Rumaan Alam - Rich and Pretty

Lauren walks down the steps, toe then heel, toe then heel, the report of shoe on wood exactly like hammer on nail, or an impatient judge’s gavel, announcing look at me, look at me with every step. She keeps a hand on the railing, because the steps are slippery.

The house is transformed. A few chairs and tables and knickknacks have been banished, for the time being, to the front rooms of the basement, where, long ago, the nanny had lived, a part of the house forbidden when she was in residence and forgotten over the years since. There are flowers, everywhere, arrangements in innocuous glass vases, white peonies the size of fists, roses a pale, limey green. There are tea lights in glass votive holders in clusters: on the mantel, the coffee table, on each step, on that little ledge of step peeking out past the railing, which seems unsafe. Later, it’ll be someone’s task to move through the house as quickly as possible, lighting them. A couple of rugs have been taken up, and the dining table repurposed as a bar, where a pretty redhead is lining up glasses and taking stock of the bottles. There’s something else: a thrum, an energy, distant voices, nearby whispers, footfalls, anticipation. The guests will arrive soon. Sarah has sent her downstairs to see what’s what.

“Just come see for yourself,” she’d told her.

Sarah shook her head. “I can’t.”

“You’re going to just sit up here and wait like. . like what, like a prize in a piñata?”

Lauren gives up out of her own curiosity and a desire to get away from Sarah, who is not speaking, because there’s nothing left to speak about. She’s promised to report back on what she finds. So far, so good. Willa and Lulu have done an impressive job, reorganizing the elements of the house to show it to its best advantage, to make the most of the house’s charm, but also its expanse, the fact that it continues to unfold all around you, that beyond the living room there’s another sitting room you wouldn’t have anticipated, that off the dining room there’s a powder room, that there are so many places in the house to sit and catch up, or congregate and laugh. It’s a good house for a party and the obvious choice for the wedding, even though she knows it wasn’t Sarah’s first choice. She knows just why, too — that air of inevitability. Sarah hates doing what is expected of her, even though that’s just what she ends up doing most of the time.

Lauren does the circuit: through the living room, into the library, back into the hallway, peeks in the dining room, takes the stairs down. Here, too, an impressive job, the kitchen table and chairs banished, the room open and light, and beyond, the garden, tented, in case of rain, though there’s none threatening, after all. There’s not enough room for many seats, just a few for the older guests, but standing, everyone should be able to see the ceremony, lit by paper lanterns overhead. It’s pretty. Dan is here, in his tuxedo, with his parents.

“Lauren!” Dan waves her over. She walks through the kitchen and he walks through the yard and they meet just at the threshold. He touches her arm affectionately. “You look beautiful.”

“Wait until you see your almost-wife,” she says.

“You remember my parents.” Dan gestures toward his distinguished-looking parents, his silver-haired mother, Ruth, in a sensible but still chic dress, not baggy but certainly forgiving, his father, Andrew, his tuxedoed twin, the very image of Dan’s own future: thick neck, puffy hands, intensely focused eyes.

“Hi, again,” Lauren says. “Did you have fun last night?”

“It was wonderful,” Ruth says. “I ate so much. Sarah told us the whole evening was your idea, and I have to say, you really put together an incredible party.”

“That’s so sweet, thank you,” Lauren says. She’s being sincere but a false note always creeps into her voice when she’s talking to other people’s parents.

“A great time,” his father agrees. “How’s everyone holding up here?”

“I think we’re basically ready,” she says. “I’m down here on reconnaissance.”

Huck ambles over to them, draping an arm over the shoulders of father and son. “The inner circle,” he says. “What are we talking about?”

“I’m just saying I snuck down here to check things out,” Lauren says. “We’re all ready and waiting up there, but I wanted to be where the action is.”

“I’d say it’s upstairs, no? The lady of the hour.” Huck grins.

“Sure,” she says. Huck has to have his say.

“Just tell Sarah to come downstairs,” Dan says, impatient.

Ruth looks scandalized. “Daniel! It’s terrible luck.”

“Mom.” Dan rolls his eyes. We’re all teenagers again, when our parents are involved.

“I tried, believe me,” Lauren says. “Propriety, though.”

“It’s not 1951,” Dan says.

“Have a little respect for tradition, Dan,” Andrew says. “You’ve only an hour or so to go.”

“That’s assuming that everyone will arrive on time, which I think we all know to be unlikely.” Huck laughs. “My poor daughter. Should I go up to visit, help pass the time?”

“Pass along some fatherly words of wisdom?” Ruth might, possibly, be teasing Huck, but it’s so gentle no one notices.

“I have some of that,” Huck says.

“I’m sure she’d love some company,” Lauren says. “She’s just sitting up there waiting for her life to begin.”

“Now, now,” Huck says, as though it’s the beginning of a thought, then trails off, says nothing more.

“Has Sarah eaten?” Sarah’s mother-in-law-to-be: concerned.

“She’s eaten,” Lauren says. “I made her two boiled eggs. Protein.”

“You’re a good friend.” Doctor Ruth Burton squeezes Lauren’s forearm gently. “I remember when we got married, I was starving, no one told me I had to eat anything, and then I could barely focus through the whole damn thing, and to this day when I look at our wedding pictures I look so angry, because I’m hungry.”

“Well, this will all be over soon enough,” Dan says.

“What kind of a thing is that to say?” Dan’s mother shakes her head disapprovingly. “Maybe you need something to eat, Daniel.”

“I’m just saying I wish Sarah was down here at the party instead of shut up upstairs like a woman in purdah,” he says.

“I’ll go,” Huck says. “I’ll sneak up a glass of champagne and we’ll while away the hour.”

Huck is so present that he doesn’t even seem to walk away; rather, the rest of the space around him seems to move past him, like the background in a cartoon. He is gone, into the kitchen, where they can hear him barking at one of the polo-wearing waitstaff to find some champagne, cold.

“So, you ready?” Lauren feels a strange urge to punch Dan on the shoulder. She’s never sure how to relate to him, so finds herself acting like one of the guys in his presence.

“I’m more than ready, to tell you the truth,” Dan says, glancing at his wristwatch. “I’d like to get this show on the road.”

“All in due time,” Dan’s father says, one of those perfectly meaningless things fathers specialize in saying.

“Someone’s ready for the honeymoon,” she says, and immediately regrets it. The words sound unmistakably sexual coming out of her mouth, the implication disgusting. A misstep: She’s usually good with parents, adept at keeping the conversation moving and G-rated.

“You and Sarah have been friends forever, I hear,” Dan’s mother says.

An out. She’s so grateful. “We’ve known each other for. .” She does some math. “Gosh, since we were eleven. Two-thirds of our lives. Crazy, right?”

“So wonderful, really.” She squeezes Lauren’s arm again. “It’s wonderful to have an old friend.”