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“This is just too fucking
degrading,
” Rachel announces, and gets to her feet, nearly collapsing her chair. “Why don’t you just point your fanny in the direction of Rufus’s deli, then open your legs really wide. Even
he
should get
that
message.”

Tish, crestfallen, stops laughing mid-haha.

“Hey, that was a bit…unfair,” I say, before I can stop myself.

Because I have said this, because I never contradict her, Rachel scowls and I cringe as I wait for the next lash of her
tongue. I can almost see the cogs clicking behind her eyes as I wait for the diatribe that is sure to come.

But I know that I am right, because it
was
unkind. Tish doesn’t deserve it. And although Rachel is one tough cookie, she is not usually a bitch. At least, not to us. And then something very strange occurs. Just as she opens her mouth to shrivel me with acerbic words, she does a complete about-face.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, honey,” Rachel says, as she places a placatory hand on Tish’s shoulder.

Well, knock me down with a feather.

“Forgive me for being an unfeeling, hardhearted, callous bitch. You laugh and flirt all you want. Rufus is a dickhead for not dragging you immediately up to his apartment to fuck the living daylights out of you.”

And as Tish and I stare at her, our mouths appropriately open in fly-catching mode, she smiles sweetly. “Anyone for more fucking cake?”

“What was all that about?” I ask Tish, once I’m sure Rachel is inside the café (and out of earshot). “She never puts herself down like that. It’s rare enough to hear her apologize.”

“It’s that guy at work,” Tish tells me. “He had the nerve to question her army-style running of the project when she laid into a junior technician for adding the wrong amino acid to—well, I can’t remember what the amino acid was added to. But Rachel was very upset about it. Apparently it ruined a month of careful work. So you can understand why she was pissed.”

We both ponder this in silence, because we don’t get what it is that Rachel actually does. Whenever we ask, she pats the side of her nose with her finger because it’s top secret. Our theory is that she’s working for the government on a new cure to a dreadful disease. Or that she’s trying to clone a friend sheep for Dolly.

“You know, maybe she does go a little over the top,” Tish
adds, with a giggle, and I giggle, too, because I would not like to be at the receiving end of Rachel’s sharp tongue.

“Oh, God. You can just imagine it, can’t you?” I say, feeling sympathy for the poor technician. Much as I love Rachel, I would not work for her if you bribed me with a million dollars.

“Anyway,” Tish says. “Apparently Hugh walked in just as she was yelling at the technician. So he pulls her into his office and calls her, and I quote, ‘an unfeeling, hardhearted, callous bitch.’ She’s really taken it to heart.”

“My God. That’s awful. Rachel’s a perfectionist, but she doesn’t deserve that kind of language.”

“Ah, yes, but it turns out that she insulted him first.”

“Tell me more.” I lean closer to Tish, intrigued by the thought of someone having the nerve to shout at Rachel.

“Okay. But promise you won’t say anything about it to her?”

“Absolutely. Give it up.”

“All right.” Tish leans even closer and whispers to me. “He only called her that after she called him a motherfucking, interfering, misogynist bastard who couldn’t tell a double helix from his ass.”

“Oh, my. If only I’d been a fly on
that
wall. But why didn’t she tell
me?
” I ask, feeling left out, because I have known Rachel for much longer than Tish has.

“It happened Friday. She didn’t want to tell you after the terrible day you had.”

Am I really that unapproachable and self-centered? I make a mental note to stop whining on and on about my own problems all the time, and to pay more attention to my friends. Wonder when I should broach the subject of me not moving out of Adam’s apartment?

“Besides.” Tish grins. “I think that Hugh guy is just what she needs. It’s good to have at least one person who doesn’t agree with you all of the time.”

“Have you ever seen him?”

“No. But Rachel says he’s a baboon, so I guess he’s ugly and hairy. Just serve her right if she fell madly in love with him. I’d like to see her in love, just once.”

“Yeah.” I grin, mentally picturing Rachel at an altar, in a white billowing frock, being offered a banana.

Rachel, as far as we are aware, has never actually been in love. In high school, she didn’t date at all on account of all the boys in her peer group being maniacally scared of her IQ. But that doesn’t mean anything, because I didn’t date either, until I started college.

