“It says here—Oh, hi, Anne—that I’m leaving Iris for this guy, whoever the fuck he is, and that I’ve decided I’m straight after all.” She bent to kiss Anne on the cheek, and then snagged a cookie. “Am I interrupting something interesting? You both look very serious.”
“No, not at all.” Anne smiled at her. “We were just talking, you know.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad you’re here, because I came to get Frances’s advice and you can chime in, too. I want to throw a surprise party for Iris, for her birthday, and I wondered what you thought.” She sat on the edge of the table, one of her signature traits. She would leap onto a counter, or sit on the floor cross-legged, or flip a chair around and straddle it, but it was only under duress that she’d sit straight on a regular chair in a regular way.
Frances was making her a cup of coffee. “At the house?”
“Maybe, what do you think?” Sara rubbed a hand over her short, curly blond hair, expensively cut and tousled to look as if she’d just gotten out of bed. She spent time on her appearance, it was her job, after all, and it took a lot of money and effort to look as if she didn’t.
“Why not, I think it would be fun. What kind of party? Formal eveningy, or daytime kidsy?”
Sara took the coffee Frances was holding out to her, and another cookie. “These are awesome cookies, low fat, right?” She grinned, and then answered Frances’s question. “I was thinking it might be fun if it seemed sort of impromptu at first and then gradually revealed itself as a planned thing.” The other two were frowning, so she clarified. “Imagine, if you will, a simple lunch with Frances, Michael, and the kids. They come over, bearing a birthday cake that Frances has deliciously baked, and I have made a plate of sandwiches and salady stuff. Trader Joe’s, nothing fancy, right? Happens all the time.” She grinned. “But then the doorbell rings and it’s Anne, Charlie, and their kids, and hey, who knew, THEY brought some food, too, and somehow I find another plate of sandwiches from somewhere, or maybe a veggie platter, who knows, and then the doorbell rings AGAIN and it’s Maggie and Melanie and they brought wine, and then . . . You get my drift? Eventually everyone would be there, and after a bit she’ll realize that it was all a plot and that way I don’t need to do an elaborate ruse to get her out of the house.” She looked thrilled with herself.
Frances nodded. “I think it sounds great. I’m in, for sure.”
Anne frowned. “But then we won’t have that great ‘Surprise!’ moment.”
Sara shook her head. “Iris hates being surprised like that. Hates it. This way I can spring something on her without worrying that she’ll have a coronary or react badly. It’s her birthday, after all.”
“Yeah,” added Frances dryly, looking at Anne with no expression. “Not everyone likes the feeling that people have been plotting behind their back.”
“Right!” Sara giggled. “And I can hide food at your houses, right?”
“Sure, it will be easy.”
“And I thought I’d have a bouncy house arrive in the middle, so the kids will be entertained.”
“Nice.”
“Yay! Good, then that’s settled. Now all I have to do is prevent myself from spilling the beans in the next few weeks and we’ll be fine.” She slid off the table, grabbed another cookie, and hugged them both.
“How is it you eat so many cookies and stay thin? I kind of hate you.” Anne was smiling as she said this. And as Frances watched Anne pretend to be normal, to have normal friendships, and to care about people, while making chatty conversation, she suddenly felt exhausted. Like, week four of a new baby exhausted.
Sara looked surprised. “I’m going to go home and vomit up the whole lot. Isn’t that what everyone does?”
Frances laughed. “No, I hide them in special carrying cases I have on my upper thighs.”
“Ah. Well, that’s another way to go.” Frances walked Sara to the door and watched her make her way down the street, her energy causing her to essentially skip. No wonder she stayed thin; her whole life was a minor workout.
Frances propped the door open to bring in some air, and went back to the kitchen.
Four.
Earlier, after Iris watched Frances walk into her house, she’d turned and looked up the street for a moment. No Sara. Frowning, Iris had headed indoors, wondering what was keeping her wife. Sara had been gone very early, to do some voiceover fix or something, but was supposed to come home for brunch. Iris had run out after Frances had picked up Wyatt, to go to spin class and then to get the cinnamon rolls from Acme that Sara loved. Whatever. She was used to Sara’s occasional flakiness. OK, frequent flakiness. She herself had a meeting at noon, but there was plenty of time. Her work was only half-hearted anyway, if she were being honest with herself. She mostly had meetings to prove she could still get people to meet with her, that she hadn’t become invisible.
“Hello, Rosco.” The dog was beside himself to see her, his tail a barely visible whir of excitement. She stooped to scratch his ears, smooth his small head. He was a mutt, with a comical level of mismanagement in the continuity department: a small head like a fox, a cylindrical body like a dachshund, legs like a terrier, and the tail of a golden retriever. It was a look that didn’t quite work, unfortunately. It wasn’t so much cute as The Island of Doctor Moreau. But Iris had seen him in the pound and known immediately
