by Sonya Lalli
Oh good lord. I wasn’t prepared for this. I wiped my hands on a tea towel as she fanned her way toward me and, from across the counter, double kissed my cheeks.
“Great, thank you. What a surprise . . .” I tried to catch Natasha’s eye, but she was thumbing her way through a cookbook. What was her mother-in-law doing here? I thought the Hartshornes traveled most of the time and stayed in town only a few nights here and there, coming and going from their family home in Bethesda. Wasn’t that the whole reason Natasha and Mark had agreed to live here in the first place?
“I didn’t realize you were in town . . .” I stammered. “Nice to see—”
“Of course we’re here! We’ve been back a month now. Traveling really takes it out of you. First Hong Kong for business, and then I had to practically force Mr. H to take a week off with me in Ceylon—sorry, no, Sri Lanka . . .”
The Hartshornes had been living with Mark and Natasha for a whole month? Correction. Mark and Natasha had been living with the Hartshornes. If I wasn’t so upset with Natasha, I’d definitely have teased her.
“Then to London,” Mrs. Hartshorne said, continuing her monologue. “Brussels for a few weeks—more business, of course, although I had a chance to catch up with friends from boarding school. What drama, I tell you. Then Paris. It was supposed to be a full month there, but we didn’t last five days.”
I eyed Natasha, but her eyes were down on her phone.
“Of course, spring can be dreadful anywhere, even Paris. We thought we’d might as well be at home . . . Especially now that there’s a bun in the oven!”
I continued chopping, and Mrs. H continued talking. And talking. After a monologue about how well she spoke French, even though Parisians claimed not to understand her, her words seemed to trail off.
Had Mrs. H finally stopped talking? I glanced up to confirm my suspicion, and indeed, she had.
“Paris,” I said finally. I was struggling to form words; maybe I could have borrowed some from Mrs. Hartshorne. “I’d love to go.”
She scrunched her nose, reaching for a bottle of Perrier. Here we go again.
“Weather. Shit. People. Shit. Even the service at the Hôtel de Crillon was shit.” She unscrewed the bottle and daintily took a sip from it. “I told Mr. H, I’m leaving. Stay if you must, but I’m leaving.”
“Mark and I stayed at the Hôtel de Crillon when we went last fall,” Natasha said, nodding. “They denied us a late checkout. Can you imagine?”
Can I imagine? I barely recognized the tone in Natasha’s voice.
“We went to that restaurant you recommended, though,” Natasha continued. “I tried the coq au vin—”
“No, no. You should have had the lamb. Their coq au vin is entirely ordinary. Trust the French to ruin French cuisine,” she said, cutting Natasha off. “Girls, that is a lot of garlic. What are you making?”
“Quesadillas,” Natasha said.
“Quesadillas? They have quite a bit of dairy, I dare say.” Mrs. Hartshorne tapped her cheeks with the pads of her fingers. “Dairy makes us puffy, girls. Haven’t you heard?”
I wondered if it had crossed her mind that the puffiness was from all the Botox.
Mrs. Hartshorne axed the quesadillas and overtook the kitchen. She instructed me to leave the dishes we’d already dirtied for their housekeeper, Pam, and started afresh on vegan tofu, broccoli, and brown rice bowls, which ended up tasting as bland as our conversation during meal prep.
It was a warm spring night, so we took our bowls out to the terrace, and I picked at the food while Mrs. Hartshorne and Natasha started talking about a charity gala they were both attending that weekend, and what they were wearing and who was going to be there. I tried to think of something to say, but I didn’t know how to contribute.
My phone buzzed in my back pocket, and I was grateful for the interlude. I thought it would be Becket, maybe even Jesse. Surprisingly, it was Ainsley.
What are you up to this evening?
I hesitated, wondering how to respond. I hadn’t really talked to her since she called me out for having lunch with Jesse. Both of us were in meetings most of the afternoon, and when we had crossed paths in the office, it had been downright awkward.
