Chapter 1 #2
Sadie pouted. “A gold foil pattern would complement those gray eyes of yours.”
“All I want,” Anne said firmly, “are four perfectly arranged bouquets, my new Kim Seybert tablecloth, and Nobu catering. No fuss.”
“Fine. I’m nothing if not accommodating. Let’s compromise. One goat milk soap in your guest bathroom, and I’ll even put it on a kicky little zircon-encrusted tungsten stand I rescued from Mitzi Gaynor’s estate sale.”
Despite herself, Anne smiled. Sadie’s design tastes were aesthetically aggressive—her home was a Jackson Pollock drip painting come to life—but her eye, despite its occasional myopia, could find real potential in the strangest combinations.
“All right, go ahead. Get the soap; tungsten stand contingent upon inspection.”
The concession earned a delighted grin from Sadie that lit up her eyes. Without pushing her luck further, she bolted to retrieve the soap.
She’s really a very pretty woman, Anne thought, I should tell her that at some point. For some reason, her stomach fluttered.
Admittedly, Sadie wasn’t objectively beautiful—well, not according to the rigid and narrow standards Anne had always applied to herself.
Sadie’s nose was a tiny bit crooked, and her lips a bit too plush for the rest of her face.
Her voluptuous body had soft, extravagant curves that reminded Anne of the Pacific Coast Highway curling around the cliffs of Big Sur.
And Sadie refused to do anything about the tiny lines on her face besides inconsistent applications of drugstore moisturizer, even though she could easily afford cosmetic procedures.
Remarkably, she didn’t seem self-conscious at all about any of it. In all the time they’d known each other, Anne had never heard Sadie make a single negative comment about her own appearance. It was—well, honestly, it made Anne a little jealous.
In stark contrast to Sadie, Anne had molded, pinched, and smoothed herself into a disciplined physique, one that looked fifteen years younger than her actual age.
Nature had given her an assist—she knew she was attractive; men had always admired her—but keeping up a certain standard took far more effort than relying on good genes.
She owed the ripe-wheat color of her hair to Christophe in Beverly Hills, her smooth face to Botox, and her thin, whittled frame to a diet plan she’d color-coded, labeled, and laminated.
No, Sadie looked nothing like Anne, or any of the women Anne had surrounded herself with before the divorce. But nevertheless, there was something unexpectedly appealing about the ways Sadie refused to stay within margins.
While Sadie busied herself at the crafts display, Anne made her way to the shop’s front, her target the new florist Ryan had just hired: a girl who looked barely old enough to be out of college. That eyebrow piercing and forearm tattoo didn’t exactly inspire confidence either.
But just before she stepped up to the counter, a woman cut in front of her without so much as a glance in Anne’s direction, brushing so close, Anne could smell her vanilla-scented perfume.
“I beg your pardon,” Anne said pointedly.
No response whatsoever from the woman, who was—Anne realized with a shock—someone she knew.
Or, more accurately, someone she’d known once upon a time: Brenda Hughes-Foster, the wife of a once-acclaimed, now struggling film editor represented by James’s agency.
Clearly, Brenda hadn’t noticed or recognized her.
Back when they’d volunteered together for the LA Opera League, Anne had called Brenda a friend, but that “friendship” had been all cooed pleasantries and Brenda’s failure to hide her envy.
Well, Brenda was no longer envious of Anne.
Like nearly all the others in their circle, after the divorce, she’d dropped Anne like the Times Square ball.
Brenda was a few years younger than Anne, and just as thin.
Today, her frosted hair was pulled back into a bun nearly as tight as the skin on her face, and Anne’s practiced eyes recognized that burgundy fil coupé dress as an obvious Oscar de la Renta knockoff.
Together with a garish Gucci bucket bag, the look signaled the gauche priority of loud labels over quiet quality.
Brenda had always confused style with advertisement.
“You know,” Brenda began, her back to Anne, “you really should be doing your job.”
The new florist’s eyes went wide. “Um,” she said, “what do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb, honey. You saw me come in. I know you did. I spent ten whole minutes of my valuable time strolling around this unorganized jungle looking for a suitable graduation bouquet, and you didn’t even try to help me. You’re lucky I don’t have time to ask for the owner.”
