Other People's Houses(5)
“I’m fine, just tired as usual.”
“How can you tell?” Iris hugged herself. “Aren’t you always a little bit tired?” Frances smiled tightly, and Iris added, “Why don’t you go home and grab a quick nap? Don’t you have a little time before you go back to pick up Lally?”
“Yeah. That’s probably a good idea.” Frances gave her cousin a hug and carried on to her house.
Iris stood and watched her go, wondering what was up. She shrugged inwardly—it would all come out in the end whatever it was. It always did.
* * *
? ? ?
When Frances opened the front door her house phone was ringing. The mechanical voice said, Call from Anne Purr-tah . . . Call from Anne Purr-tah . . .
I’ll bet it is, muttered Frances, suddenly furious. Fuck you.
She started unloading the dishwasher, letting the machine pick up.
“It’s Anne. Please come talk to me.” Click.
Fuck you again, I say, thought Frances, calmly placing mugs upside down in the glass-fronted cabinet. Fuck you very much for ruining my carefully constructed life in which all my friends are just as happy as I am. Where we are going to do it better than our parents did, are going to be happy and raise our kids without ambivalence and frustration. Fuck you for peeling the lid off the can of worms, you selfish, selfish bitch.
The phone rang again. Frances clicked her tongue and suddenly picked it up.
“It’s Anne.”
“Yes.”
“Can we talk?”
“Yes. You have to come here though. I’m cleaning up.”
“OK.”
“OK, see you soon.” After you shower the come off your legs, you whore.
“Bye.” Anne hung up.
Frances put the coffee machine on and checked for cream in the fridge. She pulled out cookies and put some on a plate. She swept crumbs into a pile in the center of the table and then onto her cupped palm, throwing them in the sink. She finished unloading the dishwasher and reloaded it. She put cereal boxes back in the cupboard from breakfast and wiped the counters. She straightened the chairs around the kitchen table. She checked again for cream in the fridge. She went to pee and when she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror she saw her mother’s face looking back at her.
* * *
? ? ?
Anne held the mug Frances always gave her, a souvenir Anne had brought back from Venice one year. The blue and white stripes and the red scarf of the gondolier always looked so cheerful. Anne looked at the plate of cookies. “Did you make these?”
Frances nodded.
Anne reached for one, out of habit. “Drop-off go OK?”
Frances nodded again. “Apart from the toilet roll tubes incident.” Yes, let’s talk about the toilet roll tubes.
“Yeah. I put them out, but I guess she forgot to grab them. Thanks for coming back for them.” Thanks for ruining my secret.
“No problem.” Of course, I didn’t take them to your kid, yet. I sort of got derailed. I haven’t decided yet whether she needs to suffer for your sins.
Silence. Another cookie.
They’d been friends for about five years, since Iris and Sara had introduced them. They’d always gotten on well, both having the same interests—their children, their houses, their marriages, their hopes and dreams, their Pinterest boards. They weren’t truly close, they were friends of proximity, friends because their kids were friends and because of the carpool. If they saw each other in the street they would stop and hug, check in, plan to have lunch, and maybe twice a year they would. They would describe each other as friends, do each other significant favors, but if one of them moved away they would promise to keep in touch, and not. But hey, look at them now—now they were bound together in a whole shiny new way.
Frances took a sip of coffee. “So, how long have you been sleeping with a total stranger?”
Anne shrugged. “Six months.” Her tone was even, as if Frances had just asked a follow-up question about the toilet roll tubes.
“I assume Charlie doesn’t know?”
“No.”
“Are you in love with him?”
“Charlie?”
“The stranger.”
“His name is Richard.”
“I don’t give a shit what his name is, Anne. Do you love him?”
“No.”
“Then why, if you don’t mind my asking, are you risking your children’s happiness in order to have sex with him?”
Frances’s face was flushed, her eyes bright with tears. Anne looked at her and felt irritated by her judgment, even though she genuinely liked the other woman, trusted her completely, and could see how much she was hurting.
“I have no idea.”
“Don’t you love your kids?”
“More than anything.”
“Well, you apparently don’t love them enough to not sleep with this person and run the risk that Charlie will find out, be devastated, divorce you, fight you for child custody, and make them choose between the two of you.” Frances stood up to go refill her mug, in order not to smash it into Anne’s calm, elegant, beautiful face. Anne’s serenity had been one of Frances’s favorite things about her; she’d always marveled at the other woman’s composure and wished for one-tenth the gravitas Anne had. Francis suddenly wondered if it was a mental deficiency or sociopathic disorder. Maybe Anne looked at everyone as if they were chairs or something, unable to feel any empathy at all.