Pretty Things

by Janelle Brown

  Lachlan throws his hands up. “I’m outnumbered. I give up.”

  But the debate is moot now because Vanessa suddenly veers right into a parking lot and screeches to a stop at the bottom of a trail. “Here!” she chirps.

  We peel ourselves from the car, accept granola bars and water bottles from Vanessa’s pack, then start up the trail. It’s a dirt path, just a few feet wide, winding up through the pines. The trees are dense enough to block out the sun, and as we climb it grows dark and damp, the air smelling of moss and earth. It’s so quiet here that the only thing I can hear is the breeze in the tops of the trees, the creak and groan of ancient wood wavering in the wind, the crackle of pine needles under our feet.

  The trail is steep and I find that I’m struggling. My muscles are sore from all those yoga workouts and I’m not used to the altitude and soon I’m regretting having come. Lachlan moves slowly, picking his way across each rock and stick as if he’s afraid to get his shoes dirty. Within minutes, he’s fallen woefully behind. Vanessa stays with me, glued so tightly to my side that my hand keeps banging into hers. I notice that she’s got welts all over the backs of her hands.

  Halfway up, we come to a clearing with a view overlooking the lake. Tahoe spreads out before us in all directions, today the inkiest of blues, the water rippling like a harp that’s just been strummed. Overhead, cumulus formations tunnel toward the heavens and below us the dense pines march, green with glory, into the horizon. There’s something familiar about the view, and I suddenly realize why. I climbed up here once, with Benny. We stood here at this same vista, stoned, staring out at the span of blue. I remember feeling like the world was unfurling itself before us, as deep and unknowable as the lake itself. I remember feeling the urge to fling myself into the void and let it embrace me in its chilly oblivion.

  I stop. I am wordless, panting, and there are shooting pains in my calves.

  Vanessa turns to look at me. “Everything OK?”

  “Just taking it all in. I think I might stop for a minute and”—I reach for Ashley—“meditate.”

  She peers at me curiously. “Meditate? Here?”

  “This is exactly where one should meditate, don’t you think?” I say a little archly.

  She smiles nervously. “I wish I could do that but my mind doesn’t ever shut up for long enough. It’s like, I try to quiet everything and instead my brain just overflows like one of those volcano experiments kids do in elementary school, with the bubbles frothing everywhere. How do you do that? Turn it all off?”

  “Practice.”

  “Oh? Like how?” She looks at me expectantly, waiting for more.

  Good Lord, she’s persistent. I’ve never meditated in my life. “Just—” I go still, close my eyes, and try to look like my mind is empty. I hear her feet shuffling in the pine needles, moving restlessly in circles. Maybe she’ll go away and let me rest here for a bit.

  But when I open my eyes, she’s standing there with her phone out, pointing it at me, studying the screen with a practiced eye. She cups her hand to examine the results, then starts to type. And immediately I understand what she’s doing: She’s uploading a photo of me to her Instagram feed. Oh sweet Jesus: That cannot happen.

  “No!” I fly at her and snatch the phone from her hand, as fast as a striking snake. Sure enough, there I am, in portrait mode, my eyes closed, the sun soft on my face. I look…peaceful. The unfinished caption reads My new friend Ashley is. Despite myself, I want to know how she was going to finish the sentence: What is Ashley? I delete the photo and shut Instagram down as Vanessa stares at me, her eyes huge and unblinking. “Sorry to be such a stickler but…I’m a very private person. I know social media is your thing, but I’d really rather not have you post photos of me online.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I just assumed…” She quivers; I’ve wounded her. I almost feel bad. “It’s just, it was such a good shot.”

  I’m quivering, too—close call—as I gently press the phone back into her hand. “How would you know? It’s really my fault. I should have said something earlier. Don’t worry about it, OK?”

  She backs away from me, her eyes frantically looking at anything but my face. I’ve frightened her, or worse. “I should go retrieve Michael,” I say. “He’s probably wandering around lost.”

  “I’ll wait here,” she says.

  * * *

  —

  I trudge back down the trail. Lachlan is a quarter mile back, leaning against a tree, just staring at his shoes. He frowns when he sees that I’m alone.