I’m having dinner with my sister and her mother-in-law. You?
My text wasn’t exactly friendly, but it was the truth, and polite. A minute later, Ainsley replied.
I’m making a mess. If I’m not in tomorrow, alert the authorities. DEATH BY LASAGNA!
I smiled.
Death by lasagna?
She replied a beat later.
I thought I was making 4 servings . . . ended up with 4 trays! I don’t know how to read a #$%&* recipe. As you can tell Nikesh usually cooks.
I laughed out loud but then stopped when I remembered Natasha and Mrs. Hartshorne were sitting next to me. They had moved on from the fundraiser.
“It’s quite . . . common, isn’t it?” Mrs. H asked.
“It is.” Natasha nodded. “But the other ideas I’ve seen online are just so . . . tacky.”
“Shame. You wouldn’t want to be ordinary, now would you? But I suppose there’s something to be said for tradition . . .”
Natasha brought a spoonful of rice to her lips. “I suppose we’ll just have to make do.”
“What are we talking about?” I asked, feigning interest.
“The gender reveal party,” Natasha said. “We’ve settled on a cake for the reveal, but if you think of a more original way to do it, let me know.”
I didn’t respond. She wouldn’t talk about the party with her own mother, but Natasha was including Mrs. Hartshorne?
“I picked up this fabulous little cake book in New York.” Mrs. Hartshorne raised her eyebrow and practically shimmied out of her chair. “You know me and my books.” She slid open the patio door. “I’m so glad we’re doing this together, girls. I’m happy to help. I know you girls grew up . . . differently.”
My mouth gaped open as I watched her disappear inside.
Differently?
I looked over at Natasha. She was playing with a piece of broccoli in her bowl and looked up when she caught me staring.
“What?”
“Did she really just say that to you?”
“What are you talking about?”
I guffawed. “She said we grew up ‘differently.’ What the hell does that mean?”
“Don’t be so sensitive.” Natasha rolled her eyes, stretching her arms up and back over her head. “You know exactly what she means. Mom and Dad didn’t exactly prepare us for the real world. I’m learning a lot from Mrs. H.”
Like how to eat dairy-free food and attend fancy parties? How to speak like a pretentious jerk?
“I know you helped me out a lot with the wedding, but she did, too. She made it beautiful, elegant. It was exactly what I wanted.” Natasha scowled. “Mom and Dad’s idea of a wedding would have been, I don’t know, streamers and confetti in the basement of the gurdwara, with an old guy beating a dhol.”
I looked down at my hands, shaking. “Why couldn’t you just let Mom host your gender reveal party?” I didn’t mean for my voice to sound angry, but it did. I was angry.
“I already told you—”
“She’s excited for you. She wants to feel involved, and you didn’t even have the decency to tell her the date before sending out the Evite?” I took another deep breath, trying not to raise my voice. “If you’re not going to let her host it, at least let her help pick out the cake.” I lowered my voice, glancing behind me. “The wedding was all about what the Hartshornes wanted—”
“Of course it was. They paid for it!”
“That’s not the point—”
“This is really rich coming from you, Serena.” Natasha glared at me, leaning forward on the table. “Suddenly, you care about what
Mom and Dad think? You’re never even there! I go home to visit all the time—”
“To visit or to put your feet up so Mom can serve you roti?” I snapped.
“Serena,” Natasha said, her words biting, “I go home to spend time with them. Something you would know nothing about—”
“Everything all right, girls?”
We both turned to look. Mrs. Hartshorne was back. I swallowed hard, the bile rising in my throat as I watched her display her fucking cake book on the table.
I hated her, and in that moment, I hated Natasha, too. She was a selfish brat. Had she always been, and had I just enabled her? I thought back to every sweet moment between us, every thoughtful gesture. Like how she’d noticed me flirting with Becket at the reception and invited him to the after-party. Had she really cared, or did she just not want to have to worry about her big, single sister putting a damper on her wedding night?
