I immediately begin chewing my lower lip. Gran. I’d forgotten to tell Gran not to tell anyone that Ava Geck was staying in my apartment. But surely she wouldn’t—
“Yeah,” Ava says, looking away from me. “That’s what I figured.” Someone picks up on the other end of the line she’s dialing. “Joey?” she barks into the phone. “Code one. We’re compromised. Come now.”
“But she wouldn’t have told anyone,” I insist, trailing after Ava as she heads into the bathroom. “I mean, Gran didn’t even know for sure it was you. And she wouldn’t have known who to call. She doesn’t exactly have TMZ or whoever on speed dial!”
“Yeah,” Ava says, looking tight-faced. “Well, she sure seems to have caught on fast, hasn’t she?”
It’s all I can do not to burst out with, You’re the one who picked up the phone! You’re the one who taught her how to program the season pass on her TiVo!
It’s not Ava’s fault, though, I know. It’s mine. Me and my big mouth. As usual.
“Ava,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I’m really just so, so sorry.”
“Whatever,” Ava says, with a shrug of her slim shoulders. I notice she can’t seem to make eye contact with me. “I’m going to take a shower. When Joey gets here, will you buzz him up? He’ll buzz three times quick in a row, then twice, real slow, so you’ll know it’s him. Okay?”
I nod. I feel terrible. “Ava—”
“Just let him in,” Ava says. “Okay?”
I nod again, then back out of the bathroom so she can close the door. A second later, I hear the water turn on.
I can’t believe this. What a disaster! The integrity of Chez Henri has been totally compromised. Not to mention my own personal integrity. Not that I had much of it to begin with.
Still, I can’t believe Gran of all people had been the one who’d called the paps on Ava. She wouldn’t even have known how to do it. It’s not as if it matters—the damage is done, obviously—but I have to know. I have to know if it’s really my fault. I pick up the phone and call my parents’ house. Gran picks up on the first ring.
“What?” she demands.
“Gran,” I say. I keep my voice low, in case Ava hasn’t gotten into the shower yet and is eavesdropping, as she is all too wont to do.
“Who is this?” Gran demands. “Lizzie? No one’s here. Your dad’s at work, and your mom’s at the Y. Your sisters are all God knows where—”
“That’s okay, it’s you I want to talk to, anyway,” I say. “Did you say anything to anyone about Ava Geck staying at my place?”
“Well, good morning to you too,” Gran says. “Did you shtup him yet?”
“Gran,” I whisper. “I’m serious. Did you tell anyone about Ava?”
“Of course not,” Gran says, sounding annoyed. “Who would I tell? No one talks to me except you. I’m just crazy old Gran, too drunk for anyone to take seriously—”
I feel myself begin to relax. It hadn’t been my fault after all. For once in my life, it hadn’t been me—
“Although,” Gran says, in a different tone, “your sister Rose was skulking around last night while I was talking to you.”
I feel my blood run cold. If it had been Sarah, I wouldn’t be worried. But Rose is a different story.
“Do you think she heard you?” I ask.
“I know she heard me,” Gran says. “She asked a lot of questions after I hung up, like why I was asking about Ava Geck, and what Ava Geck was doing at your place. I just told her what I knew—”
I let out the worst curse word I know. Gran, being Gran, is unimpressed.
“Well,” she says. “You can’t exactly blame her. It’s not like she doesn’t need the money, the way she’s maxed out her credit cards on clothes over at the discount places… especially that T.J. Maxx. Plus that no-good bohunk of a husband of hers got laid off again, and he’s not exactly impartial to the jewelry counter over at JCPenney. You should see how many gold neck chains I saw him wearing at the pool the other day.”
I close my eyes, trying to summon the strength I need not to burst into tears on the spot. I’m sure Rose is swimming in debt.
That doesn’t mean I don’t want to hop on a plane to Ann Arbor and strangle her.
“If you see Rose today, Gran,” I say, “can you give her a swift kick in the pants for me?”
“Don’t worry,” Gran assures me, relishing, as usual, being in the middle of a cat fight between me and one of my sisters. “I’ll remind her of how fat her arms looked in that slutty dress she wore for her senior prom. That always makes her cry. Like goddamned Niagara Falls.”
“Thanks,” I say, and hang up feeling only slightly better. Really, could things get any worse?
And yet they do when, a half hour later, Ava emerges from my bathroom looking perfectly coiffed in a purple animal-print catsuit with bright orange stilettos, and finds Little Joey and me waiting for her on the couch.
“Ready?” she asks him, not even glancing at me.
“Ava,” I say, leaping up. “I’m sorry. It was me. I mean, I told my grandma. But it wasn’t her fault. My sister—”
“It’s okay,” Ava cuts me off. But I can tell from her pinched expression it’s not. It’s not okay. It’s far from okay. “We’re going now. Right, Joey?”
Joey heaves his three-hundred-pound girth up from the sofa. “You got it, Miss Geck. I already took down the suitcases.”
“Ava,” I say, trying again.
“It’s okay, Lizzie,” Ava insists.
But I know it isn’t. Nothing is okay.
Nothing is ever going to be okay—at least between me and Ava—again.
I watch them leave through the living room windows. The paparazzi throw down their cigarettes and coffee cups—I’m going to have to sweep them all up before the shop opens—and surges forward to virtually attack Ava the minute she walks through the front door of my building. Little Joey shields her the best that he can, using his elbows and sizable belly to forge a path for her to the waiting limo. Ava climbs inside, Little Joey follows, and they speed off, the photographers in hot pursuit.
And then my street is quiet again. If it weren’t for all the litter on the sidewalk—and the wad of blond hair in my drain—it would almost seem as if they hadn’t been there at all.
But I know I’ve just messed up an important client relationship. Worse, I’ve messed up a budding friendship.
And honestly, I have no one to blame for it but myself. Just like all the other messes in my life at the moment. Great.
Just great.
I had never been up to Shari and Pat’s roof before, but it turns out they’ve built a little garden oasis there. On a redwood deck, surrounded by overflowing flower boxes bursting with geraniums and delphiniums, you can stand and look out at the skyline of Manhattan, rising in all its glory out of the East River. It’s an amazing view. And it’s all theirs.
Well, along with all the other tenants in their building. And all the other neighboring rooftops along their street. All of whom are having Fourth of July parties at the same time as theirs.
But they aren’t about to let all the dueling stereo speakers bring them down. Shari, at least, has a lot of other issues to worry about.
“I can’t believe he brought her,” Shari keeps saying, casting dark looks in Chaz’s direction.
“I told you he would.” I’m downing ice cream like there’s nothing else being served, which isn’t true, because there are also burgers, hot dogs, chips, about ten different kinds of pasta salad, and, of course, the two pies Chaz brought.
But somehow, the only thing that is making me feel better is ice cream. It’s been a long week. A loooooooong week.
And the sight of Chaz sitting over there with Valencia—who is looking cool and serene, in spite of the ninety-degree heat, in white linen gauchos and a black tank top that shows off her perfectly toned arms—isn’t doing much to make me feel better.
“So, is that the girl?” I ask between gulps of rocky road.
“What are you talking about?” Shari wants to know.