Amy’s condo was new, built across the street from the beach but sitting right on the scenic route. Occasionally, there was the sound of waves or a foghorn, but mostly it was just traffic noises that filtered inside. The stairs leading to Amy’s had open spaces between them, so that Olivia felt as if she might fall through at any moment.
She saw her sister and two other women through the sliding glass door that led to a small terrace. They were inside, putting food on the table. Olivia paused, watching. The women were all laughing. They took the time to style their hair, to put on lipstick, to choose what they wore—jewelry and sundresses and headbands. Olivia had put on the same backless dress and sandals covered with cat hair that she’d worn out to dinner with Pete Lancelotta. Everything about her and coming here felt so wrong that Olivia turned around and began to go back down the stairs.
But it was too late. The sliding glass door slid open and Amy said, “No way. You’re coming inside and you’re going to have fun.”
“You know, Amy,” Olivia said, “I’ve had a really shitty day.”
“Me, too. My darling ex-husband and his bimbo girlfriend want to take Matthew to the Galapagos fucking Islands to watch turtles hatch. And P.S., they’ll be getting married while they’re there.” Amy pointed overhead. “The bug zapper’s dead,” she said. “Come in so I can close the door.”
Obediently, Olivia followed, but her legs felt like tree trunks, heavy and unwilling to be uprooted.
Inside, Amy introduced the other two women: Pam, who not only sounded like Snow White but looked so much like Snow White that Olivia found herself staring at her, and Jill, who was tall and lean and too sexy—pouty full lips and a tousled shag haircut, thin hips and large breasts. Olivia looked from them to her sister, who wore her usual Lycra to show off her overly worked-out body, and thought, I don’t belong here. Amy was explaining that the other woman, Mimi, was always late.
Amy handed her a glass of white wine and, as if she had read Olivia’s mind, said, “I’m glad you came, sis.”
Snow White shook her head. “Amy told us what happened.”
For an instant, Olivia thought she meant about Ruby, about having everything stolen. But then she realized that of course the woman was talking about David.
They led her into the living room with its black-lacquer furniture and Erté prints, the tiny white brick fireplace with its Dura-flame log. Olivia settled into a mauve suede chair.
“Sometimes,” Snow White said in a near whisper, “I think I would have preferred it if Phillip had died.”
Amy, who always found it difficult to sit and stay seated, as if she had to do aerobics constantly, jumped to her feet. “I said the same thing. I mean, being left for a bimbo completely out of the blue is so humiliating.”
Snow White nodded. “It’s like none of it meant anything. Twelve years, three kids—”
“And you had those miscarriages,” sexy Jill said, taking a slow puff on a cigarette. She looked at Olivia. “You have no idea what she’s been through.”
“And he leaves me for a woman he met on business in Finland.”
“A Finn!” Amy said, as if it were the craziest thing possible.
“Her name is Hickie,” Snow White said. “You know. Like a hickey? And the worst part is, he’s moved there.”
“To Finland!” Amy said.
“And he wants the kids to go to Finland to visit him four times a year.” She leaned back, weary, disgusted.
Jill leaned forward. “Don’t they believe in trolls there?”
She seemed to be asking Olivia this. “I have no idea,” Olivia said. Trolls! She looked around for some books; weren’t they going to talk about The Celestine Prophecy? But there was nothing except People magazines fanned out on the glass coffee table.
Amy hopped around in front of Olivia. “Jill’s story is even worse,” she said.
“My ex-husband,” Jill said, stretching each word out carefully, “is a fucking faggot.”
“He fucks men!” Amy said.
“I know what a faggot is,” Olivia snapped at Amy. She sank into the suede chair, realizing what her sister was up to: proving that Olivia wasn’t the only one with a terrible story to tell. But Olivia knew that already. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than sharing sad stories, trading regrets.
They were all looking at her, the sympathy in their eyes enough to make Olivia puke.
Olivia said, “I honestly don’t care what happened to you and your marriages. Dead is worse.”
The other women looked at her, round-eyed. She was not like them. She had been to a place none of them had ever been.
“Dead is worse,” she said again. “Trust me.”
After dinner and wine and cigarettes, the talk finally turned to the book. Olivia hadn’t read it. The size alone wore her out. Still, she tried to listen to the discussion, but it was useless. Olivia had drunk too much wine—again. She tried to remember those questions you’re supposed to ask yourself to determine if you should go to AA. But the only one she could think of was: Do you ever drink alone? What a joke; she did everything alone.
When she tuned back in, Snow White was saying “Do you think Mimi’s okay? She isn’t here and it’s so late.”