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  “There’s no point boycotting his deli if he doesn’t realize what we’re doing,” Tish tells us. “I want him to see what he’s missing.”

  She certainly looks great enough to miss in the skimpy summer dress. The top has tiny spaghetti straps and clings lovingly to her ample bosom, and I am jealous as hell. The flirty skirt skims the top of her brown knees. It is also very red. This is a very un-Tish-style dress and it is blatantly sexy—so blatantly sexy it may as well be emblazoned with the words FUCK ME NOW, but my God, does she look good. She is also the only one of us not sweating profusely, and I wonder if this is due to a secret formula body lotion that the Italians have not shared with the rest of us.

  “Oh, there he is,” she says, and I glance over my shoulder to look.

  “Don’t look.” She kicks me under the table. “I don’t want him to think I’m sitting here on purpose like some sad, unattractive stalker who can’t get a date.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Rachel tells her. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. Jesus, I’m risking skin cancer for the sake of your fuck.” Rachel slides her chair sideways to get a good position under the shade of the canopy. “Can’t you just forget about Rufus and move on to a more receptive guy? That waiter who served us was very interested in you.”

  “It’s not about a fuck,” Tish says, and I gasp.

  Tish never says fuck. She is the most clean-mouthed of all my friends, on account of her strict Catholic upbringing with Saturday confessions and Sunday mass.

  “You never say fuck,” I accuse her. “The Pope will have a stroke.”

  “Yes. Well, to paraphrase the great Bob Dylan, times are changing. I’m changing. I want Rufus to see what he’s missed. Fuck, fuck, fuck. God, that feels good.” And then she begins to laugh, hysterically, tossing her glossy brown hair over her shoulder.

  Have I just missed something? Okay, Tish saying fuck is unusual, but it’s not that funny. I glance across at Rachel, who scowls.

  “Hahaha.” Tish leans back languorously in her chair to show her breasts to their full advantage. And then she swings one knee sexily over the other. Her red strappy shoes are divine.

  “That was just too fucking funny.” She giggles, then leans across and playfully taps my arm. “Hahaha, can’t you just go along with me and laugh? Pretend I just told you something totally hilarious—Rufus is watching.”

  Aha. Now we get it. I self-consciously join in. But Rachel doesn’t.

  “This is just too fucking degrading,” Rachel announces, and gets to her feet, nearly collapsing her chair. “Why don’t you just point your fanny in the direction of Rufus’s deli, then open your legs really wide. Even he should get that message.”

  Tish, crestfallen, stops laughing mid-haha.

  “Hey, that was a bit…unfair,” I say, before I can stop myself.

  Because I have said this, because I never contradict her, Rachel scowls and I cringe as I wait for the next lash of her tongue. I can almost see the cogs clicking behind her eyes as I wait for the diatribe that is sure to come.

  But I know that I am right, because it was unkind. Tish doesn’t deserve it. And although Rachel is one tough cookie, she is not usually a bitch. At least, not to us. And then something very strange occurs. Just as she opens her mouth to shrivel me with acerbic words, she does a complete about-face.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry, honey,” Rachel says, as she places a placatory hand on Tish’s shoulder.

  Well, knock me down with a feather.

  “Forgive me for being an unfeeling, hardhearted, callous bitch. You laugh and flirt all you want. Rufus is a dickhead for not dragging you immediately up to his apartment to fuck the living daylights out of you.”

  And as Tish and I stare at her, our mouths appropriately open in fly-catching mode, she smiles sweetly. “Anyone for more fucking cake?”

  “What was all that about?” I ask Tish, once I’m sure Rachel is inside the café (and out of earshot). “She never puts herself down like that. It’s rare enough to hear her apologize.”

  “It’s that guy at work,” Tish tells me. “He had the nerve to question her army-style running of the project when she laid into a junior technician for adding the wrong amino acid to—well, I can’t remember what the amino acid was added to. But Rachel was very upset about it. Apparently it ruined a month of careful work. So you can understand why she was pissed.”

