“This dress is not going to be very forgiving,” she said, feigning a graceful humility. “If I eat too much I’m going to pop out of it.”
“Keep feeding her,” advised some guy in a suit two people to her right. The casual leer made the men chuckle and the women smile politely.
“It is a beautiful dress, and she is beautiful in it,” Lars informed the room. He actually raised his glass to her. “I would hate to see it come to harm.”
This brought another polite chuckle and a couple of “here heres” from the men. Lars turned to the gentleman to his left, to make some private observation about something, signaling that the possibility of a ritual hazing had been put to rest. Instinctively Alison remained ramrod straight, until Lars glanced back and caught her eye. He gave her a slight smile. She offered him a breath of a smile in return.
Lars Guttfriend. Lanky blond hair, and a preternatural tan which seemed to be somehow genetic. You’d think he was an Icelandic prince, but in fact, he was from Philadelphia. He claimed to be the son of wealthy socialites, and that “Lars” was a family name, but there was something a little too Gatsby-esque about all that; Alison didn’t buy it. With or without a tan, all these East Coasters started to look and sound the same to her after a while—the edge too consistently inauthentic, the social manners too practiced. Everybody had so many agendas running you couldn’t make heads or tails out of what was going on in anybody’s brain unless you put it all down to just constant power plays, which she found too wearying to even contemplate. In any event, Lars kept looking at her like she was some sort of strange yet wonderful art object. It seemed a little practiced, like the sort of thing a movie director was supposed to be doing, constantly eyeballing pretty actresses and wondering what their best angle was.
But he could stare all he wanted. Alison’s attention turned to the next temptation, course number seven, halibut in sea butter foam. She decided that since it was fish she was going to just go ahead and eat the whole thing and then shamelessly lick the plate. She knew that Ryan didn’t actually give a shit if she put on a few pounds. The not-eating rule had more to do with some total fantasy he was having that Lars would invite her back to his fabulous penthouse suite at the Soho Grand and ravage her, which would not be quite as sexy on a full stomach. Ryan’s cooing obsession with Lars was a little extreme frankly; he seemed to have some sort of major crush on the guy. He’d probably have a better shot than I do, her brain observed idly, and as soon as the thought skittered through her she stopped to look at it. Three weeks ago, she was dreading the possibility that she might have to sleep with this movie director just because. Because that’s what starlets do. So this idea was maybe good; maybe Lars was gay, and she was going to be his beard for a little while, and maybe she’d get a few auditions out of it, and she’d meet some important people, and that would be that. The question of whoring herself out could be put on a shelf for another couple of months.
“The halibut is delicious,” noted the woman to her right. What is her name? Is she married to one of these men in suits? There was no boy-girl-boy-girl nonsense going on at this table; Lars had directed everyone to their seats, but the plan seemed to be to put the girls on one side of the table so the boys could do business on the other.
“You know what, Kate”—what a save—“the halibut is so awesome I’m throwing caution to the wind,” Alison told her.
“You’ve been very good all night.” Kate actually reached for a roll and buttered it. The butter, they had been told by their master waiter, was artisanal. It came from cows who only fed on the first clover of spring, or sage leaves and pea sprouts, something like that.
“I’m a little mad at myself,” Alison admitted. “This food is amazing and I should not have worn this stupid dress, I should have worn a big baggy sweater.”
“You actresses have to be so careful,” Kate noted. “I couldn’t do it.” The woman was lovely, silver haired, probably over sixty, but the fact was she was definitely on the larger side. Her boxy jacket did nothing for her figure either. Alison realized with a pang of regret that she had assumed that the woman was not so important, because she didn’t carry herself with the same smug arrogance all the skinny people had. And of course half the men, across the table over there, were sizable to hefty. The other half were as wraith-like as medieval monks.
“How do you know Lars?” Alison asked.
“Oh, I gave him his first job, whenever that was, fifteen years ago?”