  “Where’s Vanessa?”

  “Up a ways, waiting.”

  He reaches for my water bottle and frowns when he realizes that it’s empty. “Showing off your athletic ability, eh, Ashley?”

  “At least I’m making an effort, Michael.”

  “What were the two of you nattering on about, anyway? I thought I heard you shouting.”

  I don’t see the point in telling him about the photo; it’s been deleted, anyway. “Oh nothing. She wanted me to teach her how to meditate.”

  He snorts. “I’m sure you had lots to offer. Look, all this hiking shite—it’s not helping us. I’m going to press her to invite us over for dinner. We’ll get her a little drunk, then ask her for a tour of Stonehaven—the whole house—and we can drop the rest of the cameras. It’ll be easier with both of us there, so one of us can distract her.”

  “OK.” I look back up the trail. “I should go back up.”

  “Nah. She’s probably up there taking selfies, the shallow cunt.”

  I shove him, harder than I mean to. “Stop it. That’s horrible.”

  He gives me a strange look. “Jaysus, Nina. When did you start being such a softy? Do you actually like her now? I thought she was your sworn enemy.” He frowns. “How many times have I told you not to get emotionally involved?”

  “I’m not. I just object to your language. It’s misogynist.”

  He leans in, pressing himself against me, whispering in my ear. “The only cunt I like is yours.” His lips, damp and cool and salty, find mine.

  “You’re awful,” I mutter, pushing him away.

  But he nestles his nose into my neck and nibbles the nerve there until I gasp and writhe. “Cunt cunt cunt.”

  Over his shoulder I see Vanessa coming down the trail toward us. She notices us embracing and stops just on the other side of the pines: Does she think I can’t see her? I watch her over Lachlan’s shoulder, feeling his lips buzz my clavicle, my sweat seeping through my shirt. I can see that she is riveted by the sight of us, even as she takes a polite step backward. And then her eyes finally creep up to meet mine and she freezes, and we are just looking at each other with a strange, cool understanding; even as Lachlan’s hands move under my damp T-shirt to cup my breast. I can see her measuring my desire, like a tourist in front of a museum exhibit. I see her own raw longing reflected back. It feels oddly intimate, as if we are the two people sharing this moment, and Lachlan isn’t even there.

  Finally, she blinks and vanishes back into the woods. I close my eyes and kiss Lachlan back until my skin is vibrating and my pulse is singing along with the wind in the trees.

  When I open my eyes again, Vanessa is standing right beside me. I startle, and jump away from Lachlan. “Oh, there you are!” I cry. Vanessa’s features are pinched with annoyance. She looks from Lachlan to me and then back again. She doesn’t like it when we’re not focused on her, I realize.

  Lachlan runs a hand slowly across his lips, looking rather smug. “Ah, that’s good, yeah?” he says. “The team has reassembled itself. No casualties.”

  Vanessa turns to me. “What happened to you?” she demands. “I thought you were coming back to get me.”

  I’m surprised by the sharp tone in her voice. Is this still about the photo? Or is this sexual jealousy? How much has Lachlan been fl
irting with her? I make myself sound meek, apologetic, unthreatening. “My leg cramped up. Sorry.”

  She tilts her head, looking baffled. “Really? I’m surprised. I mean, you’re a yoga instructor, right? And I barely move off my couch most days. Funny that.”

  “Different muscle groups,” I offer.

  “Well, I’m knackered, myself,” Lachlan interjects. “But we should crack on, shouldn’t we? That storm cloud is looking rather ominous.”

  “The temperature has dropped. I’m freezing,” I say. And I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. Just to prove a point, I grab Lachlan’s arm and drape it over my shoulder. “Warm me up, honey.”

  Vanessa watches this interaction with measuring eyes; but then they swiftly clear, as if a wind had just chased off a cloud. “Oh, Ash, here—take my sweatshirt.” She tugs it over her ponytail and then thrusts it at me.

