“So you’ll definitely be going to London then,” Elisabeth said.
“Yes. I’ve made my decision, and we’ll see how it plays out.”
“You’ll see how getting married plays out.”
“I’ve decided to take things less seriously,” Sam said. “Clive pointed out to me this weekend that I tend to think one bad choice—one grade, one job interview, one decision—could derail my whole life. It’s not true.”
“Sometimes it is,” Elisabeth said.
Burned in her brain forever: the year she was twenty-one, right out of college, and Nomi told her the story of a coworker at the foundation where she worked, a girl their age who got blackout drunk at a fundraiser and somehow ended up pooping on a white couch. That girl was never heard from again.
Sam probably wouldn’t appreciate it if she compared marrying Clive to defecating in public, but Elisabeth had to say something.
“Has Clive ever been married before?” she asked.
She tried to sound neutral, detached, as if she had asked if Clive liked tomatoes.
“No,” Sam said. “Why?”
“His age, I guess. And he’s so good with Gil. He seems like the settling-down type.”
“I don’t think he’s the type at all,” Sam said. “It’s just that he wants to settle down with me. He told me once that he didn’t get married sooner because he hadn’t found the right person.”
“Isn’t that sweet,” Elisabeth said.
She knew now for certain that Creepy Clive had lied.
* * *
—
Later on, Elisabeth was at the drugstore, pushing Gil in the cart.
He greeted each person they passed with a wave and a shout, as if he was the mayor of the place.
She was debating which shampoo to buy when she heard someone call, “Hi, Gilbert!”
Elisabeth looked up. There was Isabella, wearing tiny shorts, though it was only sixty degrees out. Warmer than it had been in months, but even so.
“You’re so tan. I’m jealous,” Elisabeth said. “How was your spring break?”
“Great. I went to Tulum with my girlfriends from boarding school. One of my friends’ dads has a villa there, right on the water.”
“Sounds like heaven.”
They talked for the next ten minutes about trips to Mexico each of them had taken, about the Mexican restaurant a few doors down from here that was pretty good, but had closed last month, only to be replaced by a Starbucks. The town had raised hell over that, but eventually Starbucks won, and now there was a line out the door at all times.
Elisabeth was ready to move on, but Isabella kept talking.
Gil’s eyelids grew heavy, dipping closed, then snapping open like a paper window shade, until, at last, he fell asleep.
Finally, Isabella said, “You heard Clive put a ring on it?”
“I did.”
Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
Then Elisabeth asked, “What do you think of that?”
“I’m worried,” Isabella said. “I would have said something to her sooner, but—none of us thought it would last this long.”
“I worry about her too,” Elisabeth said. “I don’t want her to do something she’ll regret.”
“He’s clearly not good enough for her,” Isabella said. “I mean, he gives walking tours for a living, and he makes up half the things he says on them. Just spouts fake dates and stories.”
“Really?” Elisabeth said. “But he owns the company, right? He’s making an app or something?”
“No. That’s his friend who gave him the job. Clive lived in Spain until like two or three years ago, but he’s never explained what he did there. It’s shady.”
“I didn’t know all that,” Elisabeth said.
“Yeah. Plus he’s old, and kind of an annoying know-it-all.”
“What do you think she sees in him?” Elisabeth said.
“Sam’s never been good with change,” Isabella said. “Or with endings. I think some part of her wants to let him go, but she can’t.” She took a bottle of shampoo from the shelf, popped the top open, sniffed.
“I never thanked you, by the way, for talking me out of it,” Isabella said.
“Out of?” Elisabeth said. Then, “Oh. Of course. I’m glad you changed your mind.”
“I can’t wait until I’m your age,” Isabella said. “It must be so nice to have your shit figured out.”
* * *
—
On Friday morning, she went to the clinic one last time and stuck out her left arm, still bruised from all the pricks two weeks earlier. She took a deep breath as she watched the test tube fill with blood.
When the phone rang an hour later, Elisabeth let Andrew answer.
She heard him say “Mmm-hmm” and “I see” and “Okay, great, thank you.”
He sounded happy. She was struck by the possibility that somehow it had worked, and he was about to walk into the living room and tell her they’d be parents again.
When he came to her with tears in his eyes, Elisabeth’s stomach dropped with disappointment, a surprise to her.
“I’m so sorry,” Andrew said. “I know how hard you tried.”
* * *
—
The next day, Elisabeth went quiet.
Andrew assumed she was grieving. They were supposed to meet his parents at a new pizza place for an early dinner. He offered to take Gil, let her have some time alone.
She determined to use the time well, to ignore that she was horrid, that her husband was a better person than she would ever be.
She cleaned out the bedroom closet, and Gil’s dresser drawers, and then set her focus on the bathroom. In the cupboard below the sink, Elisabeth found a brown paper bag, a gut punch. She knew what it contained. All that remained of the items she brought home from the hospital after Gil was born. Why had she kept them, even through the move? What should she do with them now?