“You gave him his first directing job?”
“His first ‘job’ job. He was a PA. I was the line producer.”
“What are you now?”
“I’m myself now. I’m too old for your game.”
“Surely not,” Alison said politely.
“It’s not an easy business. It wears some of us out,” Kate informed her dryly. She reached for her wineglass with the definite air of someone who had finished the conversation.
Alison found herself strangely jolted at that. With that momentary inanity—surely not!—she seemed to have lost some unexpected chance, even if it was just a chance to tell a secret to a total stranger. The older woman was already looking to her right, as if considering the possibility that the brainless actress on that side of her would have something more interesting to say.
“I don’t like show business either,” Alison admitted, under her breath. It wasn’t the most brilliant of observations, but it snagged the other woman’s attention, momentarily, anyway.
“You seem to be doing fairly well for someone who doesn’t like it,” she said.
“It’s wearing me out. Sort of like this dress,” Alison said. “You can’t have a decent conversation with anyone. I don’t know how to talk anymore. And I’m so hungry all the time I can’t think. I’m ready to stab you in the heart over that roll with the butter on it. That’s all I’m thinking about half the time. And I’m so lonely.”
The older woman considered this, and set her wineglass down. “You’re very pretty,” she finally concluded. “It distracts people.”
“Oh.” Alison’s disappointment at the banality of that couldn’t be disguised. But Kate Whatever Her Name Was was waxing philosophic now.
“People don’t know how to talk to pretty girls. Especially when they’re wearing dresses like that. People generally don’t want to talk to dresses. They want to do other things to dresses, and with dresses, but conversation is not high on the agenda.”
“They still seem relatively important,” Alison pointed out.
“Oh yes. One would have to say that history has been kind to pretty dresses. Less kind to the women who wear them, overall, but kind enough to the dresses themselves. Anne Boleyn. Mata Hari. Jackie Kennedy.” This Kate woman smiled at that, as if she had just said something wise. And then she reached for her wineglass, punctuating the finality of this observation.
“You’re not suggesting that I stop wearing them.”
“Not at all, they will serve you well, until they don’t.” A cryptic smile. Alison wanted to hit her.
“What are you two conspiring about?” Lars asked. The question floated across the table with a faux playfulness. The other guests rustled and turned.
“Your young actress is regretting her choice of attire for this truly exquisite evening, Lars,” Kate told him.
“I don’t,” he replied.
This again made the men chuckle. The weirdness of this whole dinner party never quite congealed into something she could explain. A cozy private dinner that Lars was throwing for twelve of his closest friends? There wasn’t anything cozy about the way the men leered anytime they got a chance, and the chick to her left, the one who had been so aggressive five minutes ago, was back in the action.
“You know you guys are animals,” she told them. “I’m offended on behalf of this darling girl in her teeny tiny dress—what’s your name again?”
“Alison.” Alison smiled, keeping the demure crust of good humor firmly in place.
“I’
m offended on Alison’s behalf. You’re all looking at her like she’s part of the dinner! Okay, not the dinner. The dessert. Or the after-dinner drink. Or the after-dinner snack.” And now Miss Aggressive was putting her arm around Alison’s shoulder and leaning in, performing the role of the offended feminist friend. “What’s that fairy tale where they eat all the women? Red Riding Hood! The big bad wolf eats Red Riding Hood and her grandmother, which is really perverse if you think about it.” She started to make animal sounds, growling and miming that she was going to take a bite out of Alison’s bare shoulder. “Arroooooo,” she howled. She actually howled.
“Jesus Christ, Suzy.” One of the suited men, across the table, was smiling with an air of cheerful chagrin. “How much wine have you had?”
“Don’t change the subject. I saw you looking at this nubile young thing’s cleavage. I’m going to tweet about this. ‘Leering lemur eyes babe’s boobs, hashtag Per Say What?’”
“Where’s the ladies’ room?” Alison asked, trying for graciousness now and landing somewhere closer to embarrassment.
