“The college financial aid thing,” Jane said. “The forms and the requirements, blah, blah, blah.”
Oh. Melody realized with a sinking feeling that when she’d dutifully copied all the parent gatherings from the college counseling calendar into her own at the end of last summer, she’d ignored the workshops about financial aid. How had things changed so quickly? And how had she not remembered that pompous bit of editing sooner.
“I’m sorry I missed it,” Melody said. “I meant to go. Is the information online?”
“I thought you were all set,” Jane said. “I thought you and Walt have been saving for college since your first date or something obnoxious like that.”
Melody squirmed a little to remember how she’d bragged at one of the Mom Nights last spring. She hadn’t explained about The Nest per se, just mentioned that she and Walt had a “college fund” and that they probably wouldn’t need financial aid. She’d regretted the words as soon as they’d tumbled out of her mouth, and now she could kick herself, especially thinking about her offhanded and inaccurate phraseology—we made saving a priority.
“You know what investments are like these days,” Melody said, inexperienced at posturing about money; she was probably the color of a beet. “We might need some help after all.”
“Let me save you some time,” said the Poodle. “You already make too much money and the colleges don’t care about kids from Westchester, so unless you guys are going to declare bankruptcy or somebody loses a job, you’re toast. The whole meeting was a colossal waste of time.”
“They’ll take one look at that scarf and kick you out,” Jane said, gesturing at Melody’s neck and the pretty lavender scarf Francie had given her.
“It was a present,” Melody said.
“It’s lovely,” Jane said. “It suits you.”
At one time, Melody had wanted nothing more than to be friends with these women, would have loved nothing else than to bump into them in town and have them admire something she was wearing. Now, she wanted to run and hide. Their conversations made her want to scream. They complained about money, while breathlessly recounting expensive house renovations (How many blow jobs for a Sub-Zero? she wanted to ask) or recent European vacations (How many for a trip to Paris? Ten? One?). And then, invariably, they’d look at each other and shrug and say, “luxury problems,” cackling like some modern skinny-jean-wearing equivalent of Marie Antoinette’s court.
That kale juice you’re drinking is six dollars! Melody wanted to say. Your kitchen is the size of my entire downstairs! They made her so angry and anxious, she’d gradually learned to avoid all of them. She fingered a corner of her pretty scarf and looked at her watch. “I’d better get going,” she said, gesturing to the consignment store behind them. “I have to duck in here before I go home.”
“Nice,” Jane nodded approvingly. “A little retail therapy.”
“We just had a pleasant chat with Walt, too,” the Poodle said.
“Walter?” Walt was supposed to be grocery shopping and not in the village where the only food stores were very precious and very expensive. “Where?”
“He’s with Vivienne,” Jane said, pointing across the street.
Melody was grateful in that moment that she’d had so much practice not visibly reacting to these galling women because she was able to keep her face calm.
“Right, of course,” she said. “See you later.” As she hurried, her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might cross the street ahead of her. She thought, in the moments before she charged through Vivienne’s door, that this must be what it was like to catch your husband with a lover; in flagrante delicto was the phrase that popped into Melody’s head, a flagrant offense. Betrayal. This is how Victoria must have felt after Leo’s accident, Melody realized, experiencing a tiny flash of empathy for the woman who had never even been civil to her. And as she stepped up on the curb, careful not to slip on the slightly icy walk, she knew she’d rather catch Walter in an amorous embrace with Vivienne, would rather he have Vivienne bent over the table in her office that was covered with local maps and magazines and restaurant coupons and be taking her from behind than this—calmly sitting at her desk in plain sight at Rubin & Daughters Realty. Vivienne Rubin was the Realtor who’d sold them their house.
CHAPTER TWENTY