Rumaan Alam - Rich and Pretty

Lauren rings the bell, waits, then, hearing nothing, knocks, loudly but hopefully not insistently. She’s thirsty.

She can see Dan’s sweaty face through the door, distorted by the warp of the glass. He gives an impatient wave before pulling the door open. “Lauren,” he says. “Hey!”

He sounds mildly out of breath. He’s gained weight, Dan, a gradual process, over the years, but heavier, now, he looks more like himself, like the person he’s always been in the process of becoming. Sweating has made his hair a little unkempt. He’s wearing a blue polo shirt, so faded at the collar, it must be a well-loved one, and khaki shorts, swollen with pockets. “Hi!”

“We were wondering where you were,” he says. “Hot, right? Come in.”

“August,” she says. The house is cool; the previous owners installed central air-conditioning, a rarity in these century-old brownstones. It’s very quiet inside.

“August,” he says, closing the door behind her forcefully, shutting the month of August outside where it belongs. “Sarah’s just tidying up.”

“Tidying up?” She follows him down the stairs to the basement. The steps lead directly to the kitchen, mostly white, very bright.

Sarah is standing at the island. “You made it!” she says. “Sorry, this is disgusting.” She’s scraping some sort of brown goop into the sink. She grimaces, rinses her hands, dries them. She walks toward her, waddles really, hugs her, as much as is possible, given her incredible girth.

“Wow,” Lauren says without thinking. “You look — great.” She does though; Sarah, hair pulled back, pregnant and fat, like a lady of the canyon, like a painting from Northern Europe’s Renaissance, all creamy skin and sly smiles.

“I look massive, you mean,” Sarah says. “I know. Six weeks left, too. I think he’s going to be a basketball player.”

“Where’s Henry?” She looks around — the kitchen, too, is quiet. There are no sounds from the playroom, behind them.

“Henry’s asleep,” Sarah says. “The party ended at twelve.”

“Shit,” she says. “I thought it was at two.”

Sarah shrugs. “He’ll probably sleep another hour. It’s fine. This way we can talk.”

“I missed the whole party?” She feels foolish.

“A kid’s party,” Sarah says. “You didn’t miss anything. Henry’s worn-out, from all that running around, all that sugar. Plus all the stupid presents.”

“Sugar?” Lauren drops the parcels onto the kitchen counter.

“Cake’s in the fridge. It’s so hot outside it was melting. And there’s ice cream. A ridiculous amount, actually. Help yourself.”

“I’m going to finish up those e-mails,” Dan says. “Lauren, say good-bye before you go.” He trots back up the stairs.

“I can wash those,” Lauren says.

“I won’t even argue.” Sarah perches precariously on a stool. “Just rinse. We’ll run the dishwasher.”

“I’ll load,” Lauren says. “After cake.” There’s still more than half the cake left, a sprawling chocolate thing in the shape of a fire truck. She takes it from the fridge, sets it on the kitchen island, opens the freezer door, takes out the chocolate ice cream. “Do you want some?”

“Why the fuck not,” Sarah says. “I can’t possibly get any bigger.”

“You’re eating for two, enjoy it,” she says. She serves: modest slices of cake, massive mounds of ice cream. She scrapes the paper carton clean, tosses the container in the garbage. The spoons are silver, incredibly shiny. She tastes it. It tastes exactly how she wants it to taste. It’s so good she leans into the island. Standing across from Sarah, as though they were bartender and patron: This feels confessional, or therapeutic. She’s moved to ask Sarah to tell her all her problems, though here, in this beautifully cold kitchen, with cake, with shining silver spoons, she seems not to have any. “Sorry I missed the party.”

“You don’t have kids,” Sarah says. “You’re on human time.”

“I just thought you said two,” she says.

“It’s better this way, we can talk. I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“So another boy, huh?” Sarah had mentioned it before; Lauren can’t remember when. “Is Henry excited?”

“He is,” she says. “Baby brother. He talks about him constantly. We’ll see how he feels about sharing a room, though.”

“Sharing a room?” Lauren gestures at the ceiling, at the many square feet that unfold overhead. “You must have plenty of space.”

“The baby will be in our room for a while, but Dan’s moving his office down a floor, and we’re getting an au pair, so she’ll have the top floor to herself. I felt guilty about putting the baby so far away, up there with her like a servant, so we’re going to make that other room a guest room.”

“I see,” Lauren says.

“I didn’t want him to get that younger kid complex, you know? You made me sleep upstairs with the help, that sort of thing.”

“Au pair? Sounds sort of sexy.”

“She better not be,” Sarah says. “I’m hoping for someone moody and bespectacled, who likes to read poetry and go to the museum every weekend. We’ll see.”

Lauren tries and fails to imagine Dan seducing a French adolescent. “Are you ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose. Henry’s starting school, so I’ll be able to devote some attention to this one. It won’t be the same as with Henry but it never is, I think. It’s just not possible.”

“Right. I’m the oldest, remember, so I got the bulk of my parents’ nurturing.” Lauren licks her spoon clean.

“And look how you turned out!”

“So the au pair will au pair — and you’ll. .” Lauren pauses. She doesn’t know how Sarah does it, how Sarah hasn’t lost her mind. Primed for a career doing whatever it is she does and then — to spend years just wiping bottoms. Lauren knows that’s how it’s done, she just can’t believe it.

“It’s enough work for three, let alone two,” Sarah says. “In my fantasy, she’ll do the drop-off with Henry in the morning, so I can deal here. Sleep. Cook. Maybe go to the gym, can you imagine? Then I’ll do the pickup while she gets the baby to nap. I thought maybe Henry and I could start a mother-son date tradition or something? Afternoons at the bakery or the playground. I want to make sure both the boys get their alone time with me. I’ve read that can be a problem when you have the second.”

“It’ll be fine,” Lauren says. “You’ll find a way. You always do.” She pauses. “Something’s different in here.”

“We redid the playroom,” she says. “And new floors there and in here.”

“New floors. I knew there was something. Are these reclaimed?” Lauren’s been at the design imprint long enough to recognize reclaimed wood. The floors feel very solid underfoot.

“They are reclaimed,” Sarah says. “A barn in Pennsylvania. I don’t know anything about them. Devin, our architect, he insisted there’s a big difference.”

“They’re strong,” Lauren says. “But they have that patina, that spirit — it makes the house look less new, more like it’s been around forever. It’s nice.”

“He promised that two kids wouldn’t be able to destroy them, anyway.” Sarah pushes her empty bowl away. “You want to see the playroom?”

“Sure,” Lauren says. She puts her bowl on top of Sarah’s and places them in the sink. She follows the mass of Sarah’s body, moving slowly across the floor, which is clean and toy-free. There’s a big dining table, rustic, simple, set with benches, between the island and the pocket doors, which are set into the sort of elaborately carved walls common in houses of this era. The doors move open effortlessly, and quietly, on their casters.