I'm So Happy for You (12 page)

“You can’t do me the small favor of looking after her at a time like this?” said Adam, his eyes narrowed to connote disbelief
at her selfishness.

“Sorry,” said Wendy. “It’s just that I haven’t been getting home from the office until close to seven”—it was a slight exaggeration,
but still—“and it’s pitch-black outside because of daylight savings being over. And it just doesn’t feel that safe walking
around this neighborhood alone at night.” She’d come up with the second argument midsentence, and it struck her as rather
ingenious.

“Not safe with a Doberman pinscher?” said Adam.

“Not a geriatric Doberman pinscher—no.”

“So now you have to insult Polly, too?”

“I’m not insulting Polly—I’m just stating the truth. She’s getting old!”

“Do you ever think about anyone but yourself?”

In her relationship with Daphne, Wendy was the giving one, and Daphne the taker. With Adam, it had always been the other way
around. “Are you trying to start a fight?” she asked.

“I thought we were already having one,” he answered.

The two made up, but only superficially. They took walks, made dinner, and snuggled in bed, but their fight lingered like
cigarette smoke on a Shetland sweater.

On Sunday afternoon, before he left, Adam announced he was taking Polly back up to Newton with him. “We know when we’re not
wanted,” he added.

Wendy didn’t know how to answer. Adam had gotten it all backward, but it was too late to turn him around. The irony was that,
watching the two of them drive off in a rental car, with Polly craning her neck over the passenger window, Wendy wondered
if she might even miss Adam’s lumbering, fart-happy old dog. She already missed Adam. At the same time, there was a way in
which she was relieved to see him leave again.

Wendy spent the next week working on
Barricade
’s special anniversary issue on police brutality. (“A Brief History of Pigs” was the title of the opening editorial.)

Daphne called on the Sunday after the issue went to press. “Are you sitting down?” she asked.

“I’m actually lying down,” Wendy told her. In fact, she’d gotten in bed early with
OK
magazine. Jennifer Aniston had apparently stopped eating. Some reality TV star Wendy had never heard of had a really bad
cellulite problem. Wendy justified her need to consume mindless trash on the grounds that she didn’t actually purchase it.
For example, she’d lifted the copy in her lap from the nail salon at which she’d treated herself to a pedicure the day before.
Of course, stealing had moral implications as well. But then, Wendy always made sure to lift the previous week’s issue.

“Jonathan and I are engaged,” said Daphne.

“Ohmygod, Daphne, that’s wonderful news!” cried Wendy, whose first reaction was shock—if not at the news itself, then at how
quickly it had all happened. Other emotions followed. She was excited to have such incredible gossip at her fingertips. She
was sad to think she was losing her oldest friend to a man with whom she was unlikely ever to be close. She was relieved,
even thrilled, to think that Daphne’s problems, insofar as they were based on her failure to find sustainable love, had finally
been solved—even as she felt irritated that Daphne should think that Wendy cared enough about her life to be at risk for fainting.
Also, how could you know you wanted to marry someone after forty-one days in each other’s company? Never mind the fact that
it had taken Wendy approximately four minutes to decide that Jonathan Sonnenberg was a complete prick.

Wendy also couldn’t help but wish that the transformation in Daphne’s personal life had taken longer and been more emotionally
wrenching. No one deserved to be that happy that fast. It was as if Daphne had snapped her fingers and fashioned a fairy tale
out of a soap opera or, worse, a nightmare. (Now Daphne left messages at one PM, as opposed to one AM, saying things like,
“Hi, sweets. We’re heading out to the Hamptons. Just wanted to say hi before we leave. Call any time. Love you. Mwuh” without
any trace of relief or regret.) For most people, actions had consequences. For Daphne, life was apparently just a series of
independent vignettes. Which meant she’d gotten to live, too—had had torrid affairs and traveled to distant countries and
taken illicit drugs in the Mojave Desert with members of the MI5—while Wendy made pasta, watched
Law & Order
reruns, and never went anywhere. At least that was how she imagined the disparity in their personal histories.

Daphne went on to explain that the proposal had taken place over dinner at Tavern on the Green, in Central Park, the night
before. It was such a clichéd setting for a romantic moment—so corny, too—that, hearing this detail, Wendy’s first instinct
was to roll her eyes.

Her second was to wonder what she’d missed.

