Friends and Strangers - J. Courtney Sullivan Page 0,149

at all times.

Elisabeth was ready to move on, but Isabella kept talking.

Gil’s eyelids grew heavy, dipping closed, then snapping open like a paper window shade, until, at last, he fell asleep.

Finally, Isabella said, “You heard Clive put a ring on it?”

“I did.”

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Then Elisabeth asked, “What do you think of that?”

“I’m worried,” Isabella said. “I would have said something to her sooner, but—none of us thought it would last this long.”

“I worry about her too,” Elisabeth said. “I don’t want her to do something she’ll regret.”

“He’s clearly not good enough for her,” Isabella said. “I mean, he gives walking tours for a living, and he makes up half the things he says on them. Just spouts fake dates and stories.”

“Really?” Elisabeth said. “But he owns the company, right? He’s making an app or something?”

“No. That’s his friend who gave him the job. Clive lived in Spain until like two or three years ago, but he’s never explained what he did there. It’s shady.”

“I didn’t know all that,” Elisabeth said.

“Yeah. Plus he’s old, and kind of an annoying know-it-all.”

“What do you think she sees in him?” Elisabeth said.

“Sam’s never been good with change,” Isabella said. “Or with endings. I think some part of her wants to let him go, but she can’t.” She took a bottle of shampoo from the shelf, popped the top open, sniffed.

“I never thanked you, by the way, for talking me out of it,” Isabella said.

“Out of?” Elisabeth said. Then, “Oh. Of course. I’m glad you changed your mind.”

“I can’t wait until I’m your age,” Isabella said. “It must be so nice to have your shit figured out.”

* * *

—

On Friday morning, she went to the clinic one last time and stuck out her left arm, still bruised from all the pricks two weeks earlier. She took a deep breath as she watched the test tube fill with blood.

When the phone rang an hour later, Elisabeth let Andrew answer.

She heard him say “Mmm-hmm” and “I see” and “Okay, great, thank you.”

He sounded happy. She was struck by the possibility that somehow it had worked, and he was about to walk into the living room and tell her they’d be parents again.

When he came to her with tears in his eyes, Elisabeth’s stomach dropped with disappointment, a surprise to her.

“I’m so sorry,” Andrew said. “I know how hard you tried.”

* * *

—

The next day, Elisabeth went quiet.

Andrew assumed she was grieving. They were supposed to meet his parents at a new pizza place for an early dinner. He offered to take Gil, let her have some time alone.

She determined to use the time well, to ignore that she was horrid, that her husband was a better person than she would ever be.

She cleaned out the bedroom closet, and Gil’s dresser drawers, and then set her focus on the bathroom. In the cupboard below the sink, Elisabeth found a brown paper bag, a gut punch. She knew what it contained. All that remained of the items she brought home from the hospital after Gil was born. Why had she kept them, even through the move? What should she do with them now?

She went downstairs, poured a glass of wine, and sat in the living room with her unread stack of New Yorkers. She began with the oldest one, and skimmed through the table of contents, the event listings. She read a long article about prison reform, the film and book reviews, and all the cartoons, before moving on to the next issue.

This one featured a profile of Matilda Grey, champion of feminist art. Elisabeth began reading. A thought hung at the edges of her mind, where she couldn’t quite grasp it.

Matilda Grey had a short silver bob and wore all black. Her London gallery was the epicenter of highly collectible art made by women.

Matilda Grey. Matilda Grey.

Elisabeth read on.

Matilda Grey had decided London was smothering. She was opening a new gallery in Brooklyn in the fall. She’d be moving there to run it.

It clicked for Elisabeth an hour later, when she’d switched to television, a show about a mother-daughter team renovating dilapidated houses in Baltimore.

The Matilda Grey gallery was the place Sam had applied to work in London. The place she wanted to work most in the world. They had rejected her because she wasn’t British.

A possibly bad idea entered Elisabeth’s head. Andrew often said her ideas should come with a mandatory waiting period, like buying a gun. She gave it