The Perfect Mother(7)

“Where’s Winnie?”

“Hi, Francie. I’m brilliant, thanks for asking.”

“Sorry,” Francie says. “Hi and all that. But is she coming?”

“Yes. She should be here soon,” Nell says, skeptical that Winnie will actually show up. Two e-mails and a phone call, and Winnie still declined to come, saying only that she was unavailable. And then, late last night, Nell got the text, saying she’d changed her mind.

I want to join you, Winnie wrote. Can Alma still babysit?

“I’m assuming she’s getting Midas settled with Alma,” Nell tells Francie.

“Okay, good. I’ll keep an eye out for her.”

“And I’ll go get a drink.” Nell makes her way back inside, toward the bar. She orders a gin and tonic, thinking back to the argument she’d had last week with Sebastian. She’d stood in their bathroom, brushing her teeth, and told Sebastian she’d gone against his wishes and offered Alma the job.

“Nell.” There was irritation in his voice.

“What?” She watched him in the mirror.

“We talked about this. I really wish you hadn’t done that.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” He paused. “She’s illegal.”

She spat into the sink. “You mean undocumented.”

“It’s not worth the risk.”

“To what? Our burgeoning political careers?” Nell rinsed her mouth and stepped past him, walking to the kitchen to turn on the kettle. “I’m pretty sure my career in politics ended in Michael Markham’s backyard when I was fifteen.”

“You know that’s not what I mean. You know you have to be careful—”

She feels a tap on her shoulder as Colette scoots beside her, signaling for the bartender. “You look great,” Colette says, glancing down at Nell’s shoulder. “And have I told you how much I love that gorgeous tattoo?”

“Wanna know something?” Nell leans in and lifts the bottom of her shirt. “These are maternity pants. The baby is two months old, and I’m still wearing maternity pants.”

Colette laughs. “The grand reward of pregnancy: discovering wide elastic waistbands.” She looks beyond Nell. “Oh, good. She’s here.”

Nell turns and sees Winnie standing alone near the entrance. She’s wearing a fitted yellow dress, which shows off the smooth shine of her neck and breastbones, and a surprisingly flat stomach for a woman who gave birth seven weeks earlier. She seems to be inspecting the crowd around her.

“She looks . . . worried,” Nell says. “Right?”

“You think?” Colette is watching her. “Well, who can blame her? It’s got to be hard leaving the baby with a stranger for the first time. I still haven’t done it.”

Nell waves to get Winnie’s attention before taking her drink and following Colette back to their table outside, past a group of young men that reek of weed.

“Hi,” Winnie says, forcing her way through the throng on the deck, a drink in her hand.

“Everything go okay?” Nell asks.

“Yes. Midas was already asleep when Alma arrived.”

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Nell says. “She’s a real pro.”

They take their seats and clink glasses—“To May Mothers!” Francie yells over the music—and pledge not to speak of the babies.

“What on earth will we talk about, then?” Token asks dryly. “Our own interests?”

“What are those?” Yuko asks.

“Anyone reading any good books?”

“I just got that new sleep-training book,” says Francie. “Twelve Weeks to Peace.”

“Have you guys read that other one everyone’s talking about?” Gemma asks. “The French Approach, or something?”

“I don’t think this counts as not talking about the babies,” Nell says. “Colette, help us out here. What are you reading?”

“Nothing. I can’t read when I’m writing a book. It messes with my head too much.”

“You’re writing a book?”

Colette glances away from Nell, as if she hadn’t intended to disclose that information.

“Wait,” Nell says. “We’ve been friends for four months, and you’re just coming around to sharing this news now?”

Colette shrugs. “Talk of our work hasn’t really come up.”

“What kind of book?” asks a woman toward the end of the table, her nails painted neon orange—the one, Nell believes, who has twins.

“A memoir.”

“At your age? Impressive.”

Colette rolls her eyes. “Not really. The memoir’s not mine. I’m a ghostwriter.”

“What do you mean?” Francie asks. “Like, you’re writing a famous person’s book?”

“Sort of. I wish I could say who, but—” Colette waves her hand and looks toward Winnie who, Nell has noticed, has been staring down at her phone since sitting down. “Everything okay?” Colette asks her.

Winnie clicks off the screen. “Yes, fine.”

Nell takes note of Winnie’s fingernails, bitten to the quick, and the thinly veiled look of concern under her smile. Even before Scarlett told them Winnie had admitted to feeling overwhelmed, Nell was aware how distracted Winnie often appeared, how down she seemed on occasion, how she was beginning to miss so many meetings.