People start leaving the office around five thirty. It’s summer, still light and lovely outside. Some of her coworkers say good-bye and good night to everyone, stop to check in about one another’s plans for the evening. She prefers to bolt. Sunglasses on, checks her bag four times for phone, phone charger, keys—she once forgot her keys, had to come all the way back, it was fucking horrible. She does this now, throws everything into the bag, checks for the keys, opens her wallet and frowns into it—thirty-seven dollars, enough for a cab home, but not enough for a cab to. She’ll walk. Abrupt wave to Dallie (Dallie, yes, that’s her name), a nod to Hannah, a “Good-bye!” from Antonia across the office, and she’s out into the lobby, then scanning her ID card on the little white pad to get in the door on the other side, which opens to the offices of the imprint they share the floor with (serious nonfiction about wars and maritime disasters) and the ladies’ room. Ladies’ room, what an idiotic phrase. When she and Sarah lived together, that first terrible apartment in the East Village, the summer after graduation, she tried for a time referring to the bathroom as the Shit House, which Sarah did not care for.
The lighting is not good. There are no windows. Lauren washes her face, but maddeningly the faucet is the kind that you press and water comes out for about twelve seconds then shuts off so you have to keep pressing it again and again. She brushes her teeth, checks her armpits, which are fine; she hasn’t sweat since her walk from the subway to the office. She pulls her hair away from her face; it still gets a little wet but it doesn’t matter. Her hair looks great, it always does: It’s thick, falls in this subtle wave that’s natural and not studied, and that some girl in college once told her she was lucky to have and ever since then she’s been proud of it. She doesn’t wear jewelry, not even a watch. She’s got on a sort of hippie dress that she found somewhere, vaguely Mexican. It’s prettier than she normally wears to the office, and under the belted sweater she keeps stashed on the back of her chair, and with the heels she’s just slipped on, it looks like a real I’m-going-to-a-party outfit. A bit of color on the lips, something on the lashes. She hurries, she doesn’t want anyone to see her in the bathroom and think she’s primping for a date like some kind of loser.
She takes the bus east on Fifty-Seventh Street and waits eight minutes for another going down Second Avenue, but grows impatient and decides to just walk. Even when she sweats she’s not very smelly. It should be fine. She takes her place among confused tourists, the occasional jogger, dog walker, little old lady, coworkers and friends drinking cold wine at sidewalk cafés; al fresco dining in Manhattan, she’s never understood that, the whole thing smells like exhaust and urine.
Huck and Lulu’s house is covered in ivy. The window boxes—Lulu’s handiwork—look bountiful. The parlor windows are open, and Lauren can hear those party sounds drifting out: polite chatter, the occasional decorous laugh, ahems and footfalls on parquet, the cell phones of rude guests. Though it’s still light out, in her mind she sees the house theatrically illuminated, light spilling onto the stoop, onto the sidewalk, the windows offering a glimpse of something, another way of life, like the dioramas at a museum, the vignettes in a department store. The house was always lit up as though for a party, life with Huck and Lulu and Sarah is always a party.
You don’t ring the doorbell at this sort of party, and anyway, it’s been years since she used this particular doorbell. She comes and goes with impunity, or she did, once upon a time. She walks in, and there are people in the parlor, attended by a pretty girl in a black polo shirt and black pants, cherry red apron around her waist, passing a tray of something that looks tasty even from far away. The men are wearing jackets and ties; these parties are attended exclusively by the kinds of men who wear jackets and ties everywhere, possibly even to bed. There are women, too, of course, and somewhere in the distance she can hear Lulu, because you always can hear her, that big laugh from deep in the throat, the mix of tongues in which she speaks, her native Spanish, her never-wholly-Americanized English, a touch of French, when warranted, for emphasis. Lauren can picture her; she’ll be standing in profile, head tilted back a bit, kind of like the woman in that Sargent portrait that so scandalized the public he had to revise it, adding a dress strap. That’s how Lulu always stands; she thinks it shows to best advantage her “good side.” In her cotton dress, Lauren’s underdressed, but her relative youth makes up for this. She’s not one of the powerful matrons in geometric, collarless blazers, not a Ph.D. in a pencil skirt. She’s just some girl. She doesn’t see Huck anywhere. She climbs the staircase.