Sadie, joining Anne with moss soap in hand, made a scoffing sound.
“I don’t know why I expect better,” Brenda continued. “No one your age wants to work. You’re too busy whining about your pronouns or blaming your parents for all your problems.”
Anne suppressed a sigh. Brenda’s rants about These Kids Today—including her own children—had always been one of her favorite topics.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am.” The girl’s face flushed pomegranate red. “I’d be happy to help you out. What kind of arrangement are you interested in? We’ve got some beautiful options for commencement ceremonies.”
Before Brenda could respond, Sadie stepped up, shoulders squared, and placed the moss soap on the counter with a loud thunk.
“Look,” she said to Brenda, and her voice dripped with the sweetness that always presaged her righteous fury.
“Whatever she gets paid to work here isn’t nearly enough to put up with that kind of disrespect. ”
“Actually,” the girl volunteered, “my salary’s pretty generous. Benefits are good, too.”
But Sadie wasn’t done. “You push right past my friend without so much as a brief acknowledgment of her existence, you attack this poor kid’s entire generation—”
“Excuse me,” Brenda interrupted. Those cold blue eyes stapled themselves onto her new target. She still hadn’t bothered to look over in Anne’s direction. “Where do you get off telling me I’m being disrespectful? This is none of your business.”
“You made it my business when you decided to lift that leg and spray your entitlement all over this shop. That girl can’t tell you to go to hell because she needs this job, but I’ve got tenure, decent alimony, and all the time in the world to ruin your day.”
Anne suppressed an inconvenient grin. Sadie didn’t often turn on the righteousness in public like that, but she hated bullies more than just about anything. With the possible exception of unseasoned chicken.
Brenda’s smooth face shifted into white, hard marble. She straightened up, using every single inch of her cream Chanel slingbacks to loom over Sadie, and smiled coldly at her.
Anne knew exactly what that smile meant. After all, she’d honed it to a fine art herself over thirty years of marriage to James. It was a brandished weapon.
The chill from that smile settled in Anne’s chest, forming an icy knot.
“I think it’s nice,” Brenda said sweetly. “That you’re so brave.”
“There’s nothing brave at all about advocating for—”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I meant that you’re brave to not care”—Brenda’s gaze traveled slowly down Sadie, from her sleek bob to the feathered ruffles at the ankles of her red Balenciaga pants—“about your appearance.”
Sadie froze. “What?”
“I’d be much too self-conscious to leave the house like that.
” The cold smile widened. “But somehow, you don’t seem to mind.
Maybe you like the way that orange cashmere top looks like you pulled it from the Lorax’s Goodwill pile.
Maybe you don’t realize those amusing glasses draw everyone’s attention to your under-eye circles.
Or maybe it has to do with—well.” Her stare crawled over Sadie’s middle.
“You’re just a more substantial person than I am, aren’t you? ”
Oh, that absolute bitch.
Anne almost snapped back that high school insults didn’t pair well with menopause, then bit her tongue, thinking better of it.
Let Sadie counterattack first. She could more than handle herself against someone as silly and insignificant as Brenda Hughes-Foster, and, after all, Sadie had dibs on the prey.
But, to Anne’s surprise, as the seconds ticked by, Sadie didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at Brenda, those beautiful eyes huge behind her glasses. Pink spots bloomed on her cheeks. She looked—surprised? Was that it?
No. Sadie looked humiliated.
The knot of ice in Anne’s chest burst, replaced by red fury that rayed through every cell. Sadie—who’d never once voiced any insecurities about her body—Sadie was hurt. Badly.
Nobody hurt Sadie. Not while Anne Harris Lowell was around.
“Hello, Brenda,” she said softly. “My turn now.”
Finally, Brenda’s eyes widened in recognition. “Anne? My goodness. It’s you, isn’t it? Wow. It’s been years. What are you up to these days?” She laughed, a false, empty sound. “So sorry I didn’t see you there.”
“Oh, sweetie.” With very little effort, Anne could make an endearment sound exactly like an insult. “Funny. You couldn’t see me, but I can see right through you. Look at how incredibly transparent you are.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Brenda protested, but she was visibly flushed. “And I really don’t see how my honest observations are any of your concern. I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Understand this. When you chose to speak to my friend the way you just did, you chose to talk to me.”
