Rumaan Alam: Rich and Pretty

“Which one?”

“Not one of the good ones.”

“Oh.” Lauren has long since learned there’s little point talking politics under this roof. It’s discussed, of course, but you don’t talk, you listen. Huck’s conservatism is so deeply felt he’s only ever bemused by dissent, and bemusement is the most infuriating response in any kind of conversation. He’s an asshole. “Forget I said anything. It’s nothing. He’s no one. He’s a temp.” Lauren’s temporarily forgotten what is real and what she imagined. She’s stoned. “I was distracted. Sorry for not calling. I was coming. I came. I’m here. Should we go downstairs?”

“Probably,” Sarah says.

In the distressingly pink — toilet, shower, tiles — bathroom, they find a toothbrush, reason it must be Sarah’s, and take turns with it, using a very old tube of Aquafresh that must be prodded and coaxed back into pliability but they figure is probably not poisonous. Sarah wets the corner of a towel, dabs at her eyes, then has to reapply her eye makeup. Lauren sniffs at the dozens of perfume bottles, almost every scent a memory. There’s a cologne they’d stolen from Huck, they thought it so outré to wear a man’s fragrance, something amber, in a bottle shaped like a lozenge, or a stone from a riverbed. She sprays a bit on her wrist, rubs the one against the other, dabs it in the general direction of her armpits, and behind her ears. Mint on her breath, musk on her breasts, she feels ready for the party. Forget the temp: Maybe she’ll meet a man, some ambitious, not-too-sycophantic sort with a very specific goal in life, like to be, say, the secretary of agriculture. You meet that sort of person at the kind of parties Huck and Lulu throw. She wouldn’t mind. She would be happy to be spared having to do anything herself. She could be a trophy wife, or she could have been. At thirty-two you’re not a trophy wife. You’re a plaque wife, a certificate-of-participation wife.

Sarah has freshened her breath but mangled her eyes. She’s got her shoes back on, adding three inches — in shoes her taste is unassailable. They’re sexy: pointed, aerodynamic, gleaming, expensive. They are shoes that make a commanding clack on the floor, shoes to be reckoned with, less shoes than an actual stage on which you can strut and preen and act the role of a woman who must be taken seriously.

“Did you see Mom and Papa yet?”

Lauren shakes her head. Sarah is gripping her arm as they walk down to the party. There’s no line for the second-floor powder room anymore. There’s music coming up from downstairs, and voices, and because it’s summer, the party will have spilled into the basement kitchen and out into the garden. Lulu likes a party where the guests gather in the kitchen; she doesn’t mind them seeing the hired waiters and the chef and only engages caterers who don’t mind being looked at, wielding skewers of satay while prestigious personages squeeze past, behind the stove and around the island and out the French doors. To Lulu, the effect is magic — it’s showmanship.

“God, you smell fantastic,” Sarah says, and they are in the foyer, and there’s Huck, grinning his grin, comfortable, knowing, holding his drink, and calling them girls, my girls, and they are that for a minute, girls again.

Huck is not very tall but seems massive; Huck is not fat but seems so. Huck’s natural tone of voice is loud, but because when he speaks, everyone else stops speaking to hear what he’s going to say, it seems he’s always shouting. That’s probably why he’s so successful, his ability to shut other people up simply by speaking.

“This is Lauren,” Huck declares. “She grew up with my Sarah. An honorary member of the family, this one. They were girls only days ago. I don’t understand!”

Someone says “Nice to meet you,” and Lauren realizes, too late, that this has been an introduction. She smiles. There’s no need to speak, since Huck has the floor.

“You know my Sarah, of course, the only real work I’ve ever done. Lead line in my obituary. There it is. Tell that to Lehmann at the Times, I mean it.” General laughter. “And if you can believe this, she’s getting married. Betrothed. ‘Thou art sad. Get thee a wife!’ Is that Much Ado? The Venetian Merchant? Never mind. Promised to a wonderful young man. Sarah, Dan’s not here tonight, is he?” Sarah shakes her head. “A doctor. But not one of the saps making rounds, stethoscope at the ready. How are we feeling, Mrs. Johnson? Jesus no. Ten bucks a pop for that shit, though the socialists would have it like the sanitation department. Free for all! A doctor drops by for your vaccinations, Mondays, Wednesdays, Saturdays. Thursdays, they’ll pick up the recyclables and send the gynecologist.” More laughter. Four more minutes of this and he’s leading an honest-to-God toast to Sarah, right there in the foyer, a clutch of guests raising highball glasses to the future health and happiness of Doctor Dan and Huck’s little girl.

Lauren escapes his grasp — it’s physical, he’s had an arm around her waist all this time, right up through the raising of glasses, but unlike Sarah’s touch, Huck’s doesn’t kindle fond memories — and steps backward slowly the way you’re supposed to leave the presence of the Queen of England. She’s in the living room, she’s free, no one has noticed. Huck is talking about monetary policy now.

The living room is not that crowded, but the walls are covered with Lulu’s collection of folk portraits so it seems full of life. A trio of women with identical haircuts are having a serious conversation near the fireplace. Lauren sits on the sofa, which is covered with pillows. She’s never understood that, lots of pillows on a sofa; how are you supposed to sit with all that comfort? It’s aggressive. She takes one cushion from behind her, leans back into the couch, and places it on her lap. She wishes she had a drink, but doesn’t want to move. She wants to check her watch but doesn’t wear one. Forty minutes. She can leave in forty minutes. A wave of loud laughter from the back garden: Something funny has happened. She feels no curiosity at all about it.

“Don’t hide.” Sarah sits on the couch. “It’s not ladylike.”

Lauren studies her. There’s a bit of pink in Sarah’s eyes but she’s feigning sobriety pretty well. “I don’t want to get up,” Lauren says. “I’m comfortable.”

“It’s a party,” Sarah says. She stands, grabs her by the hand.

Lauren lets the velveteen pillow fall on the floor. She doesn’t pick it up.

They cut through the dining room and down the back staircase without having to go past Huck in the foyer. The basement stairwell is bright, white, the only bare walls in the place, because Lulu figured it’s best to create the impression of light and space where there isn’t any. Lulu could have been a decorator. She likes to bring this up in conversation.

There’s a table in the kitchen, plates of grapes and strawberries and something wrapped in some kind of very thinly sliced meat, and sweating bottles of white wine and sparkling water. Lauren grabs the glasses, Sarah pours both full, takes a healthy sip from one glass, tops it off. Lauren tastes the wine. It’s too sweet, but never mind. Sarah is pulling on her arm still, and they squeeze through the scrum toward the back doors, and out onto the bluestone slabs of the garden.

There is Lulu, in just the pose Lauren imagines when she imagines her — head turned to the left as if someone’s only just called her name, cocked just a bit as if there’s some music she’s straining to hear, mouth communicating a smile without actually smiling. There are lanterns in the trees, and the light from neighboring houses, and the ambient glow of the city, and anyway it’s not late so there are traces of sun, and the effect is theatrical. Retired or not, Lulu is a star.