“I’m in the East Village. I thought we were meeting for Indian.”
A huff of a laugh. “Curry Lane, Emily Joan? I thought you were joking.”
“No. We said we’d meet here.”
“Yeah, well, I never said that. But come over. You need to see the renovation.”
I looked at the time. Gramercy was on my way uptown to pick up Holden. “Okay.”
“Oh, and pick up some Pellegrino? And maybe a rosé? Doesn’t need to be fancy, can be Provençal…” Then: “NotTrader Joe’s.”
“Okay.”
—
Penelope’s Gramercy Park town house is all empty space and contemporary art. She is showing me an Ai Weiwei sculpture of bronze stools tangled in a semicircle and an Urs Fischer waxwork that looks like a house made of loaves of bread. “Do you love it?”
“I love it.” I hate it. It looks like Art Basel barfed in her foyer.
We walk to the living room. I hesitate to sit on an ivory chenille sofa. “Is it okay?”
“Obviously.It’s a sofa.” I sit. As I lean back: “Just don’t touch the pillows.”
She sits across from me on a chair that looks like an open hand.
“You’re coming Friday, right? Say you’ll come!”
“What’s Friday?”
“My housewarming party. Duh.”
“Um. Yeah. Yes. I just have to check if someone can watch Holden.”
“Please come!” I hesitate. “It won’t be the same without you. Just get a sitter. Besides, it will be good for you to get out. Come!”
“Okay.”
“Fab!” Penelope’s voice turns sugary. “Soooo. Where’s the little man? I want to see him!”
“Oh yeah. He’s with Daisy.”
She flinches. Was that a hint of envy? “I still want to meet thisporn-star friend of yours!” The way she just dismisses Daisy as a “porn star” only reinforces my determination to never introduce them. Penelope only wanted to meet Daisy as a novelty, something she could talk about at cocktail parties.
“Totally,” I say. “Daisy would love you.” She’d hate her.
A housekeeper puts an individual bottle of Pellegrino on a coaster for Penelope, then turns to me. “Can I get you something?”
“No, thank you.” I squint at Penelope, who is taking a sip. “I thought you needed me to bring you sparkling.”
“We can always use more.”
Penelope tells me about Paris, the new nanny, the ninetieth birthday party they’re planning to throw for Mimi, the matriarch of the whole clan. How would they all survive in that Tuscan villa if she isn’t speaking to her mother? I am listening to her drone on about her mom (“Her new man is coming—she’s really talking about marriage. Can you imagine? At her age.”) and real estate (“And don’t get me started on the apartment. It’s the right time to list it, and she’s dithering…”). She’s talking about private wealth management (“Of course it’s on me to sort it out…”) and it occurs to me that the power dynamic between us has shifted. For the first time, I don’t need Penelope. I have Daisy. I have 527 Park and theJuju Beanmoms. I look out the window, the leaves exploding in yellows and oranges on sugar maples.
“Emily Joan? Are you even listening?”
“No, sorry, I tuned you out at the Tuscan villa.” And then I lean back—hard—on the forbidden pillows.
—