  We both ponder this in silence, because we don’t get what it is that Rachel actually does. Whenever we ask, she pats the side of her nose with her finger because it’s top secret. Our theory is that she’s working for the government on a new cure to a dreadful disease. Or that she’s trying to clone a friend sheep for Dolly.

  “You know, maybe she does go a little over the top,” Tish adds, with a giggle, and I giggle, too, because I would not like to be at the receiving end of Rachel’s sharp tongue.

  “Oh, God. You can just imagine it, can’t you?” I say, feeling sympathy for the poor technician. Much as I love Rachel, I would not work for her if you bribed me with a million dollars.

  “Anyway,” Tish says. “Apparently Hugh walked in just as she was yelling at the technician. So he pulls her into his office and calls her, and I quote, ‘an unfeeling, hardhearted, callous bitch.’ She’s really taken it to heart.”

  “My God. That’s awful. Rachel’s a perfectionist, but she doesn’t deserve that kind of language.”

  “Ah, yes, but it turns out that she insulted him first.”

  “Tell me more.” I lean closer to Tish, intrigued by the thought of someone having the nerve to shout at Rachel.

  “Okay. But promise you won’t say anything about it to her?”

  “Absolutely. Give it up.”

  “All right.” Tish leans even closer and whispers to me. “He only called her that after she called him a motherfucking, interfering, misogynist bastard who couldn’t tell a double helix from his ass.”

  “Oh, my. If only I’d been a fly on that wall. But why didn’t she tell me?” I ask, feeling left out, because I have known Rachel for much longer than Tish has.

  “It happened Friday. She didn’t want to tell you after the terrible day you had.”

  Am I really that unapproachable and self-centered? I make a mental note to stop whining on and on about my own problems all the time, and to pay more attention to my friends. Wonder when I should broach the subject of me not moving out of Adam’s apartment?

  “Besides.” Tish grins. “I think that Hugh guy is just what she needs. It’s good to have at least one person who doesn’t agree with you all of the time.”

  “Have you ever seen him?”

  “No. But Rachel says he’s a baboon, so I guess he’s ugly and hairy. Just serve her right if she fell madly in love with him. I’d like to see her in love, just once.”

  “Yeah.” I grin, mentally picturing Rachel at an altar, in a white billowing frock, being offered a banana.

  Rachel, as far as we are aware, has never actually been in love. In high school, she didn’t date at all on account of all the boys in her peer group being maniacally scared of her IQ. But that doesn’t mean anything, because I didn’t date either, until I started college.

  But during her college years (Harvard, of course) she approached sex as she does everything else. She decided it was time to see what all the fuss was about, and proceeded to treat it like a scientific experiment. She does like sex, as we know, because she is not short of willing men to help her out in this department, but she never really dates the same guy for more than a couple of weeks. I don’t think she’s a nymphomaniac or anti-men. I think she just gets bored with them really quickly.

  “Here were are, my friends.” Rachel breezes through the door, followed by the attractive, dark-haired waiter.

  “Thank you so much,” Tish tells him, as he places our cakes on the table, and she flashes him such a come-on smile, that he nearly falls on the floor at her feet.

  “See.” Rachel nods encouragingl
y after the hot waiter. “He’d fuck you like a shot. Now let’s recap the plan.”

  There’s nothing Rachel loves more than a good list. Today’s list plots out what we are going to do, and when we are going to do it.

  “When we’ve finished up here, we’ll head straight to the outlets. That should give us a clear three-hour outletting gap, then back here to Chez Nous for an early dinner with the boys. Then back to Bastard Ionic Bonder Adam’s place to pack your stuff and move you to Tish’s place.”

  Perhaps now would be a good time to mention the new plan.

  “Actually, I’m not moving out just yet,” I tell them, as I concentrate all my attention on my plate.

  “I mean, why should I rush? After all, he asked me to move in. Which is exactly why I don’t have my own apartment anymore. Why should the bastard get rid of me so easily? He deserves to suffer,” I add, warming to my theme.

