Bea went to collect her things and to tell Paul she had a headache. Her coat was in a small maid’s room adjacent to the kitchen, underneath an inexplicably huge pile of fur coats (didn’t anyone in New York have any shame anymore?) and rooted around the left sleeve for the mittens she’d tucked there for safekeeping. She could hear Lena in the kitchen now, animatedly talking to Celia.
“—Absolutely no idea,” Lena was saying, sounding more thrilled than confused. “I haven’t spoken to her in years. I know she still works at Paper Fibres.” Bea froze.
“God,” Celia said, a touch of satisfaction in her voice, too. “Still? How depressing. Is she married?”
“She had that boyfriend for a long time, that older guy? The poet? Did he die? I think he was married.”
“So she’s not writing at all?”
“From what I gather, no.” Bea could hear Lena chewing something crunchy, a carrot or a celery stick or a lesser mortal’s finger bone. “Do you hear anything from Stephanie?” Lena asked Celia. “They’re not working together anymore, right?”
“No, they’re not. I can’t ever get any good gossip from Stephanie. All she would tell me is they went their separate ways and it was mutual, which I’m sure isn’t true.” Celia’s voice lowered a bit. Bea inched closer to the open doorway, flattening herself against the wall. “I did hear something interesting from another source.”
“Yessss?” Lena said.
“She had to pay back part of her publishing advance a few years ago. It was a lot of money.”
Bea winced, frozen in place, afraid to move.
“That’s rough,” Lena said, and this time the concern in her voice was genuine. Bea felt a wave of nausea move through her and she had a terrible and sudden urge to defecate. Being scrutinized or mocked by Lena was leagues better than being on the receiving end of her pity.
“Terrible,” Celia said, momentarily chastened by Lena’s sincerity. “Really terrible.”
Both women were quiet, as if they’d just read Bea’s obituary or were standing over her gravestone.
“But you know what?” Celia said, resummoning her nerve. “I’m just going to say it since Stephanie’s not here. I never loved her stories. I never got what all the fuss was about. I mean, they were cute—the Archie stuff—it was clever, but The New Yorker? Please.”
“They were of a place and time,” Lena said, her register lowering into the interview or public reading voice Bea recognized and remembered loathing. “They worked in that late ’90s kind of navel-gazing, where-did-we-come-from thing. We were all doing it. We were so young. Not everyone was able to figure out how to transition to more mature material.” Bea couldn’t believe how regal Lena sounded, as if someone had appointed her the fucking Emperor of Fiction.
“Well, her clothes are of another place and time, too,” Celia said. “God. What is she wearing? Who still shops at thrift stores? Hasn’t she heard about bedbugs?”
“Stop,” Lena said, sounding guilty but still laughing.
“And those braids. Honestly,” Celia said. “How old are we?”
“I feel bad for her, though,” Lena said. “Stuck at Paper Fibres. People in that world know who she is, still recognize her name. It must be hard, being Beatrice Plumb.”
Bea was grateful that she was still leaning against a wall, had flattened both hands on the cool plaster and felt sturdy, supported, and able to withstand the wave of rage and humiliation roaring over her. She closed her eyes. The room smelled like cat even though there wasn’t a cat in sight and no other signs of an animal in the house. She wondered if Celia made a housekeeper or a neighbor hide the cat when she had guests so her pristine apartment wouldn’t be sullied by a bowl of pet food or a scratching post; she seemed like that kind of traitor.
Bea stepped away from the wall and hurried to button her coat and pull on her hat. Celia and Lena were gossiping about someone else and moving into the living room. Bea entered the now-empty kitchen, heading for the front door; she stopped in front of an impressive array of expensive cookies destined for the dessert table. She opened her canvas tote and carefully slid all the cookies inside. Celia walked back into the room just as Bea was covering the stash with paper napkins. “Bea!” she said, stopping short, looking slightly abashed but also annoyed. “Where did you come from?”
“Nowhere,” Bea said. Celia eyed the empty plate and Bea’s bulging tote. “I can’t stay for dessert,” Bea said, “but thank you for a lovely evening.” They stared at each other for a few laden seconds, each daring the other to speak, and then Bea turned and walked straight out the front door.
CHAPTER TEN