Other People's Houses(6)
Frances turned to face her friend. “Why am I so completely upset by this and you’re not? Are you having some kind of mental breakdown? I thought you and Charlie were happy together.”
“We are.”
Frances laughed.
The doorbell rang.
* * *
? ? ?
Sara Gillespie, the wife of Frances’s cousin Iris, was sufficiently famous that people would stop her in the street. Not so famous that she couldn’t walk down the street, but still, frequently recognized. She always played the slightly-ditsy-but-cute-as-a- button girl next door, doomed to romantic failure until the right knight came along, her optimism and openheartedness about to be lost forever when, poof, Mr. Charming realized he couldn’t live without her and asked her to marry him. She was smart, and alternated blockbuster rom-coms with sharp and sarcastic indie pictures that didn’t make money but won awards. She rarely gave interviews, and only went on TV to support charities or raise awareness of some atrocity somewhere. People knew she was gay, it had never been a big secret, but they were able to overlook it or something. Maybe the world accorded her the privacy and respect it wanted for itself; there was always hope. Sara just shrugged it off, and as she walked into Frances’s kitchen now she was laughing at the magazine she held in her hand.
“It says here—Oh, hi, Anne—that I’m leaving Iris for this guy, whoever the fuck he is, and that I’ve decided I’m straight after all.” She bent to kiss Anne on the cheek, and then snagged a cookie. “Am I interrupting something interesting? You both look very serious.”
“No, not at all.” Anne smiled at her. “We were just talking, you know.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad you’re here, because I came to get Frances’s advice and you can chime in, too. I want to throw a surprise party for Iris, for her birthday, and I wondered what you thought.” She sat on the edge of the table, one of her signature traits. She would leap onto a counter, or sit on the floor cross-legged, or flip a chair around and straddle it, but it was only under duress that she’d sit straight on a regular chair in a regular way.
Frances was making her a cup of coffee. “At the house?”
“Maybe, what do you think?” Sara rubbed a hand over her short, curly blond hair, expensively cut and tousled to look as if she’d just gotten out of bed. She spent time on her appearance, it was her job, after all, and it took a lot of money and effort to look as if she didn’t.
“Why not, I think it would be fun. What kind of party? Formal eveningy, or daytime kidsy?”
Sara took the coffee Frances was holding out to her, and another cookie. “These are awesome cookies, low fat, right?” She grinned, and then answered Frances’s question. “I was thinking it might be fun if it seemed sort of impromptu at first and then gradually revealed itself as a planned thing.” The other two were frowning, so she clarified. “Imagine, if you will, a simple lunch with Frances, Michael, and the kids. They come over, bearing a birthday cake that Frances has deliciously baked, and I have made a plate of sandwiches and salady stuff. Trader Joe’s, nothing fancy, right? Happens all the time.” She grinned. “But then the doorbell rings and it’s Anne, Charlie, and their kids, and hey, who knew, THEY brought some food, too, and somehow I find another plate of sandwiches from somewhere, or maybe a veggie platter, who knows, and then the doorbell rings AGAIN and it’s Maggie and Melanie and they brought wine, and then . . . You get my drift? Eventually everyone would be there, and after a bit she’ll realize that it was all a plot and that way I don’t need to do an elaborate ruse to get her out of the house.” She looked thrilled with herself.
Frances nodded. “I think it sounds great. I’m in, for sure.”
Anne frowned. “But then we won’t have that great ‘Surprise!’ moment.”
Sara shook her head. “Iris hates being surprised like that. Hates it. This way I can spring something on her without worrying that she’ll have a coronary or react badly. It’s her birthday, after all.”
“Yeah,” added Frances dryly, looking at Anne with no expression. “Not everyone likes the feeling that people have been plotting behind their back.”
“Right!” Sara giggled. “And I can hide food at your houses, right?”
“Sure, it will be easy.”
“And I thought I’d have a bouncy house arrive in the middle, so the kids will be entertained.”
“Nice.”
“Yay! Good, then that’s settled. Now all I have to do is prevent myself from spilling the beans in the next few weeks and we’ll be fine.” She slid off the table, grabbed another cookie, and hugged them both.
“How is it you eat so many cookies and stay thin? I kind of hate you.” Anne was smiling as she said this. And as Frances watched Anne pretend to be normal, to have normal friendships, and to care about people, while making chatty conversation, she suddenly felt exhausted. Like, week four of a new baby exhausted.
Sara looked surprised. “I’m going to go home and vomit up the whole lot. Isn’t that what everyone does?”
Frances laughed. “No, I hide them in special carrying cases I have on my upper thighs.”
“Ah. Well, that’s another way to go.” Frances walked Sara to the door and watched her make her way down the street, her energy causing her to essentially skip. No wonder she stayed thin; her whole life was a minor workout.