  “Good for you,” Rachel tells me. “Get the fucking locks changed, that will really piss him off. You could hold a decorating party. We could all come over and help paint it some really disgusting color.”

  I knew Rachel would approve!

  “Emma, are you sure about this?” Tish asks, her brow furrowed with concern. “Sweetie, wouldn’t it be better just to make a clean break and move out? You’ve already been hurt—why risk more?”

  “Because he’s a fucking ionic bonder who deserves to suffer,” Rachel rants. “You go, girl.”

  “Well, if you think it’s the right thing to do…” Tish trails off, and I wonder if she has a point. Do I really want to stay there with all the memories of happier times?

  As we leave the café, I feel more depressed than vengeful.

  Glancing across the road, I see Rufus watching Tish walk down the street. And I don’t know if it’s just the sunlight blinding me, even through my sunshades, but his expression freezes me in my tracks. Every nerve end of his body is filled with longing.

  And I wonder if Adam ever looked at me like that?

  Sunday supper at Chez Nous reminds me of old times with good friends. After two glasses of Chardonnay to go with the delicious coq au vin, followed by crème brûlée and a large snifter of Chivas Regal, I’m feeling very mellow as I glance around the table.

  Sunday evenings are always quiet, so when David and Sylvester first opened Chez Nous, we made a point of eating here to boost Sunday sales. That was two years ago, and we’re still eating here. And Sunday evenings are still quiet. Apart from the older couple and the two yuppie types, we have the place to ourselves.

  Tish, Rachel, Katy, Tom, Sylvester, and David (although Sylvester and David have been taking it in turns to spend time in the kitchen to cook and serve the delicious food). And little Alex, of course, peacefully asleep on the couch in the corner, despite the noise of our chatter and laughter. When he was a baby, Katy and Tom made a point of placing his bassinet close to the television so he’d be able to sleep through anything.

  It certainly worked, and when I have my babies, I will do this too. Except not with television, but with music. Led Zeppelin, obviously. Which will not only teach them to sleep despite the noise, but will also give them excellent taste in music. Yes, I will definitely do this with my babies. I fondly imagine Adam and me standing over the bassinet, gazing lovingly at the blonde cherub sleeping soundly to the strains of “Stairway to Heaven”…Oh. Except I won’t be having Adam’s babies…

  I wonder what they’re doing now…I feel the buildup of tears behind my eyes as my imagination conjures up images of Adam and Stella feeding each other lobster on a candlelit terrace, Adam and Stella strolling hand in hand on a lovely, romantic Bahamian beach, the waves lapping at their ankles…Adam, hopping around in horrendously complete agony after being stung by a jellyfish…

  You know, now I come to think of it, since moving in with Adam I’ve only been back once for Sunday supper. And that was the time I brought him with me to meet everyone, which wasn’t exactly a success. Why didn’t I realize then that our relationship was doomed? Was I blind?

  If I ever get involved with any man, ever again, I will never give up my Sunday evenings with friends.

  “I think that’s disgusting.” Rachel pounds the table with her fist.

  “Marion read a report about it,” Katy says. “You just don’t know what a problem this has become.”

  “Marion Lacy, oh font of all knowledge,” Tom says, rolling his eyes. “At least Alex’s e-mail problem is fixed. I’ve changed the settings and they only allow him to receive mail from a designated list. He won’t be getting any more junk mail.”

  “You’re my hero.” Katy smiles and touches his arm. “I told the other mothers that I’d show them how to do it too. But Marion says we shouldn’t have to—”

  “You know, it wouldn’t be so bad if you could tell these bastards to remove you from their goddamned mail list,” Rachel interrupts her, warming up for a bit of a rant.

  I think that Hugh person at work has really got to her. I also think that the older couple in the corner seem a little apprehensive. But Rachel is speaking rather loudly.

  “I mean, these…these bastard e-mails always come with the option to remove your name from their disgusting e-mail list, but it doesn’t goddamned work.”

  “I know.” David nods in agreement. “You hit ‘reply’ and send them an e-mail with ‘remove’ in the title, and then they’re supposed to remove you from the list.”

