That's What Frenemies Are For, page 12
“Sorry. Anyway, you want me to go over there and beat the shit out of him?”
“James!”
“Just kidding. Hey, listen, I agree with Jules. Come stay with us for a bit—I know she’d appreciate the help with the kids, and that’ll give you a little time to find a new place.”
I’d relayed what Tatum had told me, the first morning when we were still in bed in the guesthouse. James had been sympathetic and agreeable to my idea, but I was surprised he was bringing it up now, in front of the kids.
“That’s so incredibly generous,” Tatum said. “But I couldn’t impose like that.”
“You’d be helping us out,” James said. “Jules has her hands full this summer and I’m sure she’d love the company too.”
Then I got it—he was trying to line up a babysitter for me. I’d been pretty vocal with my complaints about being stuck in the city, and James saw Tatum as a chance to off-load his obligation to keep me entertained.
“It’s true,” I said, turning to check on the kids. Paige was playing some game on her iPad and Henry was gazing out the window and clutching his stuffed bear, a beloved and threadbare Gund my mother had given him when he was a baby. “We’d love to have you. It’s not safe for you to stay where you are. And listen, don’t pay another cent in rent. If your landlord tries to come after you, James can have his lawyer make a call.”
“Yep,” James agreed. “Stewart Marlowe, human wrecking ball. We’ll have him break a few fingers, just to get the point across.”
“Oh, you guys…” Tatum said. Her eyes were shiny.
“Can Benilda live with us instead?” Henry asked.
“Henry!” I chastised him. “Benilda already has a home. And a family that needs her. If Tatum stays with us, she can play with you more.”
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry,” I said to Tatum. “He’s just tired. So it’s settled—go home and pack your stuff and you can move in anytime this weekend. Benilda won’t be back until Monday, but we can figure out the schedule for the week then.”
I’d texted Benilda several times over the last few days to try to find out how it was going with her cousin—and received only one cryptic text back. Thank You Mrs. Julia every Prayer is answered in GODS Time. Was Thelma (it was Thelma, wasn’t it?) doing better? Worse? Experiencing a miraculous cure? At death’s door?
“I have to throw up,” Henry announced.
“You do not!” Paige yelled. “Oh my God, you are killing my ears!”
Henry leaned across Tatum and tried to slap Paige’s hand, but she yanked it out of the way.
“You are so annoying,” she announced triumphantly.
She was developing a propensity for the last word.
* * *
—
I didn’t hear from Tatum over the weekend, but I was occupied with unpacking and getting the kids back on a schedule.
Monday morning, Tatum texted to say she’d be over in time to shower before her 5:00 P.M. class. At a little before four she arrived with our building’s porter in tow, carrying a huge duffel bag.
I showed her the guest room, the towels I’d put in the guest bathroom. “Do you need to go back for the rest of your stuff? Or do you have somewhere to store it?”
“This is it.” Tatum shrugged, giving the duffel a little kick. “My old place came furnished.”
Benilda was banging pots around in the kitchen. I knew she’d heard Tatum arrive, but she hadn’t come out to greet her. Benilda had been moody and silent since her return from Queens, clucking to herself while she worked. I had concluded that Thelma wasn’t going to linger.
“Listen, Julia,” Tatum continued, the expression on her face hopeful, tentative. “I was wondering…I want to take you out to dinner. Like a thank-you? For letting me stay here and taking me with you for the Fourth and—and everything?”
“Sure,” I said, touched. Obviously she’d done some thinking since the Hamptons; maybe the episode with Augie Craft had been a blessing in disguise, and my warning had sunk in. I hadn’t been looking for thanks, but it was nice to be acknowledged. “I’d love to.”
I hadn’t had a real night out since everyone left town, and Benilda certainly owed me some hours. I’d bought some new things since losing weight—a fitted boatneck top that looked like something Gina Lollobrigida would have worn in Capri, and the first size 6 jeans I’d worn in years. If the clothes didn’t quite make me feel twenty-five again, they at least didn’t scream mommy. My new outfit and I deserved a night on the damn town.
