“That’s infuriating,” I said. Caroline nodded, slipping the back part of her foot out of her heels, as if she were trying to prevent a blister. I glanced down. There, on the back of her heel: a small, delicate tattoo of a dark bird in flight. Holy shit. It was the same one Margot had.
“I know,” Caroline was saying. “And honestly, I hate to say it, but it’s a problem I run into with women all the time.”
I yanked my eyes away from her foot. Maybe they’re afraid because they saw what happened to the last woman you picked, I thought, while saying, “It makes sense. We’ve been taught not to ask for things, so we don’t seem too greedy or ambitious. All that subtle social conditioning will keep you down.”
“Exactly. No wonder true equality still is nowhere in sight. It’s just like, ugh!” She shook her fist at the sky. “Ask for what you want, ladies!”
“It’s tough, though, because it’s a legit fear,” I said. “Everyone else has been socially conditioned too, right? So sometimes when a woman does stand up for herself, everyone around her is like, Wow, what a bitch.”
Caroline nodded very seriously at me. “You’re so right. I have to check my own biases all the time. I never want to be the kind of person who penalizes a woman for speaking up.”
Maybe it was the champagne kicking in, making me brazen. But suddenly I knew exactly what to do. “I want to get better at asking for what I want,” I said.
“Yes!” she said with such enthusiasm that I half expected her to shout, You go girl! and then tell me that I should run for office.
I squared my shoulders. “Like, hypothetically speaking, if I knew I could be an excellent addition to an exclusive club, and then I met a member, the bold, feminist thing to do would simply be to ask them if I could join. Right?”
Caroline’s encouraging smile froze, and she grew very still. Something shifted in her eyes. “Hypothetically speaking,” she said, her tone still light, “I guess so.”
“And like you just said,” I continued breezily, “if that member were truly an advocate for women, she wouldn’t penalize me for it. She would recognize that it was admirable, the right thing for a liberated woman to do.”
“Mm, that would all be very progressive,” she said, then glanced down at her phone in her hand as if it had just buzzed, although the screen hadn’t lit up. “Oh, excuse me. I have to—” She waved the phone in the air. “It was very interesting talking to you.” Then she turned and walked back into the party, her heels clicking on the hardwood floors.
I exhaled, trembling, wholly uncertain whether I had just gained entry or ruined my chances forever.
“There you are,” Raf said, poking his head into the hallway. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“You seemed occupied,” I said. “What were you and Margot talking about for so long?”
He stared at me like I was an idiot. “You, obviously,” he said. “I’ve got to pee, and then I need to get out of here. I’m exhausted. Want to head out together? Do what you needed to do?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “So sure, I’ll meet you by the door.”
I went back into the party, toward the couch where I’d left my jacket. As I grabbed it, I felt a touch on my arm. Margot.
“Leaving so soon?” she asked.
“Yeah, long day for Raf,” I said.
“He’s been talking about you all night,” she said, studying me. “You’ve really bewitched him, haven’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that—”
“No, I mean it. He loves you. I can tell.” Together, we watched as Raf emerged from the hallway and headed toward us, smiling at me uncertainly.
“He’s a good guy,” I said.
“Well, I’ll let you lovebirds go. Sorry you and I didn’t get to talk more. Congratulations on the novel. I can’t wait to read it.” She flitted off, disappearing back into the crowd, melting into the revelry where she belonged as Raf reached my side.
But as we left, I looked back at the party one more time. Caroline was saying something to Margot and Vy. Then, all three of them turned and watched as Raf and I walked out the door.
SEVEN
Two days went by where I didn’t hear anything. I became convinced that my conversation with Caroline had been a huge blunder, that my name now existed on a blacklist and no woman from reputable society would ever associate with me again. I was Hester Prynne. Typhoid Mary. The old slutty cat from Cats, but without the vocal chops to belt out “Memory” and make everyone accept me.
On Sunday morning, I went for a long swim at the YMCA and then dragged myself to BitterSweet for a coffee. I ordered from a barista I had never seen before. When she gave me the mug, she also handed me a plate with a ginger molasses cookie on a napkin. “They gave us extras in the shipment,” she said. “So here, on the house.”
“Awesome, thanks,” I said, and she shrugged, then turned back to the espresso machine.
I took the coffee and the cookie back to my seat and nibbled slowly. Miles had texted me that morning at eight thirty: Beckley! Progress report? On a Sunday, when he wasn’t even at work. Despite himself, he was getting excited about the article, just in time for me to disappoint him.
I racked my brain for alternate plans, maybe involving Raf reaching out to Margot and setting up a time for us all to have dinner at the restaurant together. But I knew that wouldn’t work. If my move at the party had backfired, a meal with Margot wasn’t going to change anything. Maybe it was safer to go back to the drawing board and think of other pitches, so that at least I could offer