  “Yes, but that’s the bastard thing about it,” Rachel says, taking a large gulp of her brandy. “You do it, just so they know that you don’t want any more of their goddamned filth. And then what happens, huh? What happens then?”

  She glances around at us, but before anyone can offer a reply, she continues in full rant mode.

  “I’ll tell you what happens. The goddamned e-mail gets returned to you as undeliverable, and they carry on sending their dirty, filthy e-mails without a care in the world. I mean, what are things coming to?”

  “But who owns ze Internet? Where is ze World Wide Web?” Sylvester’s question is a good one. One to which no one seems to know the answer, and for a moment there is silence as we look around at each other.

  “Well anyway,” Katy tells us, looking down nervously at her hands. “Marion’s arranged a march for next Thursday.”

  “Independence Day?” I ask. “Isn’t there a parade?”

  “Yes, of course. We’re marching after the parade.”

  “Count me in,” Rachel says, unsurprisingly.

  “But your parents are coming over,” says Tom. “Tell me you didn’t agree.”

  “Well…” Katy picks up a spoon and fiddles with it, and I get a very uneasy feeling.

  “You did, didn’t you? Katy, you have got to put your foot down with this woman. She does not own you. You do not have to do everything she suggests.” Tom runs a hand through his hair, and I notice how tired he looks.

  Embarrassing silence falls on the room. I wonder if they’re having problems. I hope not. But it’s not really like Tom to get upset like this. Katy’s only trying to do the right thing.

  “Emma, sweetie.” David breaks the deadlock as he pours more brandy. “How are you?”

  “I’m okay,” I say brightly as all attention is focused on me. A little too brightly. I take a gulp of my brandy to stop myself from melting into a little puddle of self-pity.

  “It’s just like old times again, isn’t it?” Katy says. “You and Tish sharing again. It’s great to have you back, Emma.”

  I wonder if now would be a good time to tell them…

  “There’s been a change of plan,” Rachel announces to the table. “Emma’s not moving out of Adam’s place. And I think it’s a great idea. Make the bastard suffer, that’s what I say.” I jump as she pounds on the table again. “He deserves inconvenience after what he’s done to Emma.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Tom asks.

  “Of course she is sure,” Sylvester says. “Zat Adam, pah. You must stay zere until
ze cops come wiz ze eviction notice, is what I say.”

  Well, I hadn’t exactly intended to let things get as far as court appearances and eviction notices…

  And before I can stop it, I picture myself boarded up in Adam’s apartment as the police lay siege outside. I’m lounging weakly on the sofa and I don’t even have the strength to operate the TV remote control. The food is long finished, there’s no electricity, no water, and I have been forced to eat toothpaste to survive…

  “I think you should make a clean break of it,” Tom tells me quietly. “Don’t let him hurt you anymore than he already has.”

  “Hey,” I say, and glance across the table at Katy, who is chatting animatedly to Rachel and Tish. “You guys are okay, aren’t you? I mean, this PPPTA thing. It’s just Katy’s way of trying to fit in. She really loves you, and you really love her, don’t you?”

  “Of course I love her. But you know, I’m just so tired of coming home every day and finding the house overrun with Marion Lacy and the PADD or MASS mothers. Katy doesn’t have to do all this stuff to prove what a great mom she is—all you have to do is look at her with Alex. With all the trouble at work, sometimes I just want to come home and veg out in front of the television. It’s tiring, constantly trying to save the world. And it’s wearing her out. She needs to take it easier. She needs to stop beating herself up over this stuff.”

  “Your job isn’t in any danger, is it?” I ask, because Tom works for a major financial institution on Wall Street and things are not exactly rosy at the moment.

  “I don’t know, Emma,” he says, and I notice, again, how tired he looks. “More redundancies are due. I don’t think I’m in the firing line but we’ll have to wait and see.”

  “Oh, God, Tom, I’m so sorry. Does Katy know?”

  “No. Not yet. She has enough to worry about these days,” he says, morosely gazing into his brandy.