“Yay! I’m so excited! Do you mind if I invite Brooke too?”
Tatum and Brooke had recently become almost inseparable. I’d see them getting dressed together in the locker room or bent over their laptops, going through their playlists, one shiny blond head and one tousled and darker.
“Of course—it’ll be fun,” I said, though I would have much preferred a Brooke-free evening.
“Great! I’ll figure out some dates with her and let you know.”
* * *
—
Tatum left to teach and I ran to the drugstore, and when I got back, Benilda immediately started gathering her things, casting a pointed glare at the tote bag Tatum had left on the floor of the foyer.
“Benilda, wait,” I said. “Did you talk to Thelma today? How is she doing?”
Benilda sighed and set her purse back down on the counter. “Is no good, no good,” she said. “Her belly? Is filling up. And her eyes are the yellow.” She patted her stomach the way a pregnant woman does, running her hands gently over its contours.
“Her…belly? You mean with, um, gas?”
“No, no. Is…water?”
“Oh, fluids?” This was often how we communicated, Benilda trying out words that I countered with a host of alternatives until I landed on the one she wanted.
“Yes, fluids. The cancer, it is in her liver now.”
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry.” Though did it really matter, at this point? I’d heard the pain could be terrible in the final weeks—that patients were doped up on morphine most of the time. I was pretty sure I’d choose that route myself if it came to it. “Were you able to…um, spend some quality time with her last week?”
“Oh, yes. Friends are coming, her son and his family are trying to get here, but is so expensive. All the way from Texas.”
Benilda looked at me hopefully—but maybe that was my imagination. Truth be told, Benilda’s expression rarely changed, her emotional spectrum ranging from slightly sour to sorely affronted when speaking to me and James. But now I wondered if she expected me to offer to help with her cousin’s travel. If she wanted, Benilda could dip into her own savings, of which I suspected there were plenty, as she spent almost nothing and occasionally talked about the house she and her husband planned to build in the hills above Taytay when she retired.
“Well, I’m glad you were able to spend the holiday with her,” I said firmly.
Benilda looked pointedly at Tatum’s bag again. “Will she be staying here?”
“Yes, for a while.” I found it annoying that Benilda refused to say her name. “I’m sure she’ll keep out of your way.”
“I hope so,” Benilda said curtly. “Good night, Mrs. Julia.”
The friction between them was something I’d probably have to deal with eventually, though I resented being caught in the middle—was it so much to ask for everyone in my house to make an effort to get along?
CHAPTER 14
It ended up taking a couple weeks before we managed to find a night that worked for all three of us. The plan was for Tatum and Brooke to get ready at Flame after Brooke’s 5:30 P.M. class on Friday, and then they’d meet me at the restaurant at 8:00 P.M.
Late Friday afternoon I locked my bedroom door while Benilda fed the kids dinner. She’d been silent and brooding all day, snapping at the children to put their wet swimsuits in the hamper after she picked them up from the bus. Lately she had been coming in later and later, ignoring Henry’s wailing when he couldn’t find his teddy bear. But she didn’t want to talk about it; she’d just shake her head when I asked after Thelma. I’d been juggling the kids and the household tasks myself in the mornings, but Benilda more than made up for it when she arrived—ferocious bouts of cleaning seemed to provide her an outlet for her stress.
I took my time in the shower, shaving all the way up my thighs, and spent an hour on my hair and makeup. We’d arranged to meet at a little tapas place tucked away in a pocket of the West Village. Incredible aromas wafted out when I opened the silvered glass door. Inside, beautifully dressed people waited to be seated. Other than a gorgeous zinc bar, the space looked like it had been furnished with castoffs from a defunct convent: unadorned plain long wooden tables, a mishmash of lath and stick and brace-back and bow-back chairs, all treated to a coat of black lacquer. Mercury glass sconces, exposed brick, and the original scarred oak floors.
