London Is the Best City in America

“Oh, that’s right!” Stacey said. “Josh is getting married this weekend, isn’t he? I knew that. I think my mom told me.” She looked past me, to him, at the table. “You think it’s too late to tell him I had a huge crush on him when he was in high school?”

“Maybe not,” I said.

She looked at me, confused, and then—trying to recover for her—Sheila gave me a big smile.

“Well,” she said, “we were supposed to be on our way to the Hamptons right now, but by the time we got going, traffic was just too awful. So we decided we’ll spend the night in the ’dale and head out early tomorrow . . . we probably should have just taken a jitney right from Midtown instead of coming all the way out here to get the car.”

“Well hindsight’s twenty-twenty, right?” I said. “At least you’ll h

ave the car out at the beach.”

“At least we’ll have the car out at the beach,” they echoed.

I motioned toward the bartender. “Could I get another round of tequila shots when you have a minute?” I asked. “And the rest of the bottle? The rest of the bottle would be great.”

They waited for him to start rounding up the drinks before they continued, as if he cared what we were talking about, let alone wanted to listen. I didn’t even want to listen, and I had no choice.

“So,” Stacey said. “Last time we saw you, Miss Emmy, you were about to get married. You early bloomer! I mean, I always thought I wanted to be further along in my career before all of that, but the more crummy I’m-not-going-to-commit-to-you-while-there-is-even-one-model-at-Bungalow- 8 guys I’m meeting in the city, the more I’m thinking I should have just settled early on like you did. Big deal if I’m the number-three girl for the number-two guy at the biggest litigation firm in New York? I want someone to brush my teeth with. What was the name of that television show that was on for two minutes where the blond girl said that? That she wanted someone to brush her teeth with? Anyway . . . I’m ranting. The point is, we want to hear what you’re up to. What’s your husband’s name again? Matthew? He was studying to be an architect, right? You tell us. How is married life? With a fancy architect?”

Stacey took a deep breath in, which made me realize that I hadn’t taken one either the entire time she’d been talking. I wished more than anything then that I was married to Matt, that I could give them a happy report. Especially because Stacey was beaming again, already smiling again so widely that I understood that even her problems didn’t really bother her. She didn’t really fear she wouldn’t find someone. She didn’t really fear. She was the number-three girl for the number-two guy at the biggest firm in New York City. This was just her opening statement of practiced misery. So I would end up saying something back that would reaffirm for her that she was in the best place she could be in, the only place, and she should feel good about it.

I pulled my hair tighter behind my ears, bracing myself. “Well, you know,” I said, and shrugged, “you may want to ask someone who’s actually married. That didn’t end up happening for me.”

“Jeez, Emmy, I’m sorry,” Sheila said, reaching out and touching my wrist. “I’m really sorry.”

I tried to wave it off. “That’s okay,” I said.

“Oh, of course it is. Of course!” Stacey said, Sheila nodding her head, fiercely, in agreement. “Things sometimes happen. Things change! The important thing is the present. What are you up to now, Emmy?”

“I’m working at a fishing supply store in Rhode Island,” I said.

“Oh.” They looked at each other. “Huh.”

The bartender placed down the tray of tequila shots, the bottle sitting in the middle of the tray. I picked up the tray and then turned back to the girls, holding it up in their direction. “Well, I guess I should be getting these over to the table,” I said. “But don’t worry. I’ll be back in a minute to get everyone else’s.”

They looked at each other, again, and then both started laughing, a little too hard. But I guess that’s what you get for offering up a bad joke, or, maybe, for seeming a little too much like one yourself.

When I got back to the table, my father was telling a story. I put the booze quietly in the center and sat down in the chair next to Berringer. He looked over at me and gave me a smile, and then turned his attention back to my father, whose arm was around Josh. I was only catching the tail end of the story, but I’d heard it before. It was the one when Josh was pitching his first junior varsity baseball game. Josh had been pitching a no-hitter until the last inning, when someone hit a home run out of the park. “Josh ran up to the home plate and broke the bat in half because he was so convinced the guy put cork inside,” my father was saying.

Everyone laughed, except me. I was too busy wondering if all bachelor parties were this much fun.

Berringer leaned in toward me. “Are those friends of yours?” he asked, motioning to Stacey and Sheila at the bar.

I shrugged, reaching straight across him for a tequila shot. “Why do you ask?”

“You look upset.”

I downed the shot, instead of answering him. Then I reached for another. I started to ask if he remembered Sheila and Stacey, mostly because I thought he wouldn’t. Which I thought would make me feel better. But before I even could, he leaned forward and whispered in my ear.

“When I tell certain people that I’m a chef, they look at me funny, and ask what I like to cook,” he said. “And I know if I say I like making some really fancy dish, like margret of duck with verjus, or whole roasted squab and truffles, or foie gras and anything, they’ll approve. I know these are the things they want to hear.”

“So what do you tell them?”

“Peanut butter,” he said. “And jelly.”

I started laughing, feeling a chill run through me, his lips still close to my ear.

I pulled back and looked at him. “So, you want to tell me something, Berringer?”