“Oh no no,” the bombing comedienne countered. “These guys are not getting treated to a sweet view of your tush running off in shame to the ‘ladies’ room.’ We’re going to have this out. They’re ogling you like you’re hot lunch.”
“Now we’ve moved on to lunch?” Lars asked, cool and perplexed.
“She’s your date, Lars, so presumably the dress is for you. Lunch and munch.” She grinned and leaned over the back of her chair, as if to physically stop Alison from escaping. “Presumably that’s the plan.”
“Knock it off, Suzy,” someone murmured. Both outraged and excited to have another target for her meager satire, Alison’s tormenter turned to see who had spoken. Alison took the opportunity to squeeze by her and stagger on those painful heels into the main dining room.
The place was calm, gorgeous, serene. A cool blue glow suffused the room; dusk was settling onto the city beyond the wall of windows, and the other diners—civilized, they look so civilized—were deep in quiet conversation. As she neared the waiters’ station, the master waiter looked up and immediately assumed a helpful air of propriety.
“Are you looking for the ladies’ room?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. “The elevators.”
He nodded without comment and gestured simply for her to follow him. Nothing made sense; she just wanted to get out of there. Which now seemed much easier than it had any reason to be. She had had the foresight to pick up her utterly useless clutch, a teeny handbag so small it could barely hold a credit card and fifty bucks.
“Do you need anything?” the master waiter asked. There was no judgment, no cunning, no desire. Just the question.
“No,” she said. “Thank you.”
She stepped into the elevator. And after all that—after all that—it wasn’t until fifteen minutes later that anyone wondered where she had gone.
thirteen
TO BE A PEDIATRICIAN who doesn’t like babies was to know oneself to be absurd. Kyle watched his new daughter yawn and stretch and mewl in her mother’s arms and wondered if this is what sociopaths felt like. Dissociated, repulsed, a bit annoyed with the expectations from others as well as himself that he should have warm feelings for something so patently distasteful.
Van of course was oblivious. She sat in the corner of their beautifully decorated Victorian living room and cooed at the blob in her arms with a picturesque maternal splendor. It would have been an even prettier picture if their first daughter, the photogenic Maggie, had been sitting at her feet playing with her dollies. But Maggie had somewhat predictably hated the baby on sight. When she wasn’t screaming for her mother’s attention she was hiding under a bed somewhere, sulking. Kyle occasionally went looking for her, hoping that she might sense his own appalling aversion to the new baby, and that this might actually turn into some sort of unspoken bond between them. But Maggie was strong-willed, and Kyle was not the parent she wanted. His few attempts to lure the child over to his side were met with such screaming resistance that Van was forced to intervene, pointing out with acidic grace that she “had enough on her hands” without Kyle making things worse.
According to Maggie’s infantile logic, she hated the baby because it was a girl. In spite of all Van’s convictions to the contrary, it wasn’t a boy that she had been carrying after all, it was another girl, and while everyone knows that girls are just as good as boys, occasionally they’re really not. Through his years of daily servitude at Pediatrics West, Kyle had come to understand the unspoken pattern of gender preference in the subtle behavioral lexicon of new families. A firstborn who is a girl is good! Not quite as thrilling as a firstborn who is a boy, but not so far off. If the firstborn is a boy, that’s fantastic, and then a second boy? Unbelievable good fortune. A firstborn girl with a second-born boy is also unbelievable good fortune. A second-born girl is good, if the firstborn is a boy. Two girls? A subtle breath of disappointment enters the discussion. Are you going to have a third, and try for that boy? The fact is your odds don’t go up, the more girls you have. The highest chance you will ever have of having a boy is 50 percent. If you’ve popped out two girls already, then the chances are actually better that you’ll pop a third. Statistics are just statistics, but they’re statistics for a reason.
