The Sisters Club

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  “I think so,” Sunny said, patting Sylvia’s knee.

  “You two have quite the nice setup, don’t you?” Diana said. “Sylvia cooks, Sunny’s on the scene in case Sylvia ever has another health crisis involving her breasts, and no one ever has to have sex with anyone else.”

  Sylvia snatched Diana’s wineglass, halfway to her lips, out of her hand. “You know, eating dinner fashionably late is overrated. I say we eat now.”

  • • •

  But dinner didn’t help. For starters, Diana wouldn’t eat anything, claiming she didn’t need the extra calories on top of the wine. Then, when Sylvia tried to switch them all over to coffee, Diana simply got up and opened another bottle of wine herself.

  “It is my birthday, after all,” she said, pouring a full glass. She swirled the pale liquid around, staring at it as though it might suddenly turn into tea leaves that she could then read. “I still don’t understand why Dan got so upset about the e-mails from Dirk.”

  “E-mails from Dirk?” Lise echoed.

  “E-mails from Dirk, e-mails to Dirk—what’s the difference?”

  “What were the e-mails about?”

  “Everything. Life, him, me. Everything.”

  “Just how many e-mails are we talking about?” Sylvia asked.

  “Dunno. Twenty, thirty, maybe.”

  “Since you first met him back in April?”

  “No. A day.”

  “A day?” Cindy’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Yes,” Diana said huffily. “Twenty to thirty a day. Each.”

  “Oh, man,” Carly said. “What were you thinking of? Did you think your husband wouldn’t mind when he found out?”

  “So what exactly are you saying,” Diana boomed, “that I’m at fault here? That just because I was conducting a private correspondence with a friend, it justifies Dan up and cheating on me with some watery tart he met at the pub?”

  “No one’s talking about fault,” Cindy said soothingly.

  “Of course not,” Lise said. Then she winced. “But twenty to thirty e-mails a day? That does sound a bit obsessive.”

  “What were you,” Sylvia asked, “out of your fucking mind?”

  • • •

  Diana cornered Sylvia in the kitchen.

  “Look, I’m sorry for what I said before about you and Sunny not sleeping together. It wasn’t very politic of me.” She held up a hand. “And there’s no need for you to apologize for asking me if I’m out of my fucking mind. I’ve already forgiven you. I know you didn’t mean it.”

  “Oh, but I did.”

  Lise came in and reached into a cabinet to get out plates for the cake. Diana ignored her and kept talking to Sylvia.

  “I see. Well. Be that as it may, how are things going with the book?”

  “Book? What book?”

  “The one you were going to write about your sister. No, that wasn’t it. The cookbook you were going to write to tie in with the TV program. What’s going on with the program these days anyway?”

  “I’ve told Magda I want a hiatus. Maybe I’ll agree to go back on the air again in January as a midseason replacement.” She shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “I can see why you’d be unsure.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well, it was hardly the best program to ever go on the tube, you know. You must admit, throwing food at audience members can only take you so far. But this is really wonderful news! You’ll be able to devote all your energies to the little cookbook. Well, except for when you’re running your little catering business, that is.”

  “I never said I’d write any cookbook.”

  “But I thought you said—”

  “I said I’d think about it. I thought about it and I decided no.”

  “But you can’t! You can’t say no!”

  “No? Gee, that’s funny. I thought I just did.”

  “Oh.” Diana shook her head morosely. “Dirk isn’t going to like that at all.”

  “Dirk?” Lise said. “What does Sylvia writing a cookbook have to do with Dirk?”

  • • •

  Diana squeezed in between Cindy and Carly on the couch, addressing Cindy as though they were in a bubble, the only two people there. Not even bothering to whisper, she said, “So, how’s the book going? You know, the one you were going to write about being a struggling single mother, even though you’re not a mother technically yet, or some such rot?”

