If We Lived Here (22 page)

Emma laughed along with her friend, but it was hollow, not the kind of laughter she’d been pining for during Annie’s absence. “Come on, let’s eat,” Annie said, hooking her elbow through Emma’s. And as they walked arm in arm through the streets of SoHo, Emma wasn’t sure if the goose bumps she felt were Annie’s or her own.

In the restaurant booth, Annie tore into her cheeseburger with a vengeance. “Wow,” said Emma, “your honeymoon changed you. You eat like an animal now.”

“Listen, between all those jeep drives over bumpy dirt roads and the water that was supposedly safe to drink (I don’t buy it), I was sick nearly every day. I’m thrilled to have good old American fare—meat and cheese and a sesame bun. Mmm!”

“Says the Jew from Westchester.”

“L’chaim!
So, Ems, did you open any of my wedding gifts? I saw that Babeland box in the foyer—I think my sorority sisters pitched in on that new diamond-encrusted dildo.”

“Seriously?” Emma choked on a gulp of beer.

“Yeah, I registered for it.” Emma must’ve looked as incredulous as she felt, because Annie said, “Oh, lighten up. You and Nick might still have a smoking sex life, but old married ladies like me need some toys to spice things up.” But it wasn’t the dildo that shocked Emma; it was the diamonds, which seemed absurdly wasteful. What was the point? “Anyway, I was hoping you’d be bunking with me for longer than a week. I can’t believe you’re moving to Red Hook, which may as well be Philly for how far it is.”

“I know, but you have no idea what we went through.”

“So spill. Tell me everything.”

And Emma did, not editing out or softening parts of the story like she would’ve with her parents or even with Nick, and Annie gasped and grimaced and cheered at all the right moments. This was what Emma had missed. They were halfway through chocolate shakes when she got to the final lease, the fall in the rain, and the resulting bruises.

“Well, now we have to plan you the perfect housewarming,” said Annie.

“Lemme guess, you’ll handle it?” Annie nodded, and Emma was glad to cede control—and any party planned by Annie was sure to be epic. Emma had wondered how her friend was going to channel her famous event-planning energy post-wedding; she was glad to provide her with a fix. Emma sucked up the dregs of her shake, feeling fortified by the thick sweetness lining her stomach. Although apparently Annie didn’t feel the same—a moment later a hand flew to her mouth and she fled for the bathroom.

“Don’t tell Eli,” Annie said afterward. “He kept saying to avoid the fruit stands. I thought he was being overcautious. I don’t want to hear his ‘I told you so’ about picking up some parasite.” Emma nodded, happy to know she and Annie shared a secret from her husband.

Back in the apartment, they found Eli working his way through a bottle of wine, and Nick hunched over a stack of papers. Eli reached for one. “Ah, the good old spelling test,” he said. “I never realized what power teachers have, like you could claim some word’s spelled the wrong way, then all those kids would all grow up believing it.”

“Why would I do that?” Nick said, looking disturbed.

Eli shrugged. “I dunno, because you can.”

Nick gathered up his papers in such a way that made Emma nervous about both paper cuts and the prospect of cohabitating with Annie and Eli until the fifteenth.

“I wish I had the excuse of some teacher screwing with me,” said Annie, diffusing the tension as usual. “My spelling’s horrendous. Anyway, Eli, why don’t you let Nick grade in peace? Ems is gonna help me open presents.”

As Annie went at the packages, ripping wrapping paper, flinging ribbons, and sending tissue paper flying, Emma stood by and filled in the spreadsheet: what the gift was, whom it was from, and whether or not Annie would keep it. Soon the room looked like a ransacked Party City. From a hefty parcel Annie pulled out several serving platters—“Perfect for your party,” she said to Emma, who was looking forward to what would clearly be the classiest housewarming ever. She unwrapped monogrammed towels, his-and-hers iPods, and Tiffany silver in ten different forms. There were silk bathrobes, designer bath products, and bottles of Johnnie Walker in labels blue, red, and black. The sheer quantity of stuff was staggering. All brand new, all top-of-the-line, all for a couple that already had an apartment and a life fully stocked with everything they could’ve ever wanted. At each item, Annie squealed, and Emma diligently recorded the details. Only Emma seemed stressed about where they’d possibly put all of these things. The temporary solution, it turned out, was the guest room, meaning that when Emma and Nick went to sleep that night, their bed was an island in a sea of wedding gifts.

