The Girls Trip

Before

“IS THIS THING ON?” Ash asks, her face popping up on-screen.

“It’s always on, Ash,” Carolina says patiently.

“Hi, Ash,” Hope says from the screen. The stunning backdrop behind her—blue pool, bright sky, waving palm trees—isn’t fake. It’s her home in Santa Monica.

“Hope!” Ash says. “You came! I thought you said you might not be able to make it!” Her brown eyes widen in delight and she scoots closer to her computer.

She’s forgotten to take off her work apron, the sturdy blue canvas one that ties around her neck.

Summer freckles scatter across her nose, and there is a dab of sunscreen near her jawline that hasn’t been rubbed in all the way.

“I’m here,” Hope confirms. “It was my turn to choose the book, so I figured I’d better show up.

” She’s makeup-free, her long brown hair in a topknot, and even though they’ve all been friends for almost two years now, the other two still can’t quite believe that they are friends with Hope Hanover.

Hope’s a rich and famous actress who is also still one of them—three friends who met under unlikely circumstances and who now text and talk constantly and get together once a month online for their book club.

“I couldn’t put it down,” Carolina rakes a hand through her chin-length dark hair. “I read it in a day and a half.”

“What about you, Ash?” Hope asks, though Ash always likes the book, because Ash finds the good in everything.

Ash bites her lip. “I didn’t read it.” The other two gasp, because Ash always reads the book.

“This month has been bananas,” Ash says.

“What’s been going on?” Hope asks. “I know wedding season is coming up, but is it more than that?” Ash runs her own flower business, which has become more consuming and successful than she’d ever anticipated. She tells the others all the time that it’s gotten out of hand.

“Basically,” Ash says. “It’s not interesting. Let’s talk about the book. Don’t worry about spoiling it for me. And I can’t wait to hear the latest in your lives.”

Carolina’s giant black Lab, Howie, has popped up into the frame and stares at them all cheerfully, wagging his tail. She leans down to scratch him behind the ears. “The twist was great. I didn’t see it coming.”

“Did you guess the murderer?” Hope asks.

“I didn’t!” Caro says, and Ash and Hope sit back in surprise. Caro always guesses the murderer.

“Seriously, say whatever you want about the book,” Ash says. “I won’t listen. Even if I do, I’ll forget. My brain is mush lately.”

“We can talk more about the book later, when you’ve read it,” Hope says. “I have to admit that I have something else I want to discuss with you guys.”

“This has to be a record.” Caro feigns a look at her watch. “We didn’t even spend five minutes on the book.”

“What I have to say has to do with books.” Hope’s voice holds an earnest, hopeful note. Behind her, a single white cloud has edged its way into the blue sky. “And the woman who brought us all together.”

“Agatha,” they say in unison. Two years ago, during the pandemic, an independent bookstore in San Francisco held a virtual book club for one of Agatha Christie’s novels (A Murder Is Announced).

Somehow, of all the people across the country during that time with nothing to do, Ash, Caro, and Hope were the only three who showed up.

It was early days of online events during the outbreak, so perhaps it was that other people weren’t yet used to virtual meetups.

Each of the three women had wanted to leave but hadn’t been able to bring themselves to do it, thinking it would be too rude to the host, a kind and frazzled bookseller.

And then, ten minutes in, when the host had vanished (her screen going inexplicably dark midsentence), Ash, Caro, and Hope had somehow remained connected.

They’d sat in stunned silence for a moment before starting to laugh.

A warm and funny conversation about Agatha Christie and life and the disaster that was the pandemic ensued.

At the end of the call, the three of them had decided to reread Christie’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and discuss it the next month.

They’d exchanged phone numbers, and during the month they texted about the book and their lives, and and and…

… here they are.

For the first couple of meetings, Hope hadn’t appeared live on-screen.

Instead, she’d used a photo that showed her with her back turned and her hair a different color.

And she’d continued to go by the fake name she’d entered for the meeting (Grace Hartwell—she always used virtue names when she didn’t want to reveal her true one).

Carolina and Ash had both felt (but hadn’t said out loud) that Hope’s voice seemed somewhat familiar, though neither of them could place where they might have heard it before.

It wasn’t until later that Hope had revealed her identity.

Ash and Caro had both tried to keep their cool, with varying degrees of success.

“Remember,” Hope says now, “how when Agatha Christie’s husband told her he was leaving her for his secretary, Agatha disappeared for eleven days, and no one could figure out where she was? Remember how even Scotland Yard couldn’t find her?”