She’d wanted me involved in her wedding, sure. But I didn’t give the toast. She’d only asked me for help with all the unglamorous organization tasks nobody else wanted, to MC the wedding because she knew I could fend off the Uncle Singhs from the microphone. And she’d moved into my spare room and lived there for years, but was it to actually live with me? Or had she just wanted cheap rent, an escape from our parents, and later, a crash pad on the nights she didn’t stay over at Mark’s?
Even tonight. She’d wanted to make quesadillas. Did she even know they were my favorite? I pressed my hand over my mouth, hard, when it occurred to me that she didn’t.
Quesadillas were Natasha’s favorite, too.
Mrs. Hartshorne droned on and on about the pros and cons of the traditional layer cake, the naked cake, fruit-based cakes, and as I sat there, all the guilt, sadness, and confusion I’d felt about my relationship with Natasha just sort of faded away.
Natasha and I were never really best friends. And even if we were, I realized that I didn’t want to be anymore.
And maybe my friendships with other women hadn’t faded because they chose marriage and motherhood. Although it was likely a factor, it couldn’t have been the only reason. It took two people to let a friendship go. And even though Natasha would always be my sister, I was ready to move on from this one, too.
I pulled out my phone and was suddenly desperate to be away from Mrs. Hartshorne’s castle of dairy-free cakes and tofu bowls, hungry for something more substantial.
Four whole trays of lasagna, huh? Do you have enough to feed a friendly neighbor?
My heart raced as I watched the message go from sent to delivered to read.
Oh god yes! You’re not a vegetarian, are you? I will pay you to come over and help me eat this.
“Unfortunately, duty calls,” I lied. “I have to run back to the office.”
“What a shame . . .” Mrs. Hartshorne lifted her hand from the cake book, which she’d been flipping through, and pressed her hand against her chest. She looked about as heartbroken as she did the previous summer when, during a family dinner, she’d found out her aunt had died. “You work so hard, Serena.”
“Well, I love my job.”
“Good for you.”
Good that I loved my job, or that I was one of those ordinary people who actually needed one?
“Anyway, thank you for dinner. It was very . . . tasty.” I smiled at Mrs. Hartshorne and then Natasha, but she wouldn’t look me in the eye. “I had a nice time.”
“Always lovely to have you, dear. Come anytime. Don’t I say that, Natasha? Invite your sister. Make her bring her boyfriend—”
“She never brings home her boyfriends.”
I stood up, forcing out a smile as I cleared the bowls. I was heartbroken, but it was just a fact now. The pain was gone. I think I’d already grieved.
“Leave the dishes,” I heard Natasha say. “Pam will get them.”
I stared at her, blinking.
“Pam,” Natasha repeated, reaching for her phone. “The housekeeper?”
* * *
Ainsley’s town house was warm and cozy. Friendly. MacKenzie was already in bed, and Ainsley said Nikesh was out in the garage working on his “brew.” She said it sarcastically but with so much love and affection I could tell she was proud of him. I felt slightly awkward for having invited myself over. At the same time, being over here felt totally natural.
“I’m sorry,” I said suddenly. We had taken our plates of lasagna to the couch, and I set mine down on the coffee table. “It got pretty weird at work today.”
“It was my fault. I overstepped. Your relationships are your business.”
“But maybe you’re right.” I shrugged. “Maybe I should tell Becket I’ve been spending time with Jesse.”
She shrugged. “Did you feel guilty when you saw him today?”
Was our lunch of fried eggs and milkshakes only today? It felt like ages ago.
I shook my head. “Nothing’s going on between us. But the optics are bad whether I say something or not.”
“Optics. Ha!” She laughed. “You’re such an adman.”
“Oh, whatever. But you get it, right? Not telling Becket about Jesse makes it seem like I’m hiding something. But if I told him? It would just give rise to suspicion.”
