stupid.”
“Don’t tell anybody, but the truth is I hate innovative people. Not you, but, like, inventors.”
Emily laughed and looked down. Ida was wearing a pleated green skirt and high black boots covered with a sea of maroon beads—she’d seen those beads on a pair of Miu Miu pumps last spring and wished boots could be beaded that way. And here they were: her dream boots, existing in reality, on Ida’s feet where they looked even more perfect with just a few beads carelessly knocked off.
“I love your boots,” Emily said.
“These? I got them at Century. Thanks. Anyway, what are you doing here? I know Steven and Rick. They did a film option for me with this Uruguayan filmmaker. So now I show up at their stuff. They don’t make me donate.”
“Actually I’m here because—” But Emily let Ida cut her off.
“You know I got married?” Ida nodded and Emily could tell that Ida was still trying to get comfortable with the words. “Yeah, about two years ago.”
“Is your husband here?”
“Lord, no. Billy hates this stuff. He’s a trader and on the side he writes a newsletter about the World Bank. He wants us to move to D.C. but it’s not happening. I hate that town. In Brooklyn, I’m a face in the crowd. Every time I go down to D.C. somebody tries to pin a medal on me.”
“That sounds cool.” Emily imagined Ida and her genius husband at balls at the Watergate Hotel and parties in the bowling alley at the White House with powerful speechwriters and lobbyists for international trade organizations. She was sure they stayed up late in bed afterward and laughed and gossiped together. Eli sucked at gossip.
“It’s not cool,” Ida said. “It’s boring. But whatever, it’s my fault. I love him. I married him. So he’s home and I’m at this random thing. I see your ring. Who’d you marry?”
“Um,” Emily said, and then she just shook her head and closed her eyes. “Eli,” Emily said with a shrug. “Eli Corelli.”
“What?” Ida asked. “You’re married to Eli? I am so, so sorry I didn’t make the connection!”
“How could you,” Emily said. “I’m standing here and I don’t even know where he is.” Emily worried that she was hovering over Ida so she gave her some space. But Ida moved closer. They both leaned against the doorframe to the kitchen, with just inches between them. Everybody else had to maneuver around them. Emily could see that Ida so did not care.
“Wow, everybody loves your guy.”
“True,” Emily said. “Wait, who’s he with now?”
Eli was in the living room with the actress and her husband. The three of them were huddled in front of an enormous black marble fireplace. Eli had someone else’s banjo in his hands.
“Looks like Trent Norman and Genevieve Winslow-Homer.”
“That’s her name,” Emily said. “I kept forgetting it.”
“You forget it because she stole it from a famous artist and if you’re anything like me that disgusts you. Her actual name is Jennifer Puddle or something. I see her at yoga. She has flexible hips.”
“Where do you go?”
“Kula.”
“I never see you there,” Emily said. “I’ve been doing a lot of yoga lately.”
“I do yoga in binges,” Ida said. “Sometimes constantly. Sometimes not at all.”
“He didn’t tell me he was going to perform,” Emily said.
Genevieve had long blond hair, tiny lips, and normal eyes. Nothing special there. Still, she was beautiful. So was her husband.
“Maybe the camera finds something in her that I can’t see,” Emily said.
“You’re too kind.”
The actress stood between Eli and her husband and began nodding her head. Trent snapped his fingers. He and Eli looked like bandmates, with their plaid shirts and jeans and longish unkempt hair. Trent had a child’s bongo cradled in the crook of his arm.
“Everybody get ready!” Trent called out.
“Are you okay?” Ida asked. “You look a little trembly.”
“I’m fine. I bet they’re going to announce
“Don’t tell anybody, but the truth is I hate innovative people. Not you, but, like, inventors.”
Emily laughed and looked down. Ida was wearing a pleated green skirt and high black boots covered with a sea of maroon beads—she’d seen those beads on a pair of Miu Miu pumps last spring and wished boots could be beaded that way. And here they were: her dream boots, existing in reality, on Ida’s feet where they looked even more perfect with just a few beads carelessly knocked off.
“I love your boots,” Emily said.
“These? I got them at Century. Thanks. Anyway, what are you doing here? I know Steven and Rick. They did a film option for me with this Uruguayan filmmaker. So now I show up at their stuff. They don’t make me donate.”
“Actually I’m here because—” But Emily let Ida cut her off.
“You know I got married?” Ida nodded and Emily could tell that Ida was still trying to get comfortable with the words. “Yeah, about two years ago.”
“Is your husband here?”
“Lord, no. Billy hates this stuff. He’s a trader and on the side he writes a newsletter about the World Bank. He wants us to move to D.C. but it’s not happening. I hate that town. In Brooklyn, I’m a face in the crowd. Every time I go down to D.C. somebody tries to pin a medal on me.”
“That sounds cool.” Emily imagined Ida and her genius husband at balls at the Watergate Hotel and parties in the bowling alley at the White House with powerful speechwriters and lobbyists for international trade organizations. She was sure they stayed up late in bed afterward and laughed and gossiped together. Eli sucked at gossip.
“It’s not cool,” Ida said. “It’s boring. But whatever, it’s my fault. I love him. I married him. So he’s home and I’m at this random thing. I see your ring. Who’d you marry?”
“Um,” Emily said, and then she just shook her head and closed her eyes. “Eli,” Emily said with a shrug. “Eli Corelli.”
“What?” Ida asked. “You’re married to Eli? I am so, so sorry I didn’t make the connection!”
“How could you,” Emily said. “I’m standing here and I don’t even know where he is.” Emily worried that she was hovering over Ida so she gave her some space. But Ida moved closer. They both leaned against the doorframe to the kitchen, with just inches between them. Everybody else had to maneuver around them. Emily could see that Ida so did not care.
“Wow, everybody loves your guy.”
“True,” Emily said. “Wait, who’s he with now?”
Eli was in the living room with the actress and her husband. The three of them were huddled in front of an enormous black marble fireplace. Eli had someone else’s banjo in his hands.
“Looks like Trent Norman and Genevieve Winslow-Homer.”
“That’s her name,” Emily said. “I kept forgetting it.”
“You forget it because she stole it from a famous artist and if you’re anything like me that disgusts you. Her actual name is Jennifer Puddle or something. I see her at yoga. She has flexible hips.”
“Where do you go?”
“Kula.”
“I never see you there,” Emily said. “I’ve been doing a lot of yoga lately.”
“I do yoga in binges,” Ida said. “Sometimes constantly. Sometimes not at all.”
“He didn’t tell me he was going to perform,” Emily said.
Genevieve had long blond hair, tiny lips, and normal eyes. Nothing special there. Still, she was beautiful. So was her husband.
“Maybe the camera finds something in her that I can’t see,” Emily said.
“You’re too kind.”
The actress stood between Eli and her husband and began nodding her head. Trent snapped his fingers. He and Eli looked like bandmates, with their plaid shirts and jeans and longish unkempt hair. Trent had a child’s bongo cradled in the crook of his arm.
“Everybody get ready!” Trent called out.
“Are you okay?” Ida asked. “You look a little trembly.”
“I’m fine. I bet they’re going to announce
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