  I disentangle myself from Lachlan and yank it over my head. The sweatshirt is thick and soft, and warm from her body. It even smells like her, like expensive lotion and lavender sachets; her presence on my body makes me feel disoriented, as if the boundaries between the two of us have grown thin. I wish I hadn’t taken it. But I smile because that’s what Ashley would do. “You’re so sweet.”

  “It’s nothing,” she says. The dimples are back. And it seems like that unexpected fissure has been all smoothed over; but I also note, as we start back down the hill, that with the act of giving me her sweatshirt, she succeeded in pulling Lachlan and me apart.

  20.

  I’VE JUST CLIMBED OUT of the shower when the rain starts. I stand naked and damp in the tiny bathroom, listening to the ominous hammering on the roof. I do not want to go to Stonehaven for dinner. I want to light a fire and curl up with a book and let the storm howl outside. But that’s not an option, of course: This is the opportunity we’ve been looking for since we arrived here. (And in the end, it had been so easy! A suggestion from Lachlan in the car after the hike—“Should we have dinner at yours, tomorrow?”—and like that it was done, planned.)

  But I feel unsettled, and I’m not sure why. I stare in the mirror and I try to summon up Ashley but all I see is a woman with dripping hair and circles under her eyes, exhausted by the effort of being too many people all at once. Dutiful daughter, partner and girlfriend, teacher and huckster, and friend and fraud; and where am I in all of that?

  Lachlan peeks his head into the bathroom, already dressed in a cashmere sweater and crisp new jeans. He looks me up and down. “Is that what you’re wearing? Because clothes with pockets would be more practical. Unless you plan to hide a camera up your fanny.”

  “Very funny.”

  By the time we’ve filled our pockets with the cameras and strategized a game plan for the evening (Lachlan will distract by flirting, I will plant the cameras), the storm has landed with full force. When we open the door to the cottage, the wind catches it and flings it backward against the doorjamb so hard I think it might splinter. Slicing rain needles my face as we run up the path toward the beckoning lights of Stonehaven. I’m drenched before we’ve made it halfway to the porch.

  Vanessa is waiting for us with martinis in hand; the flush in her face suggests she might already have had one herself. I wipe the rain from my eyes and take a quick gulp of my drink. It is strong, and briny with olive juice. “My goodness, you pour a strong drink.” I cough.

  Vanessa looks worried. “Should I have made something else for you? Matcha tea? Green juice?”

  “Oh, no. It’s delicious.” I smile at her, take another sip; but inside I’m kicking myself. Would Ashley drink martinis? Oh God, I am off my game. Too late now. I take another sip, a bigger one, let it play along my nerves and take the edge off.

  Vanessa is making some kind of French stew—no formal dining room tonight, judging by the plates set out on the table—and the kitchen smells like garlic and boiling wine. She flits from pot to pot, flinging in spices, adjusting flames with a practiced hand, talking a mile a minute.

  “The trick to authentic coq au vin is that you need to use an old rooster. But you can’t believe how bad the butcher here is; nothing free range at all and definitely no roosters, so I had to make do with some breasts. And of course, you must use a French wine, a Beaujolais…or perhaps a burgundy. Braise for four hours if you can, but I think six is even better, more is more, right? Haha!”

  So she can cook; color me surprised. I remember Lourdes slaving away in this kitchen, making food that Benny’s mother never ate: Was Lourdes the one who taught Vanessa to cook?

  Lachlan follows closely behind her, peering into pots and asking her about knife technique, cloyingly solicitous. I sit by myself at the kitchen table, sipping my martini in silence, growing irritated. As far as I know, Lachlan knows nothing about cooking, but I am perennially surprised at his ability to make shallow knowledge sound deep. I’m already feeling swimmy from the gin, and the smell of charred fats is making my stomach turn.

  Finally I interrupt Vanessa as she’s explaining her browning method to Lachlan. “Any chance we could get the grand tour of Stonehaven? I’d really love to see the rest of the house.”

  Vanessa wipes a strand of hair from her eyes with the back of her hand, glances at the nearly empty glass in my hand. “Sure. I’m just finishing up here, so maybe after dinner. Looks like you’re done with that martini— Want some wine? I opened a Domaine Leroy that I found in the wine cellar. It was a bit dusty, so hopefully it won’t have gone off.”

