith, is so tacky. You know. I’m sorry that it makes you feel so embarrassed.”

“God, that is not an apology.” Sarah stands up. Her anger is unusual. She’s whispering, but it’s a loud whisper. “I am so sick of apologies that are like . . . I’m sorry that made you feel this way. That is not how you apologize. You’re not supposed to be sorry for having made me feel a certain way. You’re supposed to be sorry for doing the f*cking stupid thing you did in the first place. So don’t try that, okay? You are better than that.”

“I see. I’m better than a bad apology but not so good, because, I’m still a tacky slut who . . . f*cks the help. Is that accurate?”

“You know what? You can play it that way. That’s totally fine. It’s obviously not about the help, and you know it. It’s obviously not about being a slut, and you know it.”

“It’s about what, then? It’s about me being me, and not being you. This is what it’s about, Sarah. I am me, and you are you, and there was no difference there for, I don’t know, a decade? But now there is. And you get mad at me, for being me. And I get mad at you, for being you. Except you never actually get mad, you just get, morally superior. And smug. And I don’t know what else. And I get mad. And then we don’t talk and it’s a whole f*cking thing.”