Fifteen
Alice
Thursday, September 12th
Antoinette is writing a book about Alma. Alice still can’t believe her luck.
“Well, about small towns in America, really,” Antoinette explains, as she brings her teacup to her mouth. Alice finds it refreshing, drinking tea with an actual tea set. Antoinette notes how this is a large country filled with pockets of small towns most people don’t know about. “Take Alma, for example. Every American knows about Alma Boots, but most have no idea there’s an entire town built around it. It’s such an American concept, building a town around a brand. Like Hershey, Pennsylvania, a town founded on chocolate.”
“Interesting,” Alice says. A lie: she’d never buy that book. It’s bad enough she has to live in a small town; to read about them would be torture. “Probably because we’re a new country, so there was actually space to do it.”
“I think there’s something inherently American about wanting to create new worlds. Not just here, but abroad, too. Did you know Henry Ford founded a town in Brazil called Fordlandia? Literally, the land of Ford. Right in the middle of the Amazon rainforest.” Antoinette places her teacup on the coffee table. “And Hollywood—not just the neighborhood, but the whole filmmaking industry—it couldn’t have existed anywhere but here. This country has a remarkable appetite for worldbuilding, for storytelling. And this town, it’s a physical manifestation of Alma Boots’ story.”
“You’re clearly very passionate about this project,” Alice says. “And committed. Moving can be very stressful.” Antoinette has mentioned that this is the fourth small town she has moved to in three years, specifically for research. A strategy that’s only possible because her husband is a foreign correspondent for the BBC—he’s always traveling anyway.
Alice surveys Antoinette’s living room. The space is sleek and modern, all clean white lines, with floating bookshelves and modern art on the white walls. It’s tasteful and impeccably organized. Homey, too—though this is in no small part because of Antoinette’s adorable English Bulldog, Daisy Gordita, who’s currently snoring on her bone-shaped bed by the fireplace. “It’s like you’ve been living here for months.”
“Believe me, there are still boxes upstairs.” Antoinette lets out a one-syllable laugh. “But I don’t mind moving. It’s the only way, really. You can’t write about a place without being there. It wouldn’t be responsible. I wouldn’t be able to paint a complete picture. Do you know what I mean?”
“I do. I moved around a lot as a child. Traveling is great, but there’s no substitute for having lived in a place.”
“Exactly. Where have you lived, may I ask?” Antoinette leans forward on the cream-colored couch, resting her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands together.
“Oh, so many places.” Alice shifts in the armchair. “We moved because of my dad’s career in the Foreign Service. I’ve lived in Beijing, Paris, Santiago, Rio…”
Antoinette bounces in her seat. “How exciting!”
“It can be, yes,” Alice agrees.
Alice remembers the day when she realized that her upbringing was unusual, to say the least. As a diplomat’s daughter, she had grown up in wealthy expat communities and attended prestigious international schools. She was fluent in Mandarin, Portuguese, and English, and could carry out a conversation in Spanish and French (she could also curse in over a dozen languages). Their nomadic lifestyle hadn’t bothered Alice, who, as a child, was entirely focused on her ballet training. Well, that and on the memory of her mother. Her father taught her that whenever they moved to a new city, her mom’s spirit would have planted a surprise for her there and it was up to her to find it. It made being a third-culture kid that much more exciting.
When Alice was fourteen, they moved to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, and the surprise took the form of Camilla Nascimento: a toned, tanned, long-limbed brunette bombshell who stole her dad’s heart. Six months after coming into their lives, Camilla did three things: married Alice’s dad, shipped her son off to boarding school, and began to make Alice’s life a living hell. The irony: if it weren’t for Alice, her dad never would’ve met Camilla. She was their accidental Cupid.
Antoinette fidgets with the ruffled collar of her green blouse. “Alma must be quite the change for you.”
Alice has the distinct feeling that she’s being interviewed, which makes sense: Antoinette has mentioned she spent years working as a freelance journalist before taking time off to write her book.
“It definitely takes some getting used to.” She doesn’t point out that the most challenging part about her new life is not having a job—no, a career. She misses the sense of purpose, the challenge. Being a stay-at-home mom is a waste of her brain. Alice thinks back to her time at JP Morgan with great fondness. It hadn’t been perfect—grueling hours, rampant-yet-invisible sexism, fierce competition—but at least she’d felt alive. It’s no wonder she is so reliant on oxy now: it helps numb the pain.
“I take it you’re not a fan?” Antoinette curls her plump lips into a knowing smile.
Alice notices Daisy lifting her head and sniffing the air as if a scent has stirred her awake. After letting out a yawn, she lowers her head again. Seconds later, she’s back to snoring.
“It wouldn’t be my first choice,” Alice says, diplomatically. She has to appear sensible or Antoinette will assume that her opinions are tainted by her aversion to this town. “But there are many wonderful things about it.”
“And you mentioned you’re a member of the Alma Social Club?”
“I am.” Alice had brought it up yesterday, when she came over to extend the official ASC greeting.
“I hear it carries a real influence in town.” Antoinette’s face is neutral, but her tone betrays a hint of amusement.
“You’d be welcome to join,” Alice says, sipping her tea.
Alice isn’t sure that’s true, actually. Antoinette is renting this house from the Farrells. It’s possible that her temporary status in town means she doesn’t qualify for membership. Tish is always going on about how the ASC is