“Are you still awake?” Emma asked, nudging Nick. He made a noise. “How about we keep our new place minimalist? Just a few pieces of furniture, no knickknacks.”

“I was thinking the same thing.” Between snores, he murmured something that sounded like, “I love you.” Emma drifted to sleep happy, knowing she was under the same roof as both her boyfriend and her best friend.

Chapter
21

I
n addition to Nick and Annie, the apartment’s luxury espresso machine became Emma’s other source of comfort, and she intended to savor it during her remaining time at her friend’s place. Each morning she treated herself to a different concoction—
café au lait
, soy cinnamon mocha, extra-frothy chai—and Annie taught her to pour the milk into flower and heart patterns without the stencils. Nick denounced the machine; he started buying his coffee, black, from the truck on the corner, as if to make a point to Eli, who happily let his new wife serve him his gourmet cup each morning without ever offering to reciprocate. But for Emma, the daily fix of fancy caffeine, along with Annie’s company at the breakfast table, made her thrilled to wake up. Each morning she left the apartment cheered, full of vigor and purpose, intent on making the most of her day at
1, 2, 3 . . . Ivies!

In the office Emma waved a tentative hello to Genevieve, who was on the phone, and then checked her schedule: First up was Sophia Cole. Emma was determined to reinstate the professionalism she’d let lapse in recent weeks. No more giving in to the girl’s whims about how to spend the sessions or letting her tag along on personal errands, and certainly no socializing. Upon arrival, Sophia admitted she’d done exactly none of the work Emma had assigned. “Oh,” she added nonchalantly, uncapping a Sharpie and beginning to embellish a henna-like design on her forearm, “my alarm acted up on the morning of the SATs. But sleeping was such a better use of my time than standardized testing. I’ve been so exhausted lately. So what’s new with you?”

It took all of Emma’s restraint not to scream. Instead, in a very calm voice she said, “Sophia, what exactly do you plan to do with yourself after high school?”

The girl looked up from her drawing and batted her eyelashes. “Continue being my charming self, of course.”

“Meaning what, going to parties and saying clever and cute things, like all of those layabouts I met at your friend’s fake apartment the other night?”

“Hey, I brought you there as a guest.”

“I’m just saying, if that’s what you want, fine, but I can’t imagine it really is. I can’t think of anything more tragic than you ending up swallowed by that crowd.” Emma flashed on the parties in
The House of Mirth
, the fashionable, vapid affairs thrown by the pillars of high society, so valued by Lily Bart even though they bored her to tears. In contemporary New York, Sophia was one of the few people who still had access to a sort of society life, changed as it was. At one point this might’ve made Emma jealous, but now she was going to make it her mission to rescue the girl from it.

Sophia aimed to distract: “How about we Google the worst examples of common app essays and laugh at how idiotic people can be?”

Emma had let this relationship go way off the rails. To avoid funneling her frustration toward her teenage client, she decided she needed a breather. “Sophia, I’ll be back in a minute. Sit here and work on that practice test. I mean it.”

On Emma’s way to the bathroom—she must’ve been stomping—Genevieve called out, “Everything all right?”

“Yeah,” she said tentatively, trying to discern whether Gen was back to being her friend or still the weirdly polite person she’d become in the last couple of weeks. Her air seemed friendly. “Actually, no, I’m not really all right. I’m trying to figure out what the hell to do with Sophia Cole”—
and with you,
Emma thought but didn’t say. “She’s brilliant, but has zero motivation. All she wants to do is hang out with me.”

Genevieve tucked her long hair behind her ears. “Well, the clients aren’t your friends, as I know you know; though I bet it’s hard to remember that when they’re so smart and well spoken. And of course New York City teens are all freaks of nature who look and act like they’re twenty-five. But they’re still kids, you know?”