“Well, I suppose if I was in Becket’s position, I’d want to know. And if you’re having a talk, you might as well make clear you’re not planning to have a fam—damn it! Sorry. I’m overstepping again.”
“You’re not. You’re being a good friend. And I guess . . . friends sometimes say things you don’t want to hear.” I laughed, lifting my feet up onto the couch. “Anyway, let’s change the subject. We’re both failing the Bechdel test right now.”
“Fuck the Bechdel test.” Ainsley rolled her eyes. “Sometimes, two women just need to sit and chat about dudes, and it doesn’t make us any less feminist, now does it?”
She smiled at me as she wiped a bit of tomato sauce from her cheek. We’d only known each other for a few months, but suddenly I couldn’t imagine a time when she wasn’t in my life. When I wouldn’t want her to be in my life.
“Ainsley,” I said, shyly. “I really like you.”
“Aw, shucks, girl. I’m married.”
“Shut up.” I laughed.
“Sorry.”
“You know what I mean,” I said. “I really like being friends with you, and I want to be . . .”
“Friendlier?”
“Yeah. I want to be like . . . Joey and Chandler on Friends.”
Ainsley nodded. “Oprah Winfrey and gal pal Gayle?”
“Kate Winslet and Leo.”
“I didn’t know they were friends,” she said.
“They are. Since the Titanic went down.”
Ainsley grinned, shoveling another bite of lasagna into her mouth. “So we’re taking this to the next level, huh? Should we go get our nails done together?”
“Girl,” I said, flipping my hair. “Let’s go to Vegas!”
“Girl,” she repeated. “I want to meet your parents.”
“Wow,” I said, laughing, kicking her with my feet. “Now you’re getting ahead of yourself.”
We went on like that for a while, and after the giggles had passed, I thanked her for letting me come over and told her all about my evening with Natasha and Mrs. Hartshorne. Quickly, I found myself telling Ainsley a lot of things. About my deteriorating relationship with my so-called best friend. My quest to find new friends, regain the social circle I’d had when I was younger. The book club disaster.
The sex club, too.
“I totally get it,” she said later, after she was done laughing at me. “It’s harder to make friends as an adult. When I go back home, I see my group of girlfriends, and it’s like nothing has changed, even though everything has changed. We’re thirty years older.”
I nodded, understanding exactly
what she meant. On the rare occasion I saw my school friends, we had a great time together. It was fun and wonderful; it’s just that those occasions didn’t happen very often.
“So when you have to start over,” Ainsley continued, “like I did when moving here, like you’re doing now in this stage of life, it’s hard. Because it’s hard to create a friendship from scratch, without history. It’s a lot of effort, and especially when you’re a grown-up with responsibilities who still wants to sleep seven hours a night, it’s hard to make time for that effort.”
Ainsley had articulated everything so clearly. I’d been searching out all these ways to meet new, like-minded people, but I couldn’t just expect a new friend to appear out of nowhere. It took work. It took effort. And whether it was motherhood, marriage, a demanding career, or something else entirely, there were a lot of other demands on our time.
“It is a lot of effort,” I said, after a moment had passed. “But I reckon you’re worth it.”
“Girl,” Ainsley said, stuffing a pillow behind her head. “You know I’m worth it.”
The house was silent except for the white noise coming from the baby monitor by Ainsley’s feet and the occasional clang from the garage outside. We continued eating our lasagna, and its warmth spread from my stomach and into the rest of my body.
“Hey, Serena . . .” Ainsley said, a few minutes later.
“Yeah?”
“Can we circle back to the fact that your sister nicknamed her fetus Bean?”
18
Want to play Settlers of Catan?” I asked, unfolding myself from his arms. I twisted my upper body, turning back to face him on the couch. Becket’s eyes were half closed.
“Don’t you need at least three people for that one?”
I paused. “Scrabble, then?”
He laughed, and with his eyes still closed, he lifted his arms up, flailing them around like a zombie until they found my waist, and he pulled me back down flat on the couch.