But during her college years (Harvard, of course) she approached sex as she does everything else. She decided it was time to see what all the fuss was about, and proceeded to treat it like a scientific experiment. She does like sex, as we know, because she is not short of willing men to help her out in this department, but she never really dates the same guy for more than a couple of weeks. I don’t think she’s a nymphomaniac or anti-men. I think she just gets bored with them really quickly.

“Here were are, my friends.” Rachel breezes through the door, followed by the attractive, dark-haired waiter.

“Thank you so much,” Tish tells him, as he places our cakes on the table, and she flashes him such a come-on smile, that he nearly falls on the floor at her feet.

“See.” Rachel nods encouragingly after the hot waiter. “He’d fuck you like a shot. Now let’s recap the plan.”

There’s nothing Rachel loves more than a good list. Today’s list plots out what we are going to do, and when we are going to do it.

“When we’ve finished up here, we’ll head straight to the outlets. That should give us a clear three-hour outletting gap, then back here to Chez Nous for an early dinner with the boys. Then back to Bastard Ionic Bonder Adam’s place to pack your stuff and move you to Tish’s place.”

Perhaps now would be a good time to mention the new plan.

“Actually, I’m not moving out just yet,” I tell them, as I concentrate all my attention on my plate.

“I mean, why should I rush? After all, he asked me to move in. Which is exactly why I don’t have my own apartment anymore. Why should the bastard get rid of me so easily? He deserves to suffer,” I add, warming to my theme.

“Good for you,” Rachel tells me. “Get the fucking locks changed, that will really piss him off. You could hold a decorating party. We could all come over and help paint it some really disgusting color.”

I knew Rachel would approve!

“Emma, are you sure about this?” Tish asks, her brow furrowed with concern. “Sweetie, wouldn’t it be better just to make a clean break and move out? You’ve already been hurt—why risk more?”

“Because he’s a fucking ionic bonder who deserves to suffer,” Rachel rants. “You go, girl.”

“Well, if you think it’s the right thing to do…” Tish trails off, and I wonder if she has a point. Do I really want to stay there with all the memories of happier times?

As we leave the café, I feel more depressed than vengeful.

Glancing across the road, I see Rufus watching Tish walk down the street. And I don’t know if it’s just the sunlight blinding me, even through my sunshades, but his expression freezes me in my tracks. Every nerve end of his body is filled with longing.

And I wonder if Adam ever looked at
me
like that?

Sunday supper at Chez Nous reminds me of old times with good friends. After two glasses of Chardonnay to go with the delicious
coq au vin,
followed by
crème brûlée
and a large snifter of Chivas Regal, I’m feeling very mellow as I glance around the table.

Sunday evenings are always quiet, so when David and Sylvester first opened Chez Nous, we made a point of eating
here to boost Sunday sales. That was two years ago, and we’re still eating here. And Sunday evenings are still quiet. Apart from the older couple and the two yuppie types, we have the place to ourselves.

Tish, Rachel, Katy, Tom, Sylvester, and David (although Sylvester and David have been taking it in turns to spend time in the kitchen to cook and serve the delicious food). And little Alex, of course, peacefully asleep on the couch in the corner, despite the noise of our chatter and laughter. When he was a baby, Katy and Tom made a point of placing his bassinet close to the television so he’d be able to sleep through anything.

It certainly worked, and when I have my babies, I will do this too. Except not with television, but with music. Led Zeppelin, obviously. Which will not only teach them to sleep despite the noise, but will also give them excellent taste in music. Yes, I will definitely do this with
my
babies. I fondly imagine Adam and me standing over the bassinet, gazing lovingly at the blonde cherub sleeping soundly to the strains of “Stairway to Heaven”…Oh. Except I won’t be having Adam’s babies…

I wonder what they’re doing now…I feel the buildup of tears behind my eyes as my imagination conjures up images of Adam and Stella feeding each other lobster on a candlelit terrace, Adam and Stella strolling hand in hand on a lovely, romantic Bahamian beach, the waves lapping at their ankles…Adam, hopping around in horrendously complete agony after being stung by a jellyfish…

You know, now I come to think of it, since moving in with Adam I’ve only been back once for Sunday supper. And that was the time I brought him with me to meet everyone, which wasn’t exactly a success. Why didn’t I realize then that our relationship was doomed? Was I blind?

