The butler, or secretary, or whatever she is, leads Betsy and Haley past the bowling alley and cardroom, through the cocktail room to the entrance of the dining room. When they arrive at the still-empty table, Betsy pulls out a comb to quickly brush the ends of Haley’s hair.
“Mom, stop.” Haley winces and sways her body away from her anxious mother.
As Betsy puts the comb back and snaps her bag closed, a knock at the glass window behind them causes her to jump and spin around. It’s Linda, standing in a red St. John knit with an Hermes scarf tied around her shoulders. Becca trails behind her clad in a clashing Lily Pulitzer dress.
Hi, Betsy mouths, and waves. Linda motions that she will be right there.
Five minutes later, Linda trails along the dining hall as if she is the hostess in her own home, exuding effervescent power.
“Bonjour!” Linda leans in to give Betsy a double cheek kiss, “Muah, muah!” She nudges her daughter forward. “Becca, say hi to Haley.”
Becca is small for her age, mousy brown hair and an unfortunate mustache forming above her upper lip. “Hi,” she musters, having trouble making eye contact.
“Hey,” Haley replies, resentment in her tone for this so-called playdate.
“How are we doing this evening, Mrs. Williams?” the server asks.
“Juste merveilleux, parlez-vous français?” (“Just marvelous, do you speak French?”) Linda winks at the server, then giggles at Betsy.
“Bonjour! Tu es heureux!” (Betsy means to say, “Hello, I’m happy to be here.” Instead she says, “Hello, you are happy!”)
“I’m sorry, uh…” The server laughs awkwardly to ease his uncertainty and asks to take their order.
“The whitefish is divine,” Linda says, peeking over her menu, then orders the chicken piccata, and chicken fingers for Becca.
“I’ll have the whitefish then, and chicken fingers for this one,” Betsy says, smiling, then hands him her menu.
“Oh, there’s Meredith Bartholomew,” Linda says, waving like the queen of England as she finishes the “mew,” giving a wide fake smile as Meredith does the same while walking to her designated table. The two of them performing like players in a Norman Rockwell painting except everyone is lying to each other.
“Becca, sweetie, why don’t you go show Haley the bowling alley.”
The girls trail off to “explore” the club—“but not too far, club rules!”
“Do you know the Bartholomews?” Linda asks Betsy.
“Chuck has been a wonderful supporter of Doug’s. Meredith, however…” Betsy leans over and whispers, “not so much.…”
“Oh well, you know why that is,” Linda says, implying that Betsy must know the answer.
“How do you mean?” Betsy knows gossip is the most dangerous neighborhood in Washington, given how small this town is, but she can’t help but dip her toe in.
Linda leans into Betsy, a game of seesaw. “They’re having money problems.”
“Oh, really.… God, I wonder if Doug knows,” Betsy says, concerned.
“Well, you didn’t hear it from me.”
The server arrives with their wine. Linda takes a sip like a southern belle. Checkmate. She knows Doug counts on the Bartholomew donation dollars. “They’re tied up in over a dozen lawsuits in different counties across the country for their chemical dumping. But the press hasn’t caught on yet, not in the social political sense, if you know what I mean.… And here’s a little twist: the Bankses—you know, the family that was murdered—they were their biggest competitors.… You wouldn’t know it because they socialized together and I think Chuck and David were in the same class at Harvard. Anyway, the stocks are tumbling.” She shakes out her napkin and drapes it across her lap. “I’m sure Doug knows all about it—besides, look at all this wonderful attention Doug is getting!”
Becca and Haley stand on the upper level of the bowling alley near the dark and empty popcorn stand. Haley plays a game on her cell phone.
“You can’t have cell phones in here,” Becca says, “it’s club rules.”
Haley ignores her, enthusiastically tapping the screen on her phone.
“You’re not going to get into the club if you keep playing on your cell phone,” Becca says.
Haley keeps her eyes steady on the game. “We already belong to the club.”
“No, you don’t. You’re lying,” Becca says.
Haley finishes the game, clicking out of the app and into her camera, then lifts her phone to Becca’s face and snaps a photo.
“Stop! You’re going to get us kicked out!”
“What are you gonna do, tell Mommy about it?” Haley opens up her Finsta account and creates a meme of Becca. It is a split photograph, on the right the unflattering close-up of Becca, on the other side a Google image of her mother. The caption reads: “Mom, am I ugly? Honey, I told you not to call me Mom in public.” Click. Haley uploads and posts.
Betsy chews her whitefish despite its funky smell. Fishy and overcooked, it’s hard to tell whether it’s gone bad.
“We could do it at the St. Regis during teatime. The girls can get dressed up, maybe we can start with—personally one of my favorites—Nancy Drew.” Linda is talking about forming a mother-daughter book club.
As she chatters on, Betsy’s stomach starts to gurgle. She burps a little bit, “Excuse me,” dabbing the cloth napkin over her lips, a wretched fishy taste swirling around in her mouth.
“Where’s the powder room? Nature’s calling.” Betsy’s face turns as pale as a golf ball; she doesn’t realize she’s still holding her napkin to her mouth when she gets up.
“Down there through the dining room to the right.”
Betsy knocks over a young girl in her best attempt to run gracefully for the powder room, her large intestine about to explode. Sweat forms below her perfect hairline; the lingering taste of fish and the image of an oozing slab of mayonnaise cause her to fall to her knees inside the stall of the handicapped toilet to expel the whitefish, and it is violent. After about twenty seconds, she comes up for air. Spitting a small chunk back out in the toilet, Betsy hears “Ew!” and the closing of the bathroom door from
