Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [49]
“That’s the understatement of the decade,” April says, going on to give me a verbatim account of their exchange. How Valerie had refused the basket, telling Romy to use it for her next party. “She was so snide,” April says. “A complete bitch.”
“That’s unfortunate,” I say, choosing my words carefully and realizing that this might be the hallmark of a genuine friendship: how freely you speak.
“Yeah. And the more I think about it, the more I think it’s really pretty sad. I feel sorry for her.”
“You mean what happened to her little boy?” I ask purposefully, thinking that this is the understatement of the decade.
“Well, yes, there’s that. And the fact that she clearly has no friends.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“Well, for one, how could she have friends with such a bad attitude? And for another, why else would she be sitting in the waiting room alone? I mean—can you imagine if it were one of our children in this situation? We’d be surrounded by loved ones.”
I start to remind April of my initial premise—that perhaps Valerie wants to be alone—but she cuts me off and says, “She just strikes me as one of those bitter single women who hates the world. I mean, wouldn’t you think she’d be grateful? At least for Charlie’s sake? Our children are in the same class!”
“I guess so,” I say.
“So that’s that,” April says. “We officially give up. She’s on her own.”
“She might still come around,” I say.
“Well, she’ll have to ‘come around’ on her own. We’re done.”
“Understandable,” I say.
“Yeah . . . Oh—and we ran into your sweet husband on our way out.”
I stop in my tracks, praying that he wasn’t abrupt or chilly with them. “Oh?” I say. “Did he know why . . . you were there?”
“Probably,” she says. “But we didn’t discuss it . . . I didn’t want to put him in an awkward situation . . . So we just chitchatted. Talked about Longmere. And Romy made him the most generous offer to write Ruby a letter of recommendation. Told Nick she would be honored to do it. With a letter from a board member, you’re a virtual shoo-in.”
“Wow. That’s really nice,” I say.
“And I swear I didn’t raise the subject with her—it was all her idea. Isn’t she the best!”
“Yes,” I say, feeling sickened by my two-facedness. “The best.”
***
Four errands in the rain later, I return home to a disheartening domestic scene. Dirty dishes and peanut butter and jelly remnants are strewn all over the kitchen, and our family room is an explosion of dolls, puzzle pieces, and miscellaneous plastic parts. Ruby and Frank sit comatose, inches in front of the television, watching cartoons, and not the wholesome variety, but the kind rampant with lasershooting and sexism—men saving the day and helpless women with hourglass figures. There is a smear of grape jelly across Frank’s cheek, dangerously close to the arm of a taupe chair I knew I should have ordered in a darker shade, and Ruby is sporting a terry-cloth beach cover-up, despite the forty-degree, rainy day.
Meanwhile, our usual babysitter, Carolyn, a twenty-four-year-old Jessica Simpson look-alike, double Ds and all, is reclined on the couch, filing her nails and laughing into her iPhone. As I listen to her brainstorm nightclub venues for a friend’s birthday party, I marvel at her seeming inability to actually work during her measly ten hours a week in our home (as opposed to socialize, groom, snack, and obsessively e-mail and tweet) and feel a familiar brand of fury rising in my chest—an emotion I experience all too often since becoming a mother. It occurs to me to take my usual path of least resistance, nonchalantly head upstairs, pretending nothing is wrong, before speed-dialing Cate or Rachel with my standard Carolyn complaints.
But after my conversation with Nick last night, and the one with April earlier, I am in no mood to disguise my true feelings. Instead, I walk briskly past Carolyn and begin chucking toys into a wicker basket in the corner of the room. Clearly startled by my arrival, Carolyn hurries off her call, stows her nail file in the back pocket of her tight, skinny jeans, and