  “I have been keeping a diary,” Cindy confided. “And I really do have you to thank for that. Putting my feelings down on paper has really helped me organize my thoughts about the future.”

  “A diary? Yes, I can see where that could be good. The whole idea of diaries is very marketable, I think. You know, The Princess Diaries, Anne Frank. When do you think you’ll have something to show Dirk?”

  “Show Dirk? Oh, no. I’m not writing this for anyone else’s eyes. It’s just for me. It’s too personal. I’d be embarrassed to have anyone else read it.”

  “But what good does that do me?” Diana said. “If Sylvia refuses to write a cookbook and now you’re writing something you won’t let anyone read—”

  “Excuse me,” Lise cut in, “but first you get upset about Sylvia not writing, now you’re upset about Cindy not showing you what she’s written, and you keep mentioning Dirk—just what the hell is going on? You’re not…pimping books for him, are you?”

  “I resent that,” Diana said.

  “You can resent it all you like, but you’d better answer my question just the same.”

  “I don’t need to sit here and take this,” Diana said, struggling to pull herself out of the sofa.

  “Don’t go,” Cindy said. “We haven’t even had any cake yet.”

  “And I don’t want any bloody cake! Even if you put Splenda in it, it’s still loaded with white flour, terrible carbs. White flour is death!”

  “At least have some coffee,” Cindy tried again.

  “No, thank you.” Diana was on her feet now, wobbly but upright. “This is a fine reward I get for bringing all of you together. Three women, and not one of you will write a book for me. Well, Lise is writing a book, but she was already doing that.” She eyed Carly and Sunny consideringly, with a flash of hope that just as quickly receded. “Nah. Who wants to read about a girl working in a bra emporium or a surgeon who hangs out with a group of women?” She grabbed her purse, headed for the door. “Someone should shoot me for thinking up The Sisters Club in the first place!”

  “The Sisters Club?” Sylvia said. She looked at the others. “What’s she talking about?”

  “She,” Diana said imperiously, “or, rather, I, only put that ad in the bookstore newsletter last January because I wanted to find other women with whom I could be like sisters. I thought it would be great if women whose sisters weren’t on the scene or who were otherwise emotionally unavailable were to come together to fulfill the sister function in each other’s lives and support one another—you know, through thick and thin.” She barked a laugh. “Fat joke, that. You supported me through thick just fine. But thin? Not so much.”

  Sylvia looked at the others again. “Does anyone know what she’s talking about?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Diana sniffed haughtily. “Because it’s all gone horribly wrong. Nothing has turned out the way I planned it!”

  Diana

  I woke to the mother of all hangovers.

  Crap. What had I done?

  The late-morning sun, streaming through the blinds, which I’d neglected to draw the night before, assaulted my eyelids, revealing the still-empty space in the bed beside me.

  Husbandless, I relived the night before at Lise’s house. Had I really said all those awful things to my friends? How could I have done such a thing when they’d been so kind as to throw me a surprise party? I dimly remembered blurting out that stuff about The Sisters Club. What a fool they all must think I was. And how, I wondered, had I ever made it home, when I’d obviously been too drunk
to drive?

  Then I remembered: Sunny. I’d been fumbling the key in the lock of my car when Sunny caught up with me in the driveway.

  “Sylvia insists I am to drive you home,” he’d said in that funny formal way of his.

  “Sylvia can stick it up her arse,” I’d responded, the height of graciousness.

  “That does not sound like something she would find pleasurable. Still, I request you give me your keys.”

  I’d tried to resist, but was surprised at how insistent Sunny could be when he put his mind to it.

  “But if you drive me home in my car,” I’d said after relenting, “how will you get home again?”

  “I will take a cab. Let it be an adventure for me.”

  It humbled me now to think that, after I’d been so horrible, Sylvia still cared enough about my well-being to have Sunny drive me home. He was lucky I didn’t barf on him.

  I groaned. I should never have thought that word: “barf.” I suppose that’s what I get, I told myself, for drinking my dinner.

