Jane stood under the awning, wearing a scarlet minidress and bling-blinding tiara. It wasn’t one of those cheesy plastic ones you got at Party City. It was more Miss-Universe-pageant-appropriate, intended to be coupled with a satin sash.
“You look very regal tonight,” I said with a grin.
She touched the top of her head to confirm her perfect crown was still placed on her perfectly blown-out hair. “Oh, this? It’s actually the headpiece that goes with my veil. I figured if I was spending over a thousand dollars on it, I might as well use it more than one night.”
Yes. That was the fiscally sensible thing to do.
She gave me a quick once-over. “Oh, that’s what you’re wearing?”
I looked down. A cobalt V-neck sleeveless blouse with a black miniskirt, and a black sparkly shawl thing, plus dangly silver earrings thrown on as an afterthought. What did she mean?
Our limo pulled up right in the front of our apartment building, as planned. Or rather, just as Jane had planned. No time to change clothes now!
The chauffeur opened the back-passenger door for us. The interior, lined with plush white couches, also had a disco ball and multicolored lights that pulsed to the music. A fully stocked bar, along with a bizarre assortment of healthy snacks like quinoa chips and chickpea trail mix, at our disposal. Jane yelled over the music that she had asked for this custom assortment of treats because the VIP spread was usually “gross vending machine eats, like Chili Cheese Fritos and Grandma’s Sandwich Cookies.” Good lord, I would’ve binge eaten everything.
She poured us some champagne and asked, “So what’s the plan tonight?,” as if she hadn’t arranged the entire itinerary a few weeks earlier and emailed it to me as “FYI.”
8 P.M. Limo pickup (reservation under Jane’s name). Pop champagne.
8:15 P.M. Candace pickup. Nonalcoholic drinks stocked in the back.
8:30 P.M. Dinner + Drinks at Canteen Waterfront Bistro (reservation under Jane’s name).
10:30 P.M. Dancing at Saturn (VIP list under Jane’s name).
“We’re picking up Candace and heading to dinner,” I answered cheerfully, not wanting to be a downer about her neurotic plans. I’d never heard of Canteen, but given the shittiness of the organic snacks in the limo, I prayed to God that this wasn’t one of those overpriced hipster eateries where the chef infused the foods with flaxseed particles and wheatgrass flavonoids. Jane always knew all the hottest restaurants, but her tastes lately had skewed organic-local-vegan-holistic-raw-disgusting. She drank protein powder smoothies with ground-up collagen and chia seeds every morning. However, since this was her special single-woman-night-on-the-town celebration, I needed to comply with her culinary demands.
We pulled up to Candace’s townhome in Capitol Hill at 8:15 on the dot (how did Jane know?) and she waddled down the stairs to join us. Her belly had gotten much bigger in just a few days. She looked stunning, with her radiant skin and thick mane of hair. I gave her a hug as she climbed inside, and our limo continued its journey to the restaurant.
Candace tried to fasten her seat belt but it wouldn’t fit over her baby belly. “I guess they don’t have a belt extender,” she grumbled, yanking hard. It took all three of us to help her expand the belt to the maximum length and it barely fit over her midsection. But it did fit, which was most important.
Candace and I chatted away about her baby. She squealed, “She’s the size of a large rutabaga, and I can feel her kick all the time now. My nausea’s fully gone, so I won’t be the first one to throw up tonight!”
I admitted, “I don’t even know what a rutabaga is. It sounds like an old foreign car.”
Laughing, Candace curved both hands and held them five inches apart. “It’s a root vegetable about this size.”
I tried to bring Jane into our conversation, too, but she just wasn’t interested. She spent the entire ride powdering her nose, reapplying lipstick, and straightening her already perfectly placed tiara. When we arrived at Canteen, she was ready to be queen of the night.
The host opened our door and greeted us with a warm smile.
“Jane, party of three?” We nodded, and he ushered us through the foyer. “You’ve booked our private dining room. An excellent choice.” I accidentally snort-laughed. When service workers congratulated customers for selecting their services, it always made me snigger.
Darkness had fallen outside, but the view from our private room was still spectacular. The moonlit water extended for miles, and the bobbing boats in