Читать книгу Every Little Thing - Pamela Klaffke - Страница 13

I’m grateful for the two drinks we had before coming back to Edgar’s ranch. Candice and Amanda are insufferable and tedious and I’ve been abandoned by Aaron: he’s outside somewhere with Edgar and Joseph, at the stables, petting horses, being one of the guys. I’m stuck with The Ladies in the kitchen with its faux weather-beaten woodwork, gathered around the island that sits in the middle of the room, vintage-style pots with copper bottoms dangling above us. The only thing keeping me from reaching up and grabbing one of the pots with which to knock myself unconscious is the bottle of vodka between us—and that’s rapidly disappearing. I thought this weekend was supposed to be fun. I want to be numb.

The Ladies have finally exhausted their discussion of Bay Area private preschools and have moved on to hair and fashion talk. I have, so far, learned that “Grace” and “Gail” were telling Candice about the most fabulous shoe shop in Hayes Valley. I learn that it’s a little bohemian, but they are the exclusive source in Northern California for some French brands I can’t remember, or pronounce. Really? one asks. Really, the other responds. Their voices are quiet—hushed. I want to laugh. This is the way these people talk. I roll my eyes and the reflection of the sun hitting the pans burns my pupils. When I look away, everywhere I turn I see big black spots. I hope Aaron gets back soon.

I eat my way around the platter of hors d’oeuvres in a spiral pattern and do my best to drown out the endless talk of shoes and handbags and hair, but the more I try, the louder The Ladies’ voices seem to get. Their Really? Really tones are no longer hushed. Instead of being numb and deaf—and potentially blind if I keep staring at the sun’s ref lection in the copper pots—I have developed some kind of hyperhearing abilities and every word that comes out of The Ladies’ mouths sounds like a scream.

Their screaming goes on for what seems like forever, but is eventually silenced with one word: Janet.

They’re talking about clothes, expensive clothes I can’t afford and probably wouldn’t want even if I could. This designer and that one, the pros and cons of navy blue, how high a dress hemline can climb before becoming vulgar. They are such ridiculous, stupid women. And then: Janet—my Janet.

“You have to see the dress she whipped up for me for the Grossman benefit,” Candice says.

Janet does not whip things up.

“Lally is always using her—gorgeous clothes,” Amanda says. What kind of a name is Lally? I bite my tongue and suck back more vodka. And by the way, Ladies, this Lally person doesn’t use Janet. She’s not a slave or a dish towel.

“I couldn’t make it to her show last night, but I have an appointment next week at her studio—you should come. I’m sure she won’t mind,” says Candice.

Janet may very well mind. These people have no respect for anyone.

Amanda nods. “That would be fabulous—it’s always so much better to meet directly with the designer than buying off the rack.”

“Absolutely—it’s worth every extra penny,” says Candice.

“Isn’t she involved with Victor Durrell?”

“Oh, yes—for a while now. I hear it’s rather serious.”

“It is,” I say. Both women stare at me.

“Really?” asks Candice.

“Really,” I say.

“Really? Hmm,” says Amanda.

It’s the really game all over again and this time they’ve got me as an unwitting player. “She’s my best friend.” There’s a pause and more looks. I feel another really coming on.

“Really?” Candice beats Amanda to it.

“Since we were seven,” I say. “You seem surprised.”

More looks and awkward silence before Candice finally speaks. “You just seem very different from Janet.”

“Really?” It’s my turn to choose the game.

“Candice doesn’t mean that in a negative way, Mason.”

“Really?”

“No, no, of course not,” Candice says. I think I’ve shaken The Ladies.

“I’ll have to tell Janet we’ve met,” I say. The Ladies look at each other and this time it’s an easy read: panic.

“Oh, indeed, be sure to give her my best,” Candice says. Her voice is shallow and fast.

“I certainly will,” I say. “And I’ll be sure to let her know how much you appreciate her whipping things up for you.”

The Ladies laugh nervously. “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” says Amanda.

“Oh, but I will.” They both shudder but neither correct me. “I’m sure she’ll enjoy the feedback.” How Janet can deal with these people every day is beyond me. They may have money and be her clients, but my God, is it worth it?

“Oh, look!” Amanda says as she tilts her head toward the giant kitchen window with the view of rolling hills and the appearance of three men and their horses riding toward the stable.

“The boys are back!” Candice claps her hands.

“They’re probably starved,” Amanda says.

“I’ll call Kate,” Candice says, pulling a glittery pink phone from the pocket of her slim khaki pants. “We should get some snacks going.” Candice looks at her gold watch and shakes her head. “She should have been here by now to start with the dinner prep.”

Kate cooks and cleans and is a general slave to Candice. It’s hard to watch, especially because Kate is all smiles and so genuine and friendly as she serves us home-baked multigrain crackers with goat cheese and orange-fig jelly. I want to take her into a corner and tell her it doesn’t have to be like this, that it isn’t right and she doesn’t have to put up with abuse from anyone, no matter how rich. She could get another job. I’d maybe even be willing to help her escape.

My thoughts of freeing the slave are interrupted by Joseph of Amanda-and-Joseph. He’s standing over me, reaching his hand out. I’m unsure whether to shake it or hold it or if he’s asking me to dance to the terrible pop-country music Candice asked Kate to put on. I tentatively reach up. He places his other hand atop mine and I’m sandwiched in a mysterious handhold. Jesus, these people had better not be swingers. There is no way I am fucking this guy.

“I just wanted to express my condolences—your mother will be missed by many.”

Oh. “Thanks, Joe.”

He smiles, almost laughs. At least he has a sense of humor. “Indeed, I always enjoyed her column.”

“Really?”

“Indeed, Amanda and I often remarked at how amusing and witty she was—such an outrageous character.”

Amanda used to read my mother’s column? I’ll bet she filled Candice in on all the gruesome details if she didn’t have them already. I suppose they must know all about me: Britt Castleman’s disappointment of a daughter. No wonder they’ve been so awful. They think I’m some sort of loser, a joke. I’m a thirty-four-year-old woman who once racked up a three-thousand-dollar bill on the emergency credit card paid by her mother, having a torrid month-long relationship on a virtual reality website with a character called “Rage,” who turned out to be two teenage girls having a laugh.

“Thanks.” I force myself to smile at Joseph and he releases my hand. Then I stand up and walk out of the room without a word.