She went downstairs, poured a glass of wine, and sat in the living room with her unread stack of New Yorkers. She began with the oldest one, and skimmed through the table of contents, the event listings. She read a long article about prison reform, the film and book reviews, and all the cartoons, before moving on to the next issue.
This one featured a profile of Matilda Grey, champion of feminist art. Elisabeth began reading. A thought hung at the edges of her mind, where she couldn’t quite grasp it.
Matilda Grey had a short silver bob and wore all black. Her London gallery was the epicenter of highly collectible art made by women.
Matilda Grey. Matilda Grey.
Elisabeth read on.
Matilda Grey had decided London was smothering. She was opening a new gallery in Brooklyn in the fall. She’d be moving there to run it.
It clicked for Elisabeth an hour later, when she’d switched to television, a show about a mother-daughter team renovating dilapidated houses in Baltimore.
The Matilda Grey gallery was the place Sam had applied to work in London. The place she wanted to work most in the world. They had rejected her because she wasn’t British.
A possibly bad idea entered Elisabeth’s head. Andrew often said her ideas should come with a mandatory waiting period, like buying a gun. She gave it half an hour, before sending emails to the handful of people she knew in the New York art world.
Andrew and Gil returned home not long after, Gil already asleep. Andrew put him down and joined her on the sofa.
“My dad had this whole speech prepared at dinner,” he said. “About how the time I’ve spent on the grill is not a bad thing, because at least for all these months, I haven’t been contributing to corporate greed like I did in my old job.”
“Oh dear,” she said. “The Hollow Tree.”
Andrew nodded. “Indeed.”
> Elisabeth could not stop checking her phone. The lack of replies offended her, even though she realized it was a Saturday. She buzzed with anticipation, with an urge to see her plan come to something.
“You okay?” Andrew said.
“I am,” she said, and it took her a minute to realize what he meant.
Elisabeth grew more and more antsy, until finally someone responded—the editor from the Times who covered Manhattan galleries.
Sorry, I don’t know a soul there. Brooklyn is another world. I’ve heard Matilda is fantastic, though. Hope all’s well!
She would have to cast a wider net.
Elisabeth logged on to BK Mamas for the first time in weeks. It was now called BK Families and Caregivers, in an effort to appease all sides.
She typed without stopping to think.
Hey mamas! My son’s incredible babysitter is about to graduate college with honors. She’s one of the brightest young women I’ve ever known, a super-talented painter, with amazing taste in art. It is her DREAM to work at the Matilda Grey gallery, which I understand is opening this coming fall. Does anyone have an in? I can vouch for this girl—she is THE BEST. (Please help me stop her from making a colossal mistake and marrying her creepy British boyfriend and wasting all her talents!!)
She posted it, vowing not to check for responses for one hour.
Nomi texted after ten minutes: Man, you are OBSESSED with your babysitter. You’re not gonna leave me for her, are you?
Elisabeth was pleased. If Nomi had seen it, that meant other people had. The post hadn’t gotten lost in an avalanche of questions about bedtimes and diaper rash and horrible in-laws and Spanish immersion classes for kids under two.
When she checked, the post had one like—Nomi—and one comment, from a woman she didn’t know: Not a creepy Brit! Does he have bad teeth and everything? I dated one or two of those in my day.
Not helpful, but still, Elisabeth wrote back: Teeth right out of central casting. And a bad accent to match.
It was mean, but the more activity a post got, the more people would see it. She added a second reply. This one just said Ha ha!
A moment later, another comment appeared, from Mimi Winchester.
Hi E! One of my dearest friends runs the place!! Email me!!
Anyone but Mimi, Elisabeth thought, knowing what it would cost her to ask this woman a favor. Mimi would hold it over her head for the rest of time, find a way to use it as proof of her own superiority.
But she thought of Sam. Sam had been there for her; Sam had listened. Sam had stopped her from making a huge mistake. When Elisabeth thanked her, Sam said she hadn’t done anything, but that wasn’t true. If not for Sam, she might be pregnant with twins right now.
Elisabeth composed an email to Mimi, telling her how Sam had applied to the gallery in London, how the gallerist there had loved her. She fudged a bit, saying, deep down, Sam had her heart set on New York, but this boyfriend was filling her head with other ideas.
Wouldn’t it be perfect if they hired her? Elisabeth wrote. She wants to be in New York, they’re opening up in New York. Feels meant to be. But, and I realize this is a tall order, I feel like they would have to reach out to her…
Mimi said she would see what she could do.
On Monday, Mimi followed up to say her friend had contacted the London gallery, and they remembered Sam and would add her to their interview list now that they knew she was headed for New York.
When Sam arrived to work the following Thursday, she did not stop to say hello or greet the baby. Instead, she said, “The craziest thing just happened. I got an email from Matilda Grey.”
Elisabeth felt giddy.
“Who’s that again?” she asked.
“It’s not a person, it’s a gallery. Well, it’s a person too, of course. I applied to their London location. I think I told you? They couldn’t hire me, but this email says the gallerist there remembered me and they’re opening a space in Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn? Really?”