She’d always understood Adam’s aversion to sentiment to be a sign of his intelligence—his coolness, too. But what if it turned
out that when the violins played and the candles flickered in a dimly lit dining room, the heart really did swell? Wendy had
lived in New York for thirty-five years and had still never set foot in the legendary restaurant. What’s more, Adam hadn’t
so much proposed to her as, one evening at home in their old apartment, two days before Wendy’s thirty-first birthday and
four years after they’d met, he’d reluctantly agreed to go to city hall the next day. It had been the culmination of a long
conversation, instigated by Wendy. As far as she could tell, Adam would have been happy to stay cohabiting forever. She’d
finally worn him down with the argument that they were “waiting for the sake of waiting.” Looking back, she supposed that,
in effect, she’d asked him to marry her. But were there really any marriages that weren’t precipitated by women? Maybe self-servingly,
Wendy had convinced herself that the idea that men proposed to women was among the great myths of Western civilization. Now
she wasn’t so sure.

Now, as Daphne went on about the vintage of the champagne and the color of the ring box, Wendy found herself fighting the
urge to blurt out Mitch’s name, if only to remind Daphne that history went back farther than six weeks.

She didn’t dare. Instead, like the old and dear friend she imagined herself to be, she cooed, “You’re kidding,” and “That’s
insane,” and upon hearing that Jonathan had gotten down on one knee—just like in the movies—“Nooooooooooooo—you’re lying”
in the appropriate long-drawn-out decrescendo.

But when she hung up, the taste of acid filled her throat. How odd it was that friends could be the source of so much pleasure
and solace, Wendy thought, with their constant assurances that you were all in it together, lamenting lost opportunities,
laughing at inside jokes. At the same time, they could devastate you doing nothing more than going about the business of their
lives, lives that had no direct bearing on yours. They weren’t family members. You didn’t generally have sex with them. You
didn’t generally work in the same office with them, either. Yet it was impossible not to see your lot in direct relation to
theirs—impossible, therefore, not to feel defensive and even devastated when they did things you hadn’t done, or simply did
them differently (and now it was too late for you to go back and do them again).

A
FTER
W
ENDY HUNG
up the phone with Daphne, she called Adam. She knew he’d be excited by the news—excited and horrified. She could already
hear him going off: “No—tell me it’s not true! Do you think it’s too late to stage an intervention?…”

“Hey, Pope, what’s up?” he said.

“You’re not going to believe this,” said Wendy, “but Daphne and Jonathan are getting married.”

“Yeah, I got an inkling that was going on,” Adam volunteered in a casual voice. “I actually talked to Daphne on the phone
yesterday, and she said she had some big news but she wanted to tell you first.”

“I didn’t know you talked so often,” said Wendy, startled by her husband’s response.

“We don’t,” he said. “But ’cause of her mother and everything, she’s really knowledgeable about home care and stuff—you know,
her mom has someone living with them out in Michigan. So I just thought, if it comes to that with Dad, it would be good to
know what the options are.”

How could Wendy argue with such a noble and selfless pursuit? “Right,” she muttered helplessly.

“But I agree,” he continued, “the Jonathan news sucks. The guy is a complete schmuck. But what can you do? She loves him,
I guess, and she probably wants to get married like every other woman on the planet. You know?”

Wendy was so shocked to find out that her husband and best friend were in regular contact that she couldn’t think of anything
else to say.

“Is something the matter?” said Adam.

“What are you talking about?” said Wendy, playing dumb. She prided herself on not being a jealous type. Besides, what was
there to be jealous of? Daphne had just gotten engaged to Jonathan. And Daphne and Adam had known each other for as long as
Wendy had known him—technically, five minutes longer.

Even so, she felt hurt. She couldn’t justify it. She couldn’t deny it, either. She’d wanted to be the one to tell Adam the
news. She didn’t necessarily like the idea of her husband and Daphne having an independent friendship, either. It made her
feel excluded. Which, in turn, made her want to exclude Adam. “Listen, I’ve got another call,” she told him. “Can I call you
back later?”

“You sure you’re okay?” asked Adam, sounding unconvinced. “You’re not mad I talked to Daphne, are you?”

“Why would I be mad?” said Wendy.

“I mean, she said you were the one who gave her my cell number.”

“It’s fine. Really. But I have to go.”

• • •

Wendy woke up the next morning feeling even more disoriented than she had the day before. In the subway to the city, she searched
her brain for someone who would remind her who and where she was.