I was so over that vibe, but the place was packed and the hostess was turning away people without reservations. I spotted Tatum and Brooke in the corner next to the bar at an intimate little four-top.
Brooke was wearing a steel-gray silk bustier that showed off her breasts. In the soft light, her tattoos looked almost like Dürer sketches. Her hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, and her lips were painted blood red. By contrast, Tatum channeled eighties Madonna: lots of black eyeliner, hair teased and sprayed to massive volume, a black mesh top that revealed her bra, and over that, a shiny ivory leather moto jacket. I wasn’t sure where she got the inspiration for her look, but there was something familiar about that jacket, and for a second I wondered if she’d borrowed it without asking—but despite my shopping habit and walk-in closet filled to bursting, I was pretty sure I’d never owned anything like it.
A bottle of champagne rested in an ice bucket next to the table—Feuillatte, nice but not terribly expensive. Melting ice and empty shells were all that was left of a platter of oysters. I was only a few minutes late; obviously they had arrived early and started without me.
“Julia!” Tatum shrieked, jumping up and jostling the table. She sat back down with a plop, giggling. Brooke slid out of her chair and laid her hands lightly on my shoulders, her kiss landing almost on my ear.
“You guys clean up fast,” I said, “seeing as you were on bikes uptown just over an hour ago.”
“Oh, I found someone to sub for me,” Brooke said. “Since it’s my birthday.”
“It is? You didn’t have to invite me—”
“I wanted you here,” Brooke said, touching my arm. In a few moments she’d shown me more attention than in the entire time I’d known her. “I wanted to thank you. Tatum says you’re going to bring all your friends to Flame.”
I searched her expression for signs of sarcasm as she slid back into her chair but found none. Her gratitude seemed genuine. Who knew—with her rent covered by her parents, $150 a class might cover the rest, though her black bag was Valentino and the diamond studs in her cartilage looked real. I wondered how she had fallen so far from the family tree, and what her parents thought of her career choice.
“I’m famished,” I said. “Did you already order?”
“Just the oysters,” Tatum said. “Should we get more?”
We did, and some small plates—razor-thin carpaccio with juniper berries, crostini with salted cod—but the three of us only picked at the dishes. Those calories don’t burn themselves.
I figured I’d end up with the bill, but I didn’t care. It was such a pleasure to be in a restaurant with a linen napkin in my lap, the buzz of interesting conversations around me. By the time we finished eating, well into a second bottle of Pinot Grigio, it was almost ten-thirty. James had texted me a little after nine that he was home, and I felt wistful that my night out was coming to an end.
But they surprised me.
“I’ll get this,” Brooke said, snatching the bill off the waitress’s pewter tray.
“But it’s your birthday!” Tatum exclaimed.
“At least let me contribute,” I said, reaching for my bag.
“Nope. You guys can get rounds at the club. But I meant what I said—I wanted to show you that we appreciate everything you’re doing, Julia.”
“Well—it’s my pleasure, and thank you, Brooke.”
“I’ve never been to Constellation,” Tatum said, getting unsteadily to her feet. “I can’t wait!”
Constellation was the sort of club that had sprouted recently around that part of town, lushly appointed with ironic lounge décor just made for Instagram posts, bottles of house-made tinctures lined up behind the bar, little pots of chalk in the bathrooms to encourage people to write on the walls. Matt Dexter’s media company had hosted an event there shortly after it opened, and while he entertained clients, Grace and I took selfies in the brocade chaises and sampled artisanal bourbon and flirted with the DJ.
I feared I’d be the oldest person in the club, but the alternative was to head home, to climb into bed and read a few paragraphs before nodding off.
“Oh, I love that place,” I said. “They make this amazing yellow cocktail, with tequila and turmeric and fresh herbs.”
The two of them exchanged glances and I feared I’d gone too far, but then Tatum gave me an impulsive little hug. “Of course you’ve been there! Oh God, you’re the best, Julia.”