“Yeah.”
“I wonder if it’s near our old neighborhood.”
“They want me to go down there and interview to be Matilda’s assistant.”
“What! That’s fabulous,” Elisabeth said. “You must have made an impression.”
“I guess I did,” Sam said, and she looked amazed.
“Don’t be so surprised. They’d be lucky to have you.”
“They want me to come for an interview tomorrow, in Brooklyn. I know I’m supposed to work.”
“Of course you have to go. The only question is what are you going to wear?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said. “And I don’t know what to say to Clive. Is it bad not to tell him yet? To wait and see what happens?”
“I might not be the best person to ask about withholding important information from your partner at the moment,” Elisabeth said.
“I want this job,” Sam said. “Have you ever been shocked by your own reaction to something? Like maybe you don’t know yourself at all?”
Elisabeth thought of the moment Andrew came in and said she wasn’t pregnant.
“Why don’t you just see what happens?” she said.
Sam nodded. “I might not even get it.”
She sounded both hopeful and fearful that this could be the case.
19
Sam
GIL WAS UPSTAIRS NAPPING when Sam got the call.
She and Elisabeth were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea, making plans for the party. Outside, rain pelted the windows.
Elisabeth had given a few chapters of her new book to her editor and agent and was awaiting feedback.
“This is my favorite part of the writing process,” she said. “The part where I get to do nothing for several days without feeling guilty about it.”
She went for a run that morning, before the weather turned. She ate a nice lunch out somewhere, alone.
“I can’t wait to read the book once it’s done,” Sam said.
“Oh, Sam, you’re the best,” Elisabeth said.
“Really. I’ve read both your books now. They’re so good. I think the second one is my favorite.”
Elisabeth’s face lit up. “Sam!” she said. “You always say the perfect thing.”
The afternoon itself felt perfect, like so many things did now that the end was near. Lately, Sam attended classes with a sense of sappy gratitude, for getting to be part of a group of smart women, debating the meaning of literature and art. When in her life would she ever do that again? She inhaled deeply when she studied in the library stacks, wanting to memorize the smell of the books. She got into bed for her afternoon nap each day, knowing Isabella was in class, and that no one else would disturb her, because she had written ZZZZZ on the whiteboard that hung on the door, and her friends knew what that meant.
Things that had irritated her all year now made her smile. The sight of Isabella slicing oranges on her nightstand for sangria; the sound of Rosa next door playing the same Prince song on repeat for an hour; the fact that she could just appear in the dining hall at six and a warm meal would be waiting.
The campus was at its best in springtime. After a winter spent crossing the quad with their heads down, wrapped in heavy coats as they hurried past the frozen pond, the students took their time now. They stopped to chat, or to take pictures of the pink cherry blossoms that lined Paradise Road, or to have a picnic on the green, green grass behind College Hall.
The seniors were extra emotional. Somebody on their platform cried every night lately, about one thing or another.
Sam looked around Elisabeth’s kitchen. This too would soon be over. She had loved their time together. Things had felt a bit strange after George told her about Elisabeth’s family money, but that feeling had mostly faded now. After Elisabeth confessed wha
t she’d done with the embryos, Sam spent a few days fixated on the deception. But she had to put that away. It didn’t match the Elisabeth she knew. Maybe everyone had parts of themselves like that.
It was her new habit to get up at six each morning and go to the art building to work on the painting. Elisabeth had said not to worry if she needed to finish over the summer, but Sam intended to present it to her at the party. In part, so that she might get paid before moving to London. And in part because she wanted the painting on display at the party, both things representing their unique bond, the blurred lines between their lives. She wanted the portrait to be the best thing she’d ever created. She wanted to make Elisabeth proud. Sam sketched the figures out seven times before adding color.
This morning, she had entered the art building, which was usually empty at that hour, and bumped straight into one of her professors, Christopher Gillis. He looked like he’d just woken up, stumbling out of his office barefoot, in sweatpants, steel-gray hair pointing in every direction. She wondered if he had a girl in there.
He knew Elisabeth somehow. Sam didn’t know their exact connection, but Elisabeth told her once how they had discussed her talent at a party.
Sam was weighing whether to mention the sighting when Elisabeth glanced up from her to-do list and said, “I can’t believe Gil will be a year old in three weeks. And you’ll be a college graduate.”
She looked wistful, before turning back to the list and saying, “Does your family like shrimp?”
Elisabeth was going all out, even though Sam told her there was no need. Three cases of champagne had been purchased and now sat at the top of the basement stairs, ready to be ferried to the yard at the appointed hour. Elisabeth had ordered a balloon archway, twelve feet tall, the kind you saw at a prom or at the finish line of a 10K. A three-piece bluegrass band would play songs for both kids and adults. There would be cater-waiters serving endless hors d’oeuvres, and two cakes—one for Sam, and one for Gil.
Friends and Strangers Page 39