  “Domaine Leroy! What a treat. I had one when I stayed at Holkham Hall, with the Earl of Leicester. Do you know him? No? Well, his wine cellar was extraordinary. Legendary,” Lachlan gushes, his eyes popping open. The Earl. Please. He is so transparent that I can’t quite believe she’s buying all this. But I smile and nod as if I know what this means, too, even though I purchase my own wine from the ten-dollar section at the local liquor store. Vanessa whisks a decanter to the table, along with our dishes, and pours us each a glass. Lachlan swirls it dramatically and takes a sip. “Ach, Vanessa. We don’t deserve wine this nice.”

  “Of course you do.” She is clearly quite pleased with herself for impressing him. “If dinner with friends isn’t deserving of a good wine, I don’t know what is. I mean, otherwise I’m going to be drinking this all by myself, and wouldn’t that be a shame?”

  “I can’t object to that.” Michael raises his glass. “To new friendships.”

  She gazes back at him, a little teary, and I wonder if she’s going to get emotional on us again. I feel woozy; my appetite for this is waning and I wish we were back in the cottage. I have no energy to be Ashley tonight. Maybe I’ve just had too much gin.

  Lifting my glass takes more effort than it should. “And to you, Vanessa. Sometimes the universe brings you together with someone that you just feel like you were meant to know.” It sounds like a sufficiently Ashley-ish empty sentiment.

  Vanessa smiles at me, her eyes flickering wildly in the light from the candles. “To the universe, then. And unlikely meetings. The wine—you like it?”

  Maybe I’m just not a connoisseur, but the wine tastes like gasoline to me. I murmur something vaguely appreciative, and then turn my attention to the plate of food in front of me: chicken swimming in grease, a spooling mass of mashed potatoes that are pink around the edges from where they’ve soaked up the oily juices; asparagus spears, limp and doused in anemic yellow aioli. I take a small bite of potato, feeling light-headed, and my stomach immediately gives a violent protest.

  There’s a faint sheen of sweat on my forehead— When did it get so hot in here? And the light from the pendants over the table is painfully bright. I push my chair back to get some air and the movement makes my intestines convulse. I realize that I’m about to vomit.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” I manage.

  Vanessa is riveted by the sight of me: I must be a mess. She stands up from her chair and
points toward the hallway, saying something that I can’t catch as I stumble from the room. I barely make it into the powder room in the hall before regurgitating the pale remains of my lunch. What did I eat? Oh yes, a tuna sub from the market down the road. It was crusted around the edges, oddly fishy, I should have checked the expiration date. The bathroom spins, cold marble against my knees, porcelain against my cheek, a sour stench clogging my esophagus.

  I heave, and heave again, until all that’s left is bile that burns on the way up.

  There’s a soft knock at the door and then Lachlan is standing there above me. He crouches down beside me, gently pulls my hair from my face and holds it in his fist. “What’s going on?”

  “The tuna sub, I think.” I turn back to the toilet and retch once more.

  “Jaysus. You got a bad dose of it, didn’t you. Glad I had the turkey, yeah?”

  The toilet has an old-fashioned pull chain that I can’t even reach high enough to flush. Instead, I slide down until my face is resting against the marble and close my eyes. “I can’t do this tonight,” I mutter. “Let’s call it off.”

  Lachlan pulls a square of toilet paper from the roll and dabs at my forehead with it. “That’s OK, I can handle this myself. Just give me the cameras. You go back to the cottage and I’ll stay here.”

  “She’ll think it’s strange you’re not coming back to take care of me. Bad boyfriend. Unlikable.”

  Lachlan rolls up the toilet paper and squeezes it in his hand into a tiny little wad, and then pitches it toward the garbage can. “Actually, I think she’ll be happy to get some one-on-one time with me. Just tell me not to come with you. Make a little fuss. You don’t want to spoil Vanessa’s evening, you’re being so thoughtful and considerate, yeah yeah yeah.”