“Yep, you’re totally right.”
Smart and well spoken . . .
It occurred to Emma then that Sophia, whom she’d slipped into thinking of as some sort of sidekick or little sister, reminded her of her actual friends, Annie and Genevieve. Though neither was book-smart like Sophia, they all shared a similar spark. No wonder then, that while Annie had been off honeymooning and Gen had retreated mysteriously from their friendship, Emma, feeling lonely, had slotted Sophia in as a kind of substitute. Well, no longer.

“Hey, Gen,” she added, gathering up her nerve, “are we okay? I feel like I did something wrong and I don’t quite know what it is.”

Gen looked like she might cry. “Ugh, I’m so sorry. It’s not you; you’re perfect. Though maybe that’s part of it. I’m feeling so less-than-perfect lately, with my acting career a bust and this stupid joke of a job.” She glanced at their boss’s door—closed.

“But the nursing school thing—”

Gen waved her away. “I know, I know. But
blech,
what a pain to start over from scratch at thirty. Especially when so many people we know are killing it in their careers these days. And now that it’s getting cold outside, all I want is someone to cuddle up with. Two of my roommates just got boyfriends, you know. They’re head over heels.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“No, I mean, I’m happy for them. It’s just, I had this new guy over the other night, and when we were going to bed, he warned me that spooning made him break out in hives. I couldn’t tell if he meant it literally or metaphorically.”

“Yikes.”

“Exactly. So I dunno, I’ve had a hard time around couple-y friends lately.”

“Right. Are Nick and I that couple-y?” Genevieve shrugged. “Huh, okay.” Emma was struck by how much harder being single must be at age thirty than at twenty-five.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s just me being stupid. I’m an idiot. It hasn’t made me feel better to ditch my friends, believe me. All it’s meant is me staying holed up at home, bored and clicking through Instagrams of everyone else’s fabulous lives.”

“That’s the worst.” Emma thought of the cheesy, overly posed engagement albums on Facebook that made her seethe simultaneously with condescension and envy.

“It’s masochistic is what it is. I’m always half considering renouncing all of social media, but then I catch myself fantasizing about when I land the lead in some killer Broadway show, and how then I can post tons of my own braggy photos.” Gen smiled, and Emma welled up with feeling for her friend; she’d really missed her.

“How about this? As soon as I move into my new place, I’ll kick Nick out for the night and the two of us can stay in and cuddle up in front of a bad movie. We’ll make fun of the acting, then we’ll go out and find you a guy in some hip bar in my ’hood, okay?”

“Sure, it’s a plan. And in the meantime, I’ll try and stay off In-stagram.”

“Good luck with that.” Emma knew Gen spent most of her workday bored online.

“And good luck with the girl in there,” Genevieve said. “Stay strong.” Emma nodded, jutted out her chin, and marched back down the hall. She was feeling very mature, having faced a friend issue head-on and resolved it, instead of letting it fester under the surface, as she definitely would’ve done at Sophia’s age.

In her office, Emma found her client using a Scantron to create a pointillism-style drawing of a leaf. “Here’s a question,” Emma said, snatching away the paper. “What does your mother want you to do after high school?”

“Besides attend Smith, join a sorority, wear pearls and cardigan sets, and learn how to set a table for tea?”

“They don’t have sororities at Smith, which I bet you know. And your mom isn’t a total idiot, either. Seriously, I’m curious.”

Sophia sighed. “She thinks I should work for Annie Leibovitz or Jeff Koons or one of the three other world-famous artists she’s actually heard of. As if that’s at all realistic. So yeah, she pretty much
is
a total idiot.”

“Okay, so she thinks you should get your feet wet in the art world. If it weren’t totally unrealistic, would you want to work for an artist, like as an apprentice or an intern?”

“I dunno, I guess.” Sophia’s voice wavered, sounding stripped of some veneer. “But not here. What I’d really like to do is study at the Prado—there’s this Velázquez scholar who writes for
Artforum
and he’s always talking about the collection there.”

“You mean the Museo del Prado, in Madrid?”