Kyle knew that Van had wanted a boy, and why not? Little boys really did love their mothers with an unadulterated wonder. He had seen it often enough in the examining rooms at PW; the way the young mothers and their little boys looked at each other was truly enough to break your heart. The opposite scenario was also assumed to hold true. Two girls and a gorgeous wife should have meant nothing but uninterrupted adoration for Kyle Wallace. It didn’t quite work out that way. When faced with the complete catastrophe of living with three females who really had nothing at all to say to him, he folded his own truths into whatever corner of his brain might hold them. It is possible that they festered there.
For today, the issue was the grocery store. The glorious health which Van always enjoyed had taken a hit during her second delivery; her placenta tore and there was a bloody trauma which would have been the death of her in the nineteenth century but was handled with a quick shot of oxytocin in the twenty-first. Still, she had lost a lot of blood; she was consequently anemic and her milk didn’t come in properly, and no matter how much she pumped and breastfed night and day, the baby remained unsatisfied and colicky, struggling wanly to stay on that prescribed growth curve. Kyle hated growth curves—what about the children in Ecuador, anybody worried about their growth curves?—but you couldn’t get around the fact that his infant daughter was hungry and there wasn’t enough milk. Sadly some useless neighbor who had read too much La Leche literature had drilled into Van’s head the dangers of nipple confusion and whatever else an occasional bottle of baby formula held in store for their daughter, and Van was in anguish. But the baby was unhappy and hungry and she wasn’t growing. Finally, in a burst of exhausted tears, Van told Kyle to “just go and get it then!” as if it were his fault.
So there he was, standing in front of a veritable wall of infant formula. Everything in yellow and white—no pink or blue, hypothetical babies are gender neutral—powder and liquid, now there were pouches too, something you could just screw a sterilized nipple onto and stick right into the wee thing’s mouth without worrying about mixing or boiling or dishwasher safe! Those pouches were even vacuum sealed, so presumably there were no bubbles, which might mean no need even to burp the kid. There was literature on all this stuff down at the office that he had never, truthfully, looked at. But the baby needed to eat, and he had to come home with something, and Van was going to have a lot of questions about what he picked. Nothing he chose would be accepted on face value as the right choice; he was going to have to defend himself. Surely half of them had objectionable chemicals. Or cow’s milk. What was infant formula made of, anyway, and why didn’t he even know?
“Kyle?”
Th
e voice was so familiar, it was like the voice inside his head. Or not the voice inside his head. It was the voice that the voice inside his head was always talking to.
He turned around.
She looked incredible, even in oversized sweats. Incredible, but too thin. There were circles under her eyes, and her hair was strangely straggled around her face, like a waif’s; it needed washing. And the color of her skin was off, slightly gray, or maybe just paler than normal. Whatever normal was; the only time he had seen her in the last three years was on television, where she had so much makeup on that she looked like she belonged to an entirely different race of beings. And here she was, wearing oversized sweats, no makeup, it even looked like a couple of pimples were showing up on her left jawline. A worried crease had appeared between her eyes, apparently having settled there with common usage. Still. The color rushed to his face. It couldn’t have been less appropriate, to stand there stuttering like a schoolboy while he was buying formula for his starving infant daughter.
“Alison! Hi. Wow. Hi! I didn’t, I wasn’t, did uh, are you in town?” And now he was laughing, like a lovesick idiot. Some part of him was trying to get control of this but it was taking much too long.
“Yeah, I just kind of dropped everything and came home to see my folks. Wow, I didn’t expect to see anybody I knew at the grocery store.” Her hand flicked to her hair, unconsciously self-conscious, like she knew she looked terrible. “So, like, do you live out here now? I thought you lived in Walnut Hills or something.”
“I, oh, no, Hyde Park, I have a house in Hyde Park. We have a house in Hyde Park.” Horrible, having to admit that we. Even worse to stutter over it. “But my practice is out here and I needed to pick up some things, on my way home.”
“Baby formula?”
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