  No sooner did I feel remorseful about Sylvia, however, than I felt resentment. How could they have all let me down that way? They—Sylvia and Cindy—had said they were going to write books for me. Or at least I’d told Dirk I could get them to do it. Now what was I going to do?

  Dirk. The name appeared in my mind as a life raft. I had lost my husband. I had probably lost my friends. But at least I still had Dirk.

  I looked at the bedside clock and did the math. It would be early evening in London right now. Scrambling for the phone, I punched in the number I’d committed to memory.

  Dirk had given me his numbers—home, work, and cell—not long after his first e-mail to me all those months ago. But, in the intervening time period, I’d rarely allowed myself to use them, not wanting Dan to see any of Dirk’s numbers on the phone bill. But Dan was gone now, probably for good. What did it matter any longer?

  “Hello, luv,” Dirk answered on the third ring. “I’m on my way out to a party and was going to let voice mail pick this up, but then I saw it was you. What’s going on?”

  I pictured him in a tux, doing last-minute adjustments to his tie. It was a nice picture.

  “It was my birthday yesterday,” I said, feeling stupid and needy, but needing to hear someone say something pleasant to me all the same.

  “Well, happy birthday, then! Did you do anything fun to celebrate?”

  “Not exactly. Lise threw a party for me, but I think I may have alienated everyone.”

  “Does ‘everyone’ include Sylvia and Cindy?”

  I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me through the phone. “Yes.”

  “That can’t be good.”

  “No. No, it’s not. That’s why I was calling you. I was hoping you could cheer me up.”

  “I’m always good for that, but I am in a bit of a rush. Don’t want to miss the canapés, you know. Perhaps we could do the short version, then? Let’s see…You’re beautiful, smart, and sexy. How am I doing?”

  “Great, so far.” I laughed. “Keep going.”

  “Sorry. ’Fraid it’s all I’ve got right now. Maybe I could call you when I get home? I really should be—”

  “I have something to tell you.” Well, I had to say something, didn’t I, to keep him on the line?

  “And what might that be?”

  And now that I’d said that, I had to pony up with something he’d find important.

  “Remember how I offered to act as sort of a pre-agent for you, getting Sylvia and Cindy to write memoirs or something? Well, it doesn’t look like that’s on. Seems that”—I tried on a tinkling laugh here—“suddenly no one wants to write memoirs anymore these days.”

  Even as I was speaking, I sensed I was saying the wrong thing. And, if my own limited instincts weren’t enough, the sound of Dirk’s voice, fishwifing at me, certainly clued me in.

  “What?”

  I suppose I should have guessed he’d be a bit disappointed.

  “I’m sure you must be a bit disappointed, but—”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” he said.

  I recalled Dirk being cruel to Lise in his first e-mail to her, but in all my dealings with him, he’d only ever been kind, charming, and supportive. I’d have never guessed he could turn such a derisive tone on me.

  “Listen, Diana, I don’t have time for this kind of shit right now. Canapés are awaiting, you know? So, here’s what you’re going to do: you’re going to write a memoir.”

  “What?” Now it was my turn to be shocked. “I’m not a writer! I can’t write a memoir!”

  “Course you can. Easiest thing in the world. You just write down a few true things, and then make up a bunch of stuff. Everyone does it.”

  “I’m not everyone!”

  “No? You could have fooled me. And I’m not playing around here.”

  “But what would I write about? There’s nothing in my life that people would be even remotely interested in.”

  “Oh, no? You’re a classic success story. You could call it Fat Girl Thin. People love to read about lardos losing a ton of weight. We’d rake in a fortune.”

  There weren’t enough words to express the horror I felt at what he was suggesting I do, so I let it go with one word: “No.”

  “I wouldn’t say no so quickly if I were you.”

  “No?”