If I ever get involved with any man, ever again, I will
never
give up my Sunday evenings with friends.

“I think that’s disgusting.” Rachel pounds the table with her fist.

“Marion read a report about it,” Katy says. “You just don’t know what a problem this has become.”

“Marion Lacy, oh font of all knowledge,” Tom says, rolling his eyes. “At least Alex’s e-mail problem is fixed. I’ve changed the settings and they only allow him to receive mail from a designated list. He won’t be getting any more junk mail.”

“You’re my hero.” Katy smiles and touches his arm. “I told the other mothers that I’d show them how to do it too. But Marion says we shouldn’t have to—”

“You know, it wouldn’t be so bad if you could tell these bastards to remove you from their goddamned mail list,” Rachel interrupts her, warming up for a bit of a rant.

I think that Hugh person at work has really got to her. I also think that the older couple in the corner seem a little apprehensive. But Rachel
is
speaking rather loudly.

“I mean, these…these bastard e-mails
always
come with the option to
remove
your name from their disgusting e-mail list, but it doesn’t goddamned work.”

“I know.” David nods in agreement. “You hit ‘reply’ and send them an e-mail with ‘remove’ in the title, and then they’re supposed to remove you from the list.”

“Yes, but that’s the bastard thing about it,” Rachel says, taking a large gulp of her brandy. “You do it, just so they know that you don’t want any more of their goddamned filth. And then what happens, huh? What happens then?”

She glances around at us, but before anyone can offer a reply, she continues in full rant mode.

“I’ll
tell
you what happens. The goddamned e-mail gets returned to you as
undeliverable,
and they carry on sending their dirty, filthy e-mails without a care in the world. I mean, what are things coming to?”

“But who
owns
ze Internet? Where
is
ze World Wide Web?” Sylvester’s question is a good one. One to which no one seems to know the answer, and for a moment there is silence as we look around at each other.

“Well anyway,” Katy tells us, looking down nervously at her hands. “Marion’s arranged a march for next Thursday.”

“Independence Day?” I ask. “Isn’t there a parade?”

“Yes, of course. We’re marching
after
the parade.”

“Count me in,” Rachel says, unsurprisingly.

“But your parents are coming over,” says Tom. “Tell me you didn’t agree.”

“Well…” Katy picks up a spoon and fiddles with it, and I get a very uneasy feeling.

“You did, didn’t you? Katy, you have
got
to put your foot down with this woman. She does not
own
you. You do not have to do everything she suggests.” Tom runs a hand through his hair, and I notice how tired he looks.

Embarrassing silence falls on the room. I wonder if they’re having problems. I hope not. But it’s not really like Tom to get upset like this. Katy’s only trying to do the right thing.

“Emma, sweetie.” David breaks the deadlock as he pours more brandy. “How
are
you?”

“I’m okay,” I say brightly as all attention is focused on me. A little too brightly. I take a gulp of my brandy to stop myself from melting into a little puddle of self-pity.

“It’s just like old times again, isn’t it?” Katy says. “You and Tish sharing again. It’s great to have you back, Emma.”

I wonder if now would be a good time to tell them…

“There’s been a change of plan,” Rachel announces to the table. “Emma’s not moving out of Adam’s place. And I think it’s a great idea. Make the bastard suffer, that’s what I say.” I jump as she pounds on the table again. “He deserves inconvenience after what he’s done to Emma.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Tom asks.

“Of course she is sure,” Sylvester says. “Zat Adam, pah. You must stay zere until ze cops come wiz ze eviction notice, is what I say.”

Well, I hadn’t exactly intended to let things get as far as court appearances and eviction notices…

And before I can stop it, I picture myself boarded up in
Adam’s apartment as the police lay siege outside. I’m lounging weakly on the sofa and I don’t even have the strength to operate the TV remote control. The food is long finished, there’s no electricity, no water, and I have been forced to eat toothpaste to survive…