Brenda, a coward, flinched.
“Whoever this is isn’t worth your energy, Anne,” Sadie said quietly. “Or mine. Let’s just order your flowers and leave, all right?”
Not tearing her gaze away from Brenda’s hard eyes, Anne moved to stand at Sadie’s side and, without knowing she was going to do it, put one arm around Sadie’s shoulders.
Sadie went rigid under Anne’s touch, clearly surprised by it, but she didn’t move away.
Barely registering Sadie’s reaction, Anne stood tall, mouth stiff with her resolve. This wasn’t Sadie’s fight anymore. Now Brenda belonged to Anne.
“Since you need me to spell this out for you,” she began, “let me do it clearly. You might be under the illusion that you’ve fooled everyone with your knockoff dress, that mismatched cut-price bag, and your fried-to-shit hair, but this scam you’re calling fashion might as well be a garbage can, given how trashy it is. ”
Now Brenda was turning red. “How dare y—”
“I know you, Brenda.” Anne cut through the protest like steel into butter.
“You’re not a person. Not in any way that actually counts.
No, I know exactly what you are. Your life’s a string of bitter disappointments you try to pass off as pearls.
Your son hates you. You think your daughter isn’t pretty.
Everyone knows your husband takes low-paying projects out of the country to get away from you.
And you’ve managed to convince yourself that just one more facelift, just one more, will make the arms on that ticking clock move backward.
Because you’ve finally realized, haven’t you, that this is it.
This is all you’ll ever have. This is all you are. ”
Next to Anne, Sadie made a low, startled sound.
Brenda took a sudden step backward, as though she’d been pushed.
“You’re not a person at all,” Anne repeated. “You’re a slaughterhouse. You shredded all your old hopes and left them to rot inside you.”
Brenda gasped.
“I haven’t thought about you in four years, you know that? Not once. You’re just that forgettable, Brenda. Just that easy to walk away from. But the real tragedy here is that you can’t walk away from yourself.”
“I—I,” Brenda stammered, “I have never been spoken to like— I…” She cast a helpless look at the cashier, who was staring wide-eyed at Anne and seemed in no mood to assist. “This is— I can’t—”
“Oh,” Sadie said, “you can.” She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder, in the direction of the shop’s door. “Don’t underestimate yourself. Just put one foot in front of the other, and make it quick. That should be easy, since you’re a less substantial person.”
Brenda spluttered another feeble protest, then snapped her mouth shut. Without another word, she spun around and nearly sprinted toward the exit.
“Wow.” Obvious admiration brightened the florist’s face. “That was brutal.”
“Thank you,” Anne said primly. “Natural talent.” Belatedly, she realized she was still holding onto Sadie and dropped her arm, stepping back quickly. Enough to see that her best friend still looked a little shaken. “Sadie, are you okay?”
“Yes. Yes, I am. I will be.”
It felt suddenly, enormously, vital to make something clear. “Brenda Hughes-Foster wouldn’t recognize style if it smacked her across the face. You have more fashion sense, class, and personality in that tiny little mole on your collarbone than she’s got in her entire body.”
“Anne—”
She wasn’t finished. “I’d like to see Brenda try to teach a creative writing class. Or give a, what was it you did, that Ted-X talk about making poetry accessible. Didn’t it get something like two hundred thousand views?”
“Anne,” Sadie repeated.
“And how dare she imply you’re the least bit unattractive, when her face is so tucked it looks like a trampoline? Your grin could power Los Angeles, and that woman can’t even—”
“Anne!”
“What?”
“You’re a marvel,” Sadie said simply. “That’s all I wanted to say. You’re incredible.”
For some reason, Anne blushed, a deep heat that started in her chest and burned quickly up her neck to her cheeks.
A lifetime of admiration from men hadn’t prepared her for praise from a middle-aged poet who had eyes the color of earth after rain.
She invented a small cough. “Well. You know, I think I might need a new manicure if I want to get Brenda’s self-esteem out from under my nails. ”
Sadie tucked her arm into Anne’s, patting it softly. It felt like gratitude.
Anne cleared her throat, then looked back at the florist. “We’d like to order four bouquets for this Sunday,” she began, and she warmed herself on that we, the way it linked the two of them so tightly that there was no room anymore for loneliness.