The Best of Enemies by Jen Lancaster

oysters and shrimp the size of clenched fists, bracketed by piles of cracked crab claws and lobster tails, surrounded by dozens of pots of different varieties of cocktail sauces and citrus mayonnaise.
    At first, I felt a little guilty indulging in a seafood feast in front of the massive aquarium spanning the suite from the first floor to the second. I could have sworn the tiger shark was glaring at me with his unblinking black eyes, as he circled around in the tank, but then I realized he was probably just lusting after my caviar-topped blini. Who wouldn’t? (Also, I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as shark sashimi, so it was fine.)
    If the seafood bonanza wasn’t enough of a treat, what of all the perfect little petit fours from Vanille Patisserie, Betsy’s favorite bakery in Chicago? Or how about having our own personal chef in a giant white toque, crafting truffle-laden omelets on demand, and the mile of steam trays on the glass counter, brimming with favorites such as eggs Benedict and mini-quiches and prosciutto-wrapped asparagus?
    For Betsy, none of the gourmet offerings could hold a candle to the simplicity of the authentic biscuits and sausage gravy flown in directly from The Ol’ Breakfast Joynt, our favorite late-night haunt at Whitney. She was teary when she realized what Trip had done.
    Note to self: In my next lifetime, I need to marry a millionaire.
    Betsy breaks out the biggest smile I’ve seen from her all weekend. Her teeth are ultra white and beautifully capped. (Well done, Ken!) “You know that means Melissa’s playing blackjack, right?”
    “Really? Kinda early for gambling,” I note.
    “Not at all. In fact, I’m shocked it took her so long to hit the tables. Must have been biding her time.” Betsy looks over both shoulders and then leans in conspiratorially to whisper, “Missy can count cards. She majored in math at MIT. Over the years, she’s paid for her house, her car, her tits, and her Stanford MBA with winnings.”
    “Huh. Isn’t card-counting a form of cheating? Seems like . . . not the most ethical behavior for someone in the financial service industry,” I whisper back.
    Betsy and Alicia exchange a look I can’t quite read—it’s not pity, right? Do they feel like I won’t understand? Oh,
whatever.
I think sometimes they hold back on business-y talk because they doubt I can keep up with them, being just a stay-at-home mom and all.
    Please.
    If they witnessed how I single-handedly saved the Chicago Park District’s Toddlers and Tambourines music program with my keen managerial skills and ability to delegate, they’d be hitting
me
up for advice.
    “Wait, what about Jack? I almost forgot she was coming!” Alicia says. “Oh, my God, did you ever read the exposé she wrote about the conflict in Darfur? The way she risked her life to interview those rebels? Whoa. I literally cannot wait to sit down with her and hear all about it.”
    I roll my eyes so hard I can see the inside of my skull.
    “Are you two still having your little tiff from college? What was that, like, nineteen-ninety-who-cares? You guys aren’t over it yet?” she asks.
    “If by ‘having a little tiff,’ you mean total and utter thermonuclear destruction, then, yes, yes, we are.” I glance over at Betsy, who seems pained. “However, despite my wishing she’d die in a fire, I’m planning to smile and nod, so if there’s an issue, it won’t be me who started it.”
    Betsy’s spine stiffens and she very deliberately says, “Because it won’t start, of course.”
    “Because it won’t start,” I agree.
    I wish I felt as confident as I sound.
    •   •   •
    The Intrepid Girl Reporter is perched on the edge of the one uncomfortable chair in the whole place, a piano bench that appears to be crafted out of steel beams and icicles, because God forbid she allow herself to nestle into the squashy, U-shaped ten-seater couch where everyone else is. Her arm rests on the glass top of the