The Writing Retreat(21)

It was a coiled snake.

“Alex!” Taylor raised her glass. “You made it!” Her eyes gleamed from the wine.

“Hi.” I was still standing over my chair. In a kind of daze, I realized I’d left my spider necklace upstairs. Yana pulled my chair out roughly, and as I sat she pushed it in too fast. My knees buckled and I fell onto the cushion heavily. It took me a moment before I could look at Wren again, but when I did, she was sipping her wine, ignoring me.

“Well, hello there.” The male editor had a clipped English accent. He was probably in his late forties, handsome in an unseemly kind of way. Someone who’d hang out at clubs buying drinks for twentysomething girls. “I’m Ian, Roza’s editor and, dare I say, friend. Pleasure.” He turned back to the rest of the table. “So this is the full crew, yeah?”

“We need a team name or something.” Poppy giggled.

I was about a foot away from Wren, so close I could smell her familiar perfume: roses, incense, and smoke. Smooth dark hairs glistened on her arms. Wren was Egyptian on her mother’s side, and she’d told me that in junior high the cool girls had followed her around one day, lumbering and wailing in guttural tones. They tossed a note onto her desk that afternoon, a crude drawing of a woolly mammoth. She started shaving her arms that night. She didn’t stop until college.

It was shocking that even someone as perfect-looking as Wren had those stories. But we all had those stories, didn’t we? Horrific taunts, the trials of female adolescence. Growing up, I’d been ridiculed for my acne, my nose, my weight, my breasts…

Ian poured wine into my glass and I jerked. He was talking again, telling another story.

“Is Roza here yet?” I said it softly, almost to myself, but Wren heard.

“She is. She just had to take a call.”

The whole table stopped to listen.

“She’s upstairs,” Ian added. “She’ll be down shortly, don’t worry, love.”

“We were joking this is all an elaborate setup.” Taylor gestured at Ian. “He’s actually a serial killer who lured us here.”

“Because, as you know, I hate women.” He grinned.

“So, Ian.” Poppy leaned forward. “Can you tell us more about this retreat?”

“Ladies.” He raised his hands, like a conductor. “Believe me when I say I know absolutely nothing. Roza’s in charge of all that. To be honest, I’m just here because I happened to be in New York for the week and I never miss a chance to visit Blackbriar.”

Yana and another woman appeared carrying steaming plates. The other woman had kind, lined eyes and dark hair threaded with silver.

“Specifically because of this woman.” Ian pressed his hands together. “Chitra Patel. One of the finest chefs in the state if not the country.”

“Oh, here we go.” She had an English accent as well, though it was softer, more lyrical. “We all know you’re a charmer, love; no need to lay it on so thick.”

“Just wait.” Ian fluttered his fingers. “Take a bite and tell me I’m wrong.”

The plates held filet mignon and small heaps of creamy risotto, salty mushrooms, garlicky brussels sprouts. We set to the food quickly, with exclamations: “Oh my god.” “This is incredible.” “Chitra’s specialty: neo–comfort food. You girls really are in for a treat.”

“So, Miss Wren.” Taylor sat back, appraising her. “You said you had a photo shoot this morning?”

“I did.” Wren swallowed, a delicate pulse at her throat.

“That is so effing cool.” Poppy stabbed at her mushrooms.

“It was a lipstick shoot at a sewage treatment plant.” She rolled her eyes. “My bosses think they’re so cutting-edge.”

“Did it smell?” Taylor looked horrified.

Wren raised an eyebrow. “You mean I don’t reek? I guess the stench is just permanently in my nostrils now. But, hey, anything for a good picture.”

Everyone chuckled. Her charisma was starting to unfurl, its vines wrapping around the table. It caused anxiety deep in my belly. But as she moved to a story about a photo shoot in the reptile house of the Bronx Zoo, when a Komodo dragon had escaped and eaten several designer shoes, I tried to push it down. This month wasn’t about Wren, and it wasn’t about who people liked more. It was about Roza.

Then the word “fiancé” caught my ear.

“What does he think about your intrepid adventures?” Ian pointed at Wren’s left hand. It had been in her lap for most of dinner, but she’d just used it to gesture.

“Evan?” She stared at her hand, flat on the table. The gigantic diamond sparkled. “He’s fine with it. I think he likes getting a break from me.”

Wren was engaged? I was floored. When had that happened? She hadn’t posted about it on social media.

“Wait, show us!” Taylor cried. Wren obligingly flashed her hand. I looked to be polite, even though my stomach churned. Wren glanced at me and quickly away.

“Girl.” Poppy gasped and leaned forward. “That rock is ob-scene!”

“I keep forgetting about it.” Wren laughed a little, her eyes lowered. “Evan loves it when someone asks me about it and I’m, like, what?”

“What’s he like?” Poppy watched Wren dreamily, swirling her wine. “What does he do?”