She landed on Sara Denato, reasoning that Sara, on account of her perpetual engagement, had the most incentive to find Daphne’s
news as upsetting as Wendy did. That said, spreading happy gossip wasn’t like spreading gossip-gossip, Wendy told herself.
Arriving at the office—and her conscience clear—she typed the following email:

In case you haven’t already heard…

DAPHNE IS GETTING MARRIED!!!! (Yes, to Federal Prosecutor Man.) Also, did I mention they met FORTY-ONE DAYS AGO?? (Insane,
I know.) XXW

Sara immediately wrote back:

Okay, I officially want to kill myself. It took me and Dolph forty-one days just to decide on a regular night for couples
counseling—Mondays. Wow are we going to have a lot to talk about at our session tonight.…

Wendy felt better. Meanwhile, Sara must have emailed the news to Paige. That or Paige had already heard, maybe even before
Wendy had. When Daphne and Wendy had been on the phone the night before, Wendy had assumed that she was the first among their
mutual friends to learn the Big News. After the following email arrived, however, Wendy couldn’t be sure:

Wendy,

My concerns about the celerity of the engagement notwithstanding—never mind my feelings on marriage generally!—should you
and I (as Daphne’s closest friends) be throwing her an engagement party? Just a thought. Also, I should admit that my thoughts
ran to a joint engagement party / fund-raiser for Doctors Without Borders, the latter being, to my understanding, Daphne’s
favorite cause. Please let me know your feelings on such.

Paige

Wendy was in no particular hurry to renew email contact with Paige. But she was equally wary of getting sucked into cohosting
an engagement party with her. There was little doubt in Wendy’s mind that such an event would quickly turn into an opportunity
for Paige to guilt her into spending hundreds of dollars she didn’t have, not only on medical help for victims of natural
disasters, but on needlessly fancy party provisions, from monogrammed cocktail napkins to artisan-ally produced aged sheep’s
milk cheese from a monastery in the French Pyrénées. The list of demands would surely begin small and expand from there. At
the same time, Wendy was concerned about appearing unsupportive of Daphne (and as cheap as she actually was).

Just then, a solution sprang into Wendy’s head. She called back Daphne. “I meant to ask you on the phone before,” Wendy began
without introduction. “Do you want to go out for a celebratory drink tonight after work?” No doubt Daphne would be busy, just
as she always was, Wendy thought. But at least now she could say she’d asked. (At least now she could tell Paige that she
and Daphne were already busy making plans to celebrate.)

To Wendy’s surprise, however, Daphne was both free and willing: “That’s so
beyond
sweet of you!” she declared. “Let’s see. I have therapy at five thirty. Then Snugs and I are having dinner at Babbo, but
our reservation isn’t until eight forty-five. Do you want to meet at seven fifteen, or something?”

The two women made plans to meet at a café/bar on Sixth Avenue. Wendy was then able to email Paige back:

Hi Paige. An interesting suggestion. I promise to give it some thought. In the meantime, am taking D out tonight to celebrate.
Will be in touch, Wendy

That evening, as Wendy made her way up the avenue, she realized she was actually looking forward to seeing Daphne. It had
been a long day at the office, and—it occurred suddenly to Wendy—she and Daphne hadn’t gotten together on their own in weeks
and weeks, and really not since Daphne had started dating Jonathan. Pulling open the door to the café, Wendy vowed to herself
that she wouldn’t mention the fact that Daphne and Adam were in regular touch. What was the point? It would only make her
look insecure. She’d wait for Daphne to bring the matter up first, or she wouldn’t discuss it at all.

To Wendy’s surprise, Daphne was already there, seated at the bar, her BlackBerry pressed to her ear. As Wendy approached,
Daphne raised her free palm in a gesture that seemed simultaneously designed to acknowledge Wendy’s presence and beg her patience.
Yet Daphne took her time getting off the phone. “Wait, you’re joking!” she went on. And “Oh, my god.… Well, did you tell him
to mind his own fucking business?… I’m sorry, that’s just ridiculous.… I’m sure.… But listen, Wendy’s here. I should go.…
Yeah, that’s true.… No… I didn’t say that!… Well, whatever you want to do… I mean, you could.… No, I totally agree.… Okay,
love you.” (Presumably, it was Jonathan.) Finally, Daphne set her BlackBerry down on the bar and looked up at Wendy, now seated
on the stool next to her, pretending to examine a cuticle. “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!” Daphne began.