Wow. She’s right. Her memory can be crazy good when it suits her.
“Uh, yes, but…” It’s hard to find words to describe why I shouldn’t go to Book Club, mostly because it’s so plainly obvious. For one thing, I haven’t been to Book Club in four months. For another, I suspect the members of the book club—Andrea Heathmont, Romy Fisher, Jazz, and a bunch of other mothers from school—would sooner eat the selected book than discuss it with me over red wine and soft cheese.
“I don’t know what book they’re discussing,” I say weakly.
Mother laughs. “As if anyone reads the book! Isn’t it just an excuse for a midweek glass of wine with the girls? Who knows, you might end up going into town and having a dance?”
“Mother, I really think—”
“I’m picking Clemmy up, anyway, so suit yourself. But I think you should reach out to your friends. They may have their grievances with you, but if you don’t stick with them, how can you expect them to stick by you? Like your grandmother used to tell me, the best cure for melancholy is your girlfriends. Go. What have you got to lose?”
That night, I lie on the couch in my pajamas with Mother’s words on auto-play in my head. “What have you got to lose?” Maybe she’s right? The truth is, I don’t have a whole lot left to lose, and who knows, perhaps the ladies would understand it wasn’t my fault?
I look at the clock. It’s 8:01 P.M. If I leave now, I’d be late, but I’d still make it.
Ten minutes later, I’m out in the evening air. I still have my reservations, but I feel surprisingly free. Maybe I can do this? I am, after all, one of the founding members of Book Club. When it started, the members had been just Jazz, Andrea, and me. We used to meet in our living rooms, but when the girls started kindergarten, we invited a few other moms to join and moved the location to the back room at Emilio’s Wine Bar. Now we have about fifteen members, though generally only seven or eight come to any particular meeting.
Emilio’s is quiet up front, but from the entrance, I can hear shrieks of laughter out of the back room, and I get a boost of confidence. It feels like forever since I’ve gone to Book Club. And how long has it been since I laughed like that?
As I round the corner, I count about twelve heads around the table—a good turnout. Romy is talking to Madeleine, a glass of wine hovering at her lips. Andrea digs a piece of flat bread into spinach dip, laughing at something Carmen is saying. Clearly the group discussion has finished (if there even was one), and now the women clump in twos and threes, gossiping. This is the good part of Book Club. I made the right decision to come.
“Eve!” Jazz is the first to notice me. Her face is the image of shock—open mouth, wide eyes, pink cheeks. It takes a few seconds because of the music, but one by one, heads turn.
“Hello,” I say, forcing a smile. “Room for one more?”
“Sure,” Jazz says eventually. “Yeah. Take a seat.”
A couple of women shuffle over, and I sit next to a kindergarten mom I know vaguely. Someone pushes an empty wineglass toward me. I look around eagerly but everyone remains silent.
“So,” I say. “What’s the book?”
“Gone Girl,” someone says. “Have you read it?”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I enjoyed it.”
I sound a bit formal, a bit nervous. There’s an open bottle of red on the table and I pull it toward me and pour the remaining few inches into my glass.
“So … how are you, Eve?” Carmen asks, leaning forward on her elbows. “You must be having an awful time.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“And your … little one? Clementine? How is she?”
Carmen is talking loudly and Jazz and a couple of other mothers look over, casually interested. A few others resume chatting among themselves.
“Clem’s fine,” I say, wondering if this is true. “She’s grieving, of course, but she’s a tough little thing. She’ll get through it.”
“Good.” Carmen pulls on her gold necklace and smiles a little too brightly, the same smile as the woman next to her, and the woman next to her. “Good.”
I smile back. It’s bizarre, but it’s bound to be like this for a while; I know that. Soon people will lose interest. There’s always something or someone new to talk about.
“So where are you living, Eve?” someone asks, and my throat closes up. At a loss, I take another swig of my wine, draining the glass. “Shall I order another bottle?” I ask.
Nobody speaks. A few heads turn; a few silent conversations are had. The song that was playing ends, and there are a few moments of dead air before the next one starts up.
Finally a chair screeches back. “Actually, I’m going to head off,” Andrea says, standing. Her gaze touches mine for a second. “Busy day tomorrow.”
“Yes—me, too,” Romy says. “I have an early start.”
There’s a general hum of agreement. People look at their watches. It’s late. They’re tired. One by one, chairs scrape backwards.
“Nice to see you, Eve.”
“You take care.”