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‘Oh no. When did it happen?’
‘A couple of nights ago,’ he said. ‘Look, Bro
oke, it’s nothing, seriously. I’m a big boy. I’m just a little tired. I’ve just got pizza and I need a sleep.’
‘Oh I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I forget what you do sometimes. You go and get some rest, I’ll speak to you later.’
She put down the phone and slumped back on the sofa. Then, seized with a sudden impulse, she picked up her bag and the unopened bottle of wine. Forget Mimi trying to make me feel guilty, she huffed, snatching up her keys. In twenty minutes she was at his apartment.
‘Brooke?’ His eyes widened in surprise as he opened the door.
Matt looked dreadful. His face was pale and she could smell the alcohol on his breath.
‘Surprise,’ she said weakly, as she realized that he was not pleased to see her. Brooke was not generally a spontaneous person, and it was for reasons like this that she was usually more considerate. It was, however, too late to turn back, so she walked into the apartment, flushing with embarrassment. The living room smelt stale and sour. Beer bottles were littered all over the table, and the pizza lay barely eaten in its brown box, as if he had been unable to stomach it.
‘Sorry,’ he said, trying to scoop up some of the mess.
His movements were clumsy and slow, and Brooke could tell he was drunk. She was surprised to find that this annoyed her. For weeks he had been dismissing Susie as nothing serious, and yet here he was, drunk, depressed, self–pitying. She felt a prick of anger that he had lied to her.
‘No, don’t be sorry,’ said Brooke, lending a hand in the cleanup. ‘You’re allowed to wallow. When relationships end, it’s sad. Do you want to tell me what happened?’
He shrugged. ‘You know what’s it like. You disagree about something dumb and it escalates into an argument. Thirty minutes later you’ve said things you shouldn’t have and she’s slamming the door. Then, well,’ he gestured at the pile of bottles. ‘You wallow.’
She put the wine down on the side with an apologetic expression.
‘I guess we’d better not open this.’
‘I guess not.’
He looked up and managed a smile. ‘So how bad is the wedding dress?’
She pulled a face and suddenly they were both laughing.
‘You know what we need?’ she said.
He looked sceptical.
‘A good night out.’
‘Aren’t you knee–deep in wedding stuff? I mean, it’s your bachelorette night on Thursday. Then it’s Christmas. Then … ’
‘Well, what are you doing tomorrow night?’
‘I’m off. I’m down for a shift on Christmas Day instead.’
‘I want you to come with me somewhere,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, you’re not pulling me away from wedding stuff. In fact I’ll be multitasking.’
‘What, you want me to choose the bouquet?’ he asked.
‘Something like that.’
Matt rubbed his stubble thoughtfully, then smiled. ‘Well in that case, count me in.’
CHAPTER FIFTY–EIGHT
Liz caught sight of herself in the reflective surface of her oven door and realized she couldn’t remember the last time she had cooked dinner. After all, she’d had microbiotic meal packs delivered to her door every day for the last two years, which had left her body enviously lean and her gadget–packed designer kitchen remarkably untouched. She smiled to herself as she pulled the rack of honey–and–balsamic–glazed lamb out of the oven to add a few sprigs of rosemary before triumphantly removing her new beige Williams–Sonoma apron. Not quite Thomas Keller, but good enough. She was mildly freaked out by this rush of domesticity, although she had managed to convince herself – somewhere in between buying the rack of lamb and roasting it – that there was nothing wrong with showing the occasional glimpse of her feminine side. Wendell always said he liked to be surprised. Not that she was cooking for Wendell, she told herself firmly, merely expanding her portfolio of skills.
Outside, snow was falling, smudging her windows with wintry flakes that looked like sprays of diamonds on the glass. She loved how definite New York’s seasons were. The arctic chill of winter, the blistering humidity of summer, the freshness of spring and fall. The changes and precise cycles kept you feeling alive, as if things were constantly moving forward. It was the same reason she did not regret the emotional turbulence she had felt this year. The buyout of Skin Plus was now a matter of weeks rather than months away. It was taking a little while to get the intricate financing sorted out, as Wendell kept insisting there be no financial paper trail direct to him, while on top of that was all the other corporate paperwork. Her new company was going to be called Vincita, Italian for win. And that win had been all the sweeter for the difficulty of the journey.
