Evelyn stayed quiet; that was another part of negotiations, her father had said. Letting other people talk leads them to reveal more than they think they are revealing.
“I guess I can believe it, I just—I’ve known Camilla since we were thirteen. We were prefects together at St. Paul’s. I can’t believe she’s running around complaining that I have the nerve to get married. You think someone is your friend, and then poof. She’s done it to everyone else; I don’t know why I was surprised when she did it to me. At St. Paul’s there was basically a Camilla castoff every year. One of them was truly odd. She had to wear sports goggles over her glasses for lacrosse games. Camilla gets her shiny new toy, plays with it, and then tosses it out. Now she’s running around New York whining about how I’m getting married. Couldn’t she just be happy for me? Like, for once, be on my side?” Brooke waved her hand, signaling a conversational change. “I saw on Appointment Book that you did the danse d’honneur.”
“Yes,” Evelyn said, wondering what had become of the goggles girl.
“Camilla must’ve been furious,” Brooke said.
“She didn’t seem angry,” Evelyn said.
“She was planning on being chosen. I heard she even got a dress that would coordinate with the ambassador’s military ribbons,” Brooke said.
Evelyn thought back to it. Camilla’s dress had had shades of red and gold, which would’ve matched the ambassador’s lapel adornments. Her insides began to feel loose. She had taken a moment away from Camilla, which was a very dangerous thing to do. Evelyn was squeezing one of Brooke’s gel packs so hard it was about to burst all over her arm.
“I’m surprised she’s still talking to you after that,” Brooke was saying.
“I think…” Evelyn began to make up some excuse to explain what had happened, but she stopped herself, perceiving that if she wanted Brooke’s alliance, her best bet was to be frank that she, too, could be on the outs with Camilla. She began to laugh. “I’ve e-mailed her about eight times since then and I haven’t heard a thing.”
Brooke stared at her, alarmed, then started laughing, too. “Well, she was supposed to be a bridesmaid in my wedding.”
The two started guffawing, Evelyn’s eyes watering as she gasped for breath. “A coordinating dress for the danse d’honneur!” she shrieked. “She’s going to have me shot!”
“She hasn’t even sent her RSVP card yet!”
They were clasping each other’s arms now, both bent over with laughter. “Don’t you ever want to just tell her…” Brooke stood up, serious now.
“That she doesn’t have total control over the social scene?” Evelyn said.
“Maybe it would be good for her to hear it. Everyone is always so scared of her.”
“I think it would be good for her to hear it.”
The two women looked at one another, nudging each other toward the edge of a cliff.
“That photo of you on Appointment Book must’ve given her a heart attack,” Brooke said after a pause.
The laughter had felt so good that Evelyn wanted it back. “Like, how do you even know what the ambassador’s ribbon colors are going to be?” she asked. They both started laughing again, and a whistle blew. Evelyn looked back; it was fifteen minutes to race time. “I’ve got to get to my station,” she said. “Brooke, it was really good to see you. Maybe we’ll run into each other again. Cancer or something else.”
“Maybe so,” said Brooke.
The giddy feeling evaporated as soon as Evelyn walked to her water station. By the time she met Scot for dinner that night at Le Bilboquet, a couple of blocks from Camilla’s apartment, she was frantic and distracted, wondering if she’d said too much to Brooke. She tipped her chair back and forth as she waited for him, reading the menu over and over, Cajun chicken and endives aux Roquefort, Cajun chicken and endives aux Roquefort.…
“Hi,” Scot said when he arrived. He was more nervous than usual and was practically hopping.
“Hi.” She kissed him, counting out five seconds, then pulling away.
Sitting, he pulled at his napkin, tenting it into an odd shape before she reached over, shook it out, and placed it in his lap.
The waiter came to take their orders, and Evelyn saw that Scot had brought the napkin back up to the table and was twisting it into a rope. When the waiter left, she asked him about his day, but he didn’t respond, just twisted the napkin into a rope in the other direction. Scot excused himself and walked toward the bathroom. When he returned, he was scratching his hairline, then tugging, hard, at tufts. He sat up straight and looked at Evelyn. Scot, despite his layers of social awkwardness, had been an excellent debate-team member in college, and Evelyn knew that when he had anything important to say, he practiced it carefully ahead of time and sounded fluid and confident, an effect he could never mimic in casual conversation.
“I need to talk to you about something, and it’s been mounting,” he said. “The timing isn’t perfect on this, but timing is often imperfect.”