“Yeah. My mom says my dad used to take her there in the eighties and they’d draw together in the portrait galleries. I still have some of his sketchbooks.” Emma could picture her own parents doing the same thing—they’d raved to her about exhibits at the Prado. “It would be cool to retrace their steps.”

“Wait, you’ve never gone?”

“No, I’ve never been abroad.” Sophia blushed, as if this were a mortifying confession. And Emma
was
shocked—she’d assumed the girl from Park Avenue was a well-seasoned worldwide traveler. “Oh,” was all she could think to say.

“Yeah, well, my mom goes to Europe all the time, but she always leaves me behind. Tells the doorman to keep an eye on me.” The edge was back in her voice, and Emma realized her client was a real-life Eloise. “She comes back showering me with souvenirs, most of it stupid, expensive stuff. But a couple times she brought things from the Prado—a Goya poster I have up on my closet door, even though it’s torn now. Mom’s constantly threatening to toss it. And this silk scarf with little pink birds on it.” Emma was nodding enthusiastically—she’d seen Sophia wear that scarf. The girl suddenly scowled. “Anyway, why are we talking about my stupid mom and her guilt gifts?”

“We’re not—well, not anymore.” Emma had an idea; she made a mental note to e-mail her parents later. “But speaking of your mother, I’m sending her a progress report this week. So if I were you, I’d spend the rest of today plowing through that practice test.”

“Boo, you’re no fun. I thought we were friends.”

“Nope, we’re not. I’m your tutor and you’re my client.”

 

Next up was Dylan York, who strutted in sporting a Columbia University T-shirt, still stiff with lines from what was probably the store’s folding. Emma had practically written his early-decision application herself, and yet she knew it wouldn’t be enough. Dylan’s parents had forwarded her his SAT score report: 1,800. Way too low for that ivory tower.

“I have some materials for you.” Emma laid out a pile of brochures—to NYU and Rochester and Skidmore, perfectly decent schools that Dylan had an actual shot at.

“What the hell are these?” he asked. “I’m going to Columbia with my girlfriend, remember? Or if not, probably Cornell. Did you forget the name of your business?” Dylan’s sneer reminded Emma of something, and she realized it was the initial meeting with the boy’s Hellis; when Emma had mentioned the importance of applying to safety schools, Mr. York had assumed the same look. “That won’t be necessary for Dylan,” he’d said. “My son’s IQ is off the charts.”

Behind Dylan’s scoff must’ve been real fear—that he wouldn’t get into Columbia, that his girlfriend would abandon him, that his parents would think him a failure instead of a genius, that he’d be doomed. “Dylan, I’m going to let you in on a little life wisdom that I doubt you’ll hear at Dalton.”

“I go to Trinity,” he spat.

“Trinity, sorry.” Emma sometimes had trouble keeping straight all of Manhattan’s elite prep schools, those $40K-a-year breeding grounds for entitlement. “Anyway, you’re going to get into college. In fact, you’re going to get into a great college, although it probably won’t be the number-one or even the number-ten school in the country. Also, there are always going to be people who are smarter than you, and more talented than you, and yes, even richer than you. But guess what? That doesn’t make you a loser, or stupid, or any less worthy. It’s just life, and it’s perfectly okay. There are more important things than where you go to college. Like whether or not you’re a good person.”

Dylan’s scoff deepened, aging him ten years. Emma could almost picture what he’d look like middle-aged, a bloated banker type who talked down to his secretary. “Here’s a little life wisdom for
you
,” he said, words thick with sarcasm. “Read your job description. My dad isn’t paying you to dole out some two-bit psychobabble crap. Your purpose is to get me into the Ivy League.” He flung the pamphlets aside and stormed out.

“Do yourself a favor,” Emma called after him. “Apply to a safety school.” She knew she would get an angry Helli call, and that this would likely be the last time she’d see Dylan York. But she didn’t care. She hoped that maybe when the boy was panicking over his rejection letter from Columbia, getting berated by his parents, and watching his girlfriend gloat over her acceptance, he’d remember her words. Beyond that, there was nothing Emma could do.