And then, an hour later, there she was: knocking Minty over as she toppled out of her tree pose.
No one said anything—this was England, after all—and really, they didn’t need to. Once class had finished, and the women had showered and changed and settled down with tall glasses of beet juice, Alice intercepted enough clandestine glances to provide her with at least a year’s worth of humiliation. At first she thought she was being paranoid. After she mentioned that she was staying at Claridge’s, and she caught Henny raising an eyebrow at Minty, she tried telling herself that she was being overly sensitive and childish; that she was acting like she did during freshman volleyball, whenever she missed a strike and Chrissy Sherman laughed at her. But the looks kept coming. Minty winking at Henny; Henny gently nudging Flossie in the ribs; Eloise staring into the purple mess in her glass, doing her best to feign ignorance. Soon, Alice found her paranoia aligning a little too perfectly with reality.
When they had finished their juices, a receptionist from the studio announced that a town car was outside waiting to take them to the spa, whenever they were ready.
“We’ve arranged for a bottle of prosecco to be waiting for you in the backseat,” she said.
Minty thanked her, and everyone stood.
“Is this when we put on penis hats and slip dollar bills into a stripper’s G-string?”
Alice looked around: no one was laughing. Instead, each of the women offered her own peculiar version of a pained smile and filed out toward the car.
“Strippers and penis hats? Honestly, Alice,” Eloise said, when they were the only two left in the room. “Sometimes it’s like you’ve made it your mission in life to embarrass me.”
That had stung, so much so that Alice was inclined to strike back, but she stopped herself. And looking back now, as she chews and swallows her cucumber, she’s glad that she exercised some restraint. Because if she had lashed out in retaliation—if she had, for instance, told Eloise that her friends were farces of fucking people with made-up fucking names—well, where would that have gotten her? She’d be left wallowing in a hole of her own making, a hole that she’d spend the next twelve hours trying to climb out of.
*
Lunch is prix fixe in a private room at the Ledbury, and when it’s finished Alice is still starving. The portions weren’t exactly small in size (though a confit leg of pigeon hardly inspires delusions of decadence), and there were five of them—six, even, if you count the petit fours the waiter brought out at the end. Still, very early on it became apparent to Alice that this would be a lunch of picking, as opposed to eating. Salads of almonds and green beans and peaches were dissected and rearranged, the ingredients lined up and scattered. The same went for the salmon in tomato butter, and the pork jowl with fennel and mousserons. When the baked meringue graced the table, Alice didn’t even bother to lift a fork.
For all their aversion to solid food, though, none of the women seem to take issue with the prosecco. Since she climbed into the shotgun seat of the town car that brought them to the restaurant (there was no more room in the back), Alice’s glass, along with everyone else’s, has hovered somewhere between half full and spilling over. Initially, she was relieved by the addition of booze. In the disastrous aftermath of yoga she feared that the rest of the afternoon would be dry, and characterized by the sort of responsible and health-conscious activities that she’s spent much of the past decade avoiding. After her third glass, though, she began to grow nervous. She’d already screwed up once with that stripper comment, and all she’d had to drink at that point was a glass of blended beets. Who knew how badly she’d blow it after the fifth, sixth, seventh glass?
“You can’t possibly claim that she’s got an ounce of taste,” Minty says. “For God’s sake, did you see what she wore two weekends ago at Goodwood?”
“It’s easier than one might think to make that sort of mistake with mauve.” Henny leans back in her chair and drapes a long, bare arm over the back of the empty chair next to her. Of the three of them, Alice finds her to be the most intimidating. She’s not the most talkative of the group, but when she speaks, it’s with a bored, lazy authority. Reaching up, she unfastens the pin that’s been holding her bun together, and dark hair tumbles well past her shoulders. “Besides, babe, if we’re working off the proposition that a single case of erroneous judgment in selecting a sundress confines one to a lifetime of bad taste, you would’ve been a goner in the fourth form.”
Flossie leans forward. “Remember that terrible plaid number, Mint? The skirt with those awful green tights?”
“It was before my growth spurt.” Minty clinks her wedding ring against the stem of her glass. “It was more than the mauve, Henny, and you know it. That hat she was wearing with it looked like an omelet. A big, bloody omelet.”
Henny runs her fingers through her hair and cranes back her long neck.
“You’re just cross that Simon ended up with Lucinda, instead of you.”
“UM, I BEG YOUR PARDON, DO I LOOK CROSS?”
Alice glances over at Minty, who is presently flipping her left ring finger at Henny. At its base, pinched up against Minty’s sizable knuckle, is one of the bigger diamonds that Alice has ever seen.
“I can’t travel with it, you know,” Minty says, cocking her head and gazing at the gem. “Last year Thomas took me to Tulum. Not for any special occasion, really—just because. In any event, I had to leave it in a safe at Coutts. Anyway, Lucinda’s got a face like a feral cat. And she’s from Nottingham.”
“For fuck’s sake, Minty.” Henny holds her champagne coupe by its wide bowl, instead of its stem. “Please try not to be such a terrible bore.”
“I hardly see what’s boring about Tulum.”
Alice doesn’t know what to say, though she’s sure she should say something. The only comments she’s had to offer so far have been bland critiques of the food that’s been served—food that none of them have actually eaten. Every time she’s on the verge of saying something else, though, of putting her neck out and contributing, she stops herself. She worries that whatever it is she’s thought of to say might stop all conversation dead in its track.
Still, despite her better judgment, she says, “Tulum’s the best,” and everyone stares at her.
“You’ve been?” Minty asks, and Alice tries not to be too hurt by the incredulity in her voice.
“A few times, yeah. I … I lived in Mexico City for a few years, actually.”
“Fascinating. Simon loves D.F.” Minty looks around for the bottle of prosecco. “Why’d you leave?”
Alice reaches down and begins picking at a loose thread on her napkin. She can feel her face turning red. “Uh, well—”
“She just missed me too much,” Eloise says. Beneath the table she reaches over and squeezes Alice’s leg.
“Anyway, Mint,” her sister says, “what were you saying about Simon?”