  “No. Do you have any idea how popular weight-loss accounts are? And you, you’re gorgeous. Even when you were a total cow, you were gorgeous. If you start writing now, you’ll be done by the time you’re thin enough to make the story really worth selling. On the cover of Fat Girl Thin, we’ll put a copy of that old picture of you as a fattie Artemis has in her flat, only we’ll crop her out of it of course, and on the back we’ll do a picture of the new slim and elegant you you’ll soon be. Everyone will find it inspirational. They’ll tell themselves, ‘If she can do it, and she looked so much worse than I do…’ We’ll both make a fortune! Now if you’ll just stop and think…”

  But I didn’t stop and think, at least not on Dirk’s behalf. Instead I shouted at him, “What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy? I would never write a book like that!”

  And then I heard a sound I never expected to hear: laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “You,” he said between gasps. “Can’t you tell when someone’s having you on?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I never asked you to get your friends to write books—that was all your idea!”

  “Then you weren’t really mad before?”

  “Course not. I was joking.” He laughed some more. “And I certainly never expected you’d take me seriously about writing a memoir. Fat Girl Thin!” Then: “Although…”

  For the first time, I could hear the scorn he had for me in his voice.

  “Dirk, what have you been doing with me all these months?”

  “Playing, of course. Haven’t you?”

  I thought about what he’d said that night at Artemis’s party, the first time I’d met him, when I said I would have thought he’d have the decency to remember the names of the people whose lives he destroyed, and he replied, “But there are so many, and one loses track.”

  When I hung up the phone, he was still laughing.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, stunned. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. Dirk had been toying with me all along. But how was that possible? How could I have missed that? I’d trusted him, told him every intimate detail of my life. And for what?

  Even though I had the thermostat in the house set on low heat against the early October coolness of the mornings, I felt a chill I couldn’t shake. I felt so empty, naked. Most of all, I felt alone.

  I reached for the phone, set it back on the hook before picking it up again, preparing to dial. I needed to talk to someone, anyone. I couldn’t confess the shame of what Dirk had done to me, but I needed to talk to someone, anyone, even if it was just about the weather.r />
  But who was there for me to call?

  Lise? Sylvia? Cindy?

  They wouldn’t want to hear from me, not after the hurtful way I’d behaved the night before. Would any of them ever want to speak to me again?

  I thought back to when I’d first got the idea to get a group of women together and back to our first meeting. I’d had such high hopes. I would replace my dysfunctional relationship with my real sister, Artemis, for functional relationships with three women I shared no blood with. As the months went on, I felt us growing closer. Then, when we were in Georgia, I’d sensed that closeness start to unravel because Lise and I could no longer get along, we were too busy competing over Dirk. Fucking Dirk. And now? Now it seemed to me that the whole thing had unraveled completely. Or maybe I was wrong. Maybe there was still a group of close women here, but they numbered three while I stood apart.

  My whole world was gone. Dan, Lise, Sylvia, and Cindy, and Dirk, who, as it turned out, had never been a real part of that world at all. I was more alone than I could ever remember feeling in my life. How had I gotten here? More importantly, how would I ever find the road back?

  Not wanting to dwell on those painful thoughts any longer, I went to do what had been a discouraging act for me for most of my life but what was now the only reassuring act I had left: I weighed myself.

  I stared down at the numbers between my feet, tears blurring my eyes. Then I jumped off the scale and hauled it outside for the trash collector to take away.

  Who bloody well cared what I weighed anymore?

  Lise

  “Hello?”

  “I’m sure I’m the last person you want to hear from right now, but I had to call you.”

  “No, Diana, you’re not the last person I want to hear from,” I said, and meant it. If she were Sara, calling to say she’d just been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, she’d have been the last person I’d want to hear from. Sibling rivalry had been riding high in the Barrett family of late. Sara had been banging up houses right and left with Habitat for Humanity down in the Dominican Republic, while I had yet to sell my book. “Now, then, maybe if I were Sylvia or Cindy you’d be the last person I’d want to hear from.”