I could feel people watching us as we wound our way through the cramped gauntlet of tables, and I decided to believe that some of that admiration was meant for me. Your mother probably told you how to project confidence that you don’t feel: stand up straight, keep your shoulders back, smile and look people in the eye. She may have added that everyone else is just as unsure of themselves as you are.
This isn’t true, of course. Some people do walk around like they own the place, either because they actually do or because they believe they truly are better than you. That’s the real trick: keep reminding yourself of everyone else’s flaws. I gave a table of drunk investment bankers a withering gaze as I passed them.
Adventure ahead, and I was suited up and ready.
CHAPTER 15
Brooke knew people. At the front of the line of hopefuls outside the club was a bearded young man in thick-framed glasses—velvet ropes and muscled bouncers being hopelessly out of date—who waved us over when he saw us.
“How’ve you been?” he asked after they kissed. “Benny’s into Chartreuse right now and he’s barrel-aged a couple of new cocktails—you’ve got to try them.”
“Definitely,” Brooke said smoothly. “These are my friends, Tatum and Julia.”
“Hey, how are you?” he said, barely glancing at us.
Inside, nothing was as I remembered. That’s not true—the same furniture was arranged in the same self-conscious rumpus-room groupings; the same enormous screens overhead twitched and pulsed with the same blurry images in time to the same music, a bass-heavy, fey instrumental that seemed to feature sitars and steel drums and nineties pop riffs. But instead of a bunch of media executives in creative casual standing around talking work, we navigated a teeming school of the young and gorgeous. A good many of them looking narcotically detached, their pretty eyes unfocused.
While Brooke went to the bar to get drinks, Tatum dug in her bag and pulled out a little round container. She shook out two pieces of chocolate and handed me one. “It’s just weed,” she said. “Don’t worry, one won’t get you too high.”
I only hesitated for a moment. I wasn’t exactly a stranger to edibles, thanks to James’s brother who lived in California and sent occasional gifts of cookies and tinctures and topical creams in packages with no return address. Usually James and I hoarded them until a night when the kids were away with their grandparents, and then we got high and had raunchy sex.
I had popped the chocolate in my mouth when Brooke returned with three martini glasses filled with a cloudy pale orange concoction. Tatum grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor, leaving our untouched cocktails on a ledge. She danced like she spun, her arms lifted, her head thrown back, swaying and laughing. I closed my eyes and gave in to my lovely glistening buzz and let the music guide me. Someone collided with me and apologized, and I smiled, full of goodwill as the weed did its work. We took a break and drank our cocktails and danced some more, until Tatum drifted away from me.
We needed more drinks, but by the time I fought my way to the bar and bought a round, Tatum and Brooke were nowhere to be seen. I was annoyed until I heard Tatum yelling my name overhead: the two of them were seated on a platform on gold kidney-shaped couches with a well-dressed man in his fifties. I made my way unsteadily up the curved staircase, sloshing the drinks, and sat next to Tatum across a tiny cocktail table from Brooke and the man, setting the glasses down amid a litter of empties and crumpled napkins.
“This is Richie,” Brooke said. “I’ve known him forever.”
“Richard,” he corrected, offering me one of those horrible handshakes where the guy grabs only your fingertips and squeezes. “We met a couple months ago.”
Brooke reached across the coffee table and tucked something in my hand, closing my fingers over it. It was an Altoids tin, the little oblong kind that holds the tiny ones. I opened the lid and saw three small pills, mint green and stamped with the image of a dove. Brooke plucked two of the pills from the tin and popped one in her mouth, then fed the other to Tatum, slipping it past her lips.
“It’s just Molly,” Tatum said against my ear, so close that her lips brushed my skin. “Have you tried it?”
I’d tried Ecstasy in college, just once, because my roommate said it gave you irreversible brain damage. The main thing I remembered about that night was somehow ending up in the kitchen of a fraternity house kissing a man I’d never seen before who was too old to be a student. Two girls had come in looking for snacks and dragged me out.