“Of course we do,” Carolina says. “We talk about it literally all the time.”

“And about how nice it would be to disappear from our lives for a minute,” Ash says dreamily.

“Because work is stressful,” Carolina says.

“And the people in our lives can be a lot,” Ash says.

“I love how she got bad news and got the hell out of there.” Hope’s tone is longing. “Can you imagine anyone—let alone anyone famous—being able to do that in this day and age?”

“Oh, Hope,” Ash says. “I bet you want to get away.”

“I do.” Hope leans forward, her gorgeous green eyes wide.

Ash and Caro lean in, too. Hope Hanover can pull in whoever she wants, whenever she wants.

It’s to her credit that she doesn’t wield this power as often as she could.

“And that’s what I want to talk to both of you about. I think it’s time we met in person.”

“Yes,” Ash and Caro answer in unison, because the three of them have been saying this for ages now.

“I mean for real,” Hope says. “Let’s do it this time. My movie got canceled. I have three months with no filming.”

“Your movie got canceled?” Ash asks. “Are you okay? Is that okay?”

“Honestly, it’s amazing.” Hope folds her arms and sits back, a beatific expression on her face.

“I said yes to it because it’s total Oscar bait, but it would have been so grim.

I would have had to walk through endless mud wearing a period costume.

Maybe while having my actual period. And everyone knows the guy they cast as a lead is an absolute narcissist.”

“Really?” Ash is momentarily diverted. “Aidan Stone? I thought he was a nice guy.”

“Oh no,” Hope says. “Total jerk.”

But even Ash doesn’t linger long on Aidan Stone, because a thrill is running through her at the thought of the three of them finally meeting in person. This might really happen. If Hope, who is actually famous, can come, then what excuses do the rest of them really have?

“I am so, so serious about this,” Hope says. “I’ll pay.”

“We’re not going to let you do that,” says Carolina.

“Absolutely not,” Ash agrees.

But Hope’s still going. “And another thing. I think we should disappear.”

Ash and Carolina look at her, waiting.

“Like Agatha did,” Hope says. “We won’t tell anyone where we’re going. We’ll just go.”

“Hope,” Ash says, in a tone of great severity. “Have you become embroiled in a scandal? Is that what this is about? Are you trying to lie low while something blows over?”

“No scandal.” Hope smiles at them. “Can you imagine it, though?”

“Being in a scandal?” Ash says wistfully. “I mean, maybe.”

“Not that.” And now it’s Hope’s turn to sound wistful. “Disappearing from our lives for a while?”

“I can’t.” Ash is rueful.

“None of us can,” Caro says, but there’s something in her voice that sounds like she’s opening the door to the possibility.

There’s a silence. Could they?

“Every single one of us deserves a break,” Hope says. “We’ve all had the world pulled out from under us the past few years.”

This is inarguable. There was the pandemic, of course.

The way things have been going in the world, in general, and for them, specifically.

Ash is juggling her business and her family.

Caro has been swamped at work for years.

Hope is an actress in her thirties in the most ageist career in the world.

And these are only the things they’ve told each other about.

“We won’t completely disappear,” Hope says. “We’ll tell our people—families, work, whatever—that we’re going on a trip. But we don’t have to tell them where we’re going. We clear our calendars and get the hell out.”

“Do we tell them where we were when we get back?” Caro asks.

“If we want,” Hope says. “I don’t see why not.”

“If we do it,” Ash asks tentatively, “when would we go?”

“How about next week?” Hope asks.

Ash blinks. Caro folds her arms across her chest.

“We can’t—” Ash begins.

“Let’s try,” Hope says. “Maybe doing this kind of last-minute is how we actually get it done. Every time we’ve tried to plan something in advance, it’s always fallen through.

” She’s right. The first time, Ash’s youngest daughter was rushed to the hospital for an appendectomy the day before they were set to meet up in LA.

Another time, Hope had to cancel at the last minute because of work.

A third time, Caro had to go and take care of her father, who’s been struggling with Alzheimer’s.

“We might as well discuss it,” Ash says, almost in a whisper.

“Might as well,” Caro agrees.

Later, they can’t remember who or what tipped the balance. They sorted it all out, thought about the ways they could, hypothetically, move heaven and earth, and they realized that they could manage a few days in June. They would walk away. They would vanish.

Later, the ones who were left asked the same thing over and over again—who decided?

All of us, they had to agree.

It was all of us.