vomit-related thoughts.
Mish shrugged, still facing forward. “She’s okay.”
“Okay-bitchy or okay-nice?”
“Just
okay.
”
“Yeah, but do you mean—”
“Meredith, sometimes an ‘okay’ is just an ‘okay.’ Okay?”
The driver, seeing an opportunity to move a few paces ahead, changed lanes, causing the rear end of the car to swing violently
to the side. Mish gripped the armrest with one hand and felt for the window button with the other. It was locked. Her face
paled beneath its layer of makeup, and pearls of sweat appeared on her upper lip.
“Excuse me, sir? Could you please roll down the window?” Meredith used her most officious voice with the driver.
“Wassat, luv?” the driver squawked through the intercom.
“The window!” Meredith was shouting and it felt good. Felt right. “Please open the window before my friend pukes all over
your cab.”
Both windows lowered completely and the cab was filled with rush-hour fog. Meredith was relieved to see the blood rushing
back into Mish’s cheeks. They waited a few moments before picking up the conversation they had cut off.
“She was nice enough, I guess,” said Mish, “but in a dangerous way. Like she was just waiting for something to lose it over.
You can tell all the rumours are true—I bet she can be a total cunt.”
“Mish!”
“What? People say that here. It’s no big deal.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw it in a movie.”
“What movie?”
“
Trainspotting.
”
“Hello? That was about heroin addicts, and besides, it was set in Scotland.”
“Same difference.” Mish rolled her eyes like an exasperated teenager. “The point is, I wouldn’t want to catch the woman in
the wrong mood.”
Meredith hadn’t bothered to tell Mish about the incident involving Swain’s last stylist and the curling iron.
“And you can immediately tell she’s one of those women who’s super touchy about her age,” Mish went on, “not to mention her
weight. One of the wardrobe assistants was telling me they had to rip all the size-eight labels out of her dresses and sew
on new ones that said size six.”
“No.”
“Supposedly.”
Somehow the driver had managed to maneuver the car out of the clogged roundabout, and they were now moving over a bridge with
the rest of the traffic flow at the pace of corn syrup being poured from a pitcher. Meredith looked out the window at the
river and Westminster Abbey. She marvelled at how truly enormous the clock tower was. Unlike most things in life, Meredith
thought, Big Ben actually lived up to the promise of its name. The thought of that comforted her.
“You know she’s desperate to have a baby,” said Mish.
“She told you that?”
“I can smell it.”
“Really.” Meredith was suddenly uncomfortable. Not just with this conversation but with the whole topic of babies in general.
She thought about pregnancy so much these days that talking about it had become embarrassing. Funny how the things that obsessed
you privately became a matter of public shame. She felt like a person carrying a secret torch so large she could hardly bear
to mention the name of her crush out loud.
“Good luck to her, I guess.”
“Yeah.” Meredith nodded, looking straight ahead. “Good luck.”
“It’s been ages!” cried the barman.
To Irma he looked as tasty as sardines on toast.
In fact it had been only a couple of weeks, but usually Irma had dinner in the club at least two—if not three—times a week.
“You know my heart, darling,” she said, giving him a wink. She searched for his name but could not find it in the clutter
of her brain. Perhaps she was starting to lose her marbles. Then again, it was possible she had never known the name in the
first place.
Without a pause, the young man reached under the counter and produced a bottle of Strega—the one with the label written in
fancy curlicue Italian—which they kept at the club just for her. She had
Mish shrugged, still facing forward. “She’s okay.”
“Okay-bitchy or okay-nice?”
“Just
okay.
”
“Yeah, but do you mean—”
“Meredith, sometimes an ‘okay’ is just an ‘okay.’ Okay?”
The driver, seeing an opportunity to move a few paces ahead, changed lanes, causing the rear end of the car to swing violently
to the side. Mish gripped the armrest with one hand and felt for the window button with the other. It was locked. Her face
paled beneath its layer of makeup, and pearls of sweat appeared on her upper lip.
“Excuse me, sir? Could you please roll down the window?” Meredith used her most officious voice with the driver.
“Wassat, luv?” the driver squawked through the intercom.
“The window!” Meredith was shouting and it felt good. Felt right. “Please open the window before my friend pukes all over
your cab.”
Both windows lowered completely and the cab was filled with rush-hour fog. Meredith was relieved to see the blood rushing
back into Mish’s cheeks. They waited a few moments before picking up the conversation they had cut off.
“She was nice enough, I guess,” said Mish, “but in a dangerous way. Like she was just waiting for something to lose it over.
You can tell all the rumours are true—I bet she can be a total cunt.”
“Mish!”
“What? People say that here. It’s no big deal.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw it in a movie.”
“What movie?”
“
Trainspotting.
”
“Hello? That was about heroin addicts, and besides, it was set in Scotland.”
“Same difference.” Mish rolled her eyes like an exasperated teenager. “The point is, I wouldn’t want to catch the woman in
the wrong mood.”
Meredith hadn’t bothered to tell Mish about the incident involving Swain’s last stylist and the curling iron.
“And you can immediately tell she’s one of those women who’s super touchy about her age,” Mish went on, “not to mention her
weight. One of the wardrobe assistants was telling me they had to rip all the size-eight labels out of her dresses and sew
on new ones that said size six.”
“No.”
“Supposedly.”
Somehow the driver had managed to maneuver the car out of the clogged roundabout, and they were now moving over a bridge with
the rest of the traffic flow at the pace of corn syrup being poured from a pitcher. Meredith looked out the window at the
river and Westminster Abbey. She marvelled at how truly enormous the clock tower was. Unlike most things in life, Meredith
thought, Big Ben actually lived up to the promise of its name. The thought of that comforted her.
“You know she’s desperate to have a baby,” said Mish.
“She told you that?”
“I can smell it.”
“Really.” Meredith was suddenly uncomfortable. Not just with this conversation but with the whole topic of babies in general.
She thought about pregnancy so much these days that talking about it had become embarrassing. Funny how the things that obsessed
you privately became a matter of public shame. She felt like a person carrying a secret torch so large she could hardly bear
to mention the name of her crush out loud.
“Good luck to her, I guess.”
“Yeah.” Meredith nodded, looking straight ahead. “Good luck.”
“It’s been ages!” cried the barman.
To Irma he looked as tasty as sardines on toast.
In fact it had been only a couple of weeks, but usually Irma had dinner in the club at least two—if not three—times a week.
“You know my heart, darling,” she said, giving him a wink. She searched for his name but could not find it in the clutter
of her brain. Perhaps she was starting to lose her marbles. Then again, it was possible she had never known the name in the
first place.
Without a pause, the young man reached under the counter and produced a bottle of Strega—the one with the label written in
fancy curlicue Italian—which they kept at the club just for her. She had
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