“What are these, James?” she asks, standing in the bedroom, the strappy sandal, which is so delicate it looks like it might break from simply walking across a room, dangling like an exotic sea animal from her finger.
“It’s your birthday present,” James says.
“Why?” Winnie says.
“You don’t like them,” James says in a hurt voice (knowing it’s the only way he might possibly get out of this horrendous situation he’s created, which he is actually beginning to enjoy).
“You know I don’t wear shoes like this. I don’t even approve of shoes like this.”
“Evie got that assignment from The New York Times,” he says.
“Did Evie pick out these shoes?” Winnie asks.
“The Times thing is disgusting,” he says. “She got it by sleeping with … ” he says, naming the famous journalist Evie picked up at the book party. “She’s still seeing him.”
Winnie looks at James. When she first met him, she wanted to be him. Everybody wanted to be James then. He was going to have a big career. The kind of career that Winnie wanted.
“Do you think people still want to be you, James?” she asks, casually. He knows that when Winnie asks these questions out of left field, she is laying a trap for him, but he’s too weary to figure this one out.
“Why would anybody want to be me?” James asks.
“That’s just what I was wondering,” Winnie says. She carefully packs the sandals back into their box. “This is really a pan, you know,” she says. “I want to return these, but I don’t know when I’m going to have the time.”
“Do it on your lunch hour.”
“I don’t have a lunch hour,” Winnie says.
They go to Bouley for Winnie’s birthday, where they pretend (and it really is just pretending now, James thinks) to get along. When the bill comes, they each put down their credit cards, and take their receipts, which they will turn into their magazines as a business expense.
Sunday Brunch
“Have you read it?” James asks. It’s Sunday morning. Early. Evie’s piece was scheduled to appear in The New York Times. The paper sits untouched on the coffee table.
“Read what?” Winnie asks. She’s cooking breakfast. It’s really the only time she cooks (if you can call it that, James thinks), cutting grapefruit and putting out slices of smoked salmon and smearing cream cheese on bagels.
“Evie’s piece,” James says.
“Oh. Is it in this weekend?”
“She says it is.”
“Really?” Winnie says. “I haven’t talked to her.” She puts the plates on the dining room table. She unfolds a paper napkin and begins eating.
“Aren’t you curious?” James says.
“I’ll get to it later,” Winnie says. “In the meantime, I’m thinking that maybe we should run our salon more efficiently. Maybe we should fax people a question the day before, so everyone has time to think about their answers. I think we’ll get better responses that way.”
Winnie eats two bagels stuffed with cream cheese and salmon. “Be right back.”
She goes into the bathroom, and, as she has been doing after almost every meal lately, sticks her finger down her throat and throws up.
When she returns, James is reading the paper.
“You’re disgusting,” she says.
“What? I’m not supposed to read The Times just because Evie has a piece in it?”
“Oh, come on, James,” Winnie says. She snatches up half of the paper. She begins rifling the pages, scanning bylines. Finally, she gets to the Style section. There, under the heading “Thing,” is a tiny box with a story on meatloaf. Evie’s piece.
“Did you know about this?” Winnie asks.
“What?”
“Evie’s ‘piece.’” Winnie tosses the paper to him. She stands up. “Are there any more bagels left? I’m still hungry.”
In the afternoon, Winnie calls Evie. “Congratulations,” she says.
“Hey!” Evie says. “Thanks.”
“So how does it feel to be a journalist?”
“Great,” Evie says. “I’m working on another piece for them next week. See? I got t
he lingo right. I said ‘piece,’ not ‘article.’”
There is a sound of shuffling in the background and Evie laughs.
“Is someone there?” Winnie asks.
“Mmmm, yeah,” Evie says, naming the important journalist.
“That’s perfect,” Winnie says. “Because James and I wanted to know if you and he wanted to come to dinner next week. Our treat. We’ll work it around his schedule. Oh, and Evie?”
“Yes?” Evie says, somewhat suspiciously.
“Just remember one thing,” Winnie says.
“What’s that?” Evie asks.
“You’re one of us now,” Winnie says, smoothly, so that Evie won’t suspect how difficult it is for her to choke out those words.
Evie laughs and says, “Sis, it’s like you and James always say: We are the media.”
