five women froze.
‘Stills?’ Perry repeated, her grey eyes suddenly open wide. ‘Your husband is in Stills?’
I puffed out my cheeks and nodded slowly.
‘Is it Alex or Craig?’ she demanded before looking at the other women to explain. ‘Graham the bassist is gay.’
Oh god, I thought as the colour drained from my face. She’d shagged one of them, hadn’t she?
‘Alex,’ I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.
As my voice grew quieter, Perry’s elevated to an all-out screech.
‘You’re married to Alex Reid?’ she squealed.
‘Yes?’ I replied.
Perry turned on Nia with savage stare.
‘Why was this not in her background check?’ she hissed. ‘Unacceptable.’
Nia shrank back, visibly quaking in her overpriced boots, and I wondered how many lashes she’d be getting after I left.
‘Do you know Alex?’ I asked, afraid to hear the answer to my question.
‘I don’t know him, know him, but I love him,’ she said so quickly I could barely understand her. ‘That is, I love Stills. They’re my favourite band. I’ve seen them at least ten times. I’ve been to every tour they’ve ever played. I once went to Texas to see them play at South by Southwest. Imagine, me in Texas.’
A quick look around the room confirmed that neither Nia, Danielle, Avery or Joan could even conceive of such a thing.
‘Angela,’ Perry said. ‘I have to meet him.’
And just like that, Perry the investment banker and grown-up Mean Girl turned into a squealing teenybopper who had a crush on my husband. But on the upside, at least she hadn’t shagged him.
‘They’re playing here in a couple of weeks,’ I said as casually as I could manage. ‘Trying out some new material.’
Perry gave a sharp nod and Danielle, Avery and Nia began shovelling my belongings back in my handbag while Joan pulled out a Google Pixel phone and began tapping away at the screen.
‘If you’re looking for tickets, the show sold out as soon as they announced it,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’
‘Angela,’ Perry leaned forward and gripped my knee so tightly my foot sprang out and kicked Avery square in the shin. ‘Can you get us tickets?’
‘I don’t know,’ I gasped, wincing as I pried her fingers off me. ‘I can ask.’
‘I would do anything to go to that show,’ she said, opening her eyes so wide I could see white all the way around her pale grey irises
‘Anything?’ I replied, more frightened than interested.
‘Anything,’ she confirmed. ‘Forget the membership process, you’re officially in The Mothers of Brooklyn.’
‘Which is very nice of you,’ I said as I grabbed my bag back from Nia, immediately reaching in to find my phone, my thumb hovering over the emergency call button. ‘But really not necessary. I really do have to go, as lovely as this has been.’
It hadn’t been lovely, it had been intimidating, humiliating and ultimately terrifying, and for the first time since I’d met Cici Spencer, I couldn’t wait to get to work.
‘We’ll work it out,’ Perry said, following as I stood up out of my seat. ‘There has to be something.’
‘I will ask,’ I promised, not even sure if I meant it. ‘Nice to meet you all.’
The M.O.B. stared after me as I dashed out the room, walking quickly through the big white room and breaking into a run as I hit the steps to the street.
‘You need to socialize with other mothers more, they said,’ I muttered as I turned onto 8th Avenue and flagged down a passing yellow cab. I couldn’t get far enough fast enough on foot. ‘You need more mommy friends, they said.’
Hurling myself into the back seat, I rummaged through my bag to make sure everything was there before tearing into the packet of M&Ms, inhaling them by the wild-eyed handful. There wasn’t a single thing anyone could offer that would make me go through that again. They could send all four of the Chrises to my house, oiled up and shirtless, each bearing a different Chanel handbag, and I still wouldn’t be swayed.
I never wanted to see Perry Dickson again as long as I lived.
‘I’m not saying she’s obsessed but I am saying, if I ever get home from work and seem a bit off, please just check it’s me and not Perry Dickson in an Angela skinsuit,’ I said, pushing Alice’s pushchair through Park Slope. It was Friday and I should have been ‘working from home’ but Cici had called an emergency meeting and demanded I attend. On my first Friday working for her. Definitely not a power trip.
‘Maybe we should come up with a safe word,’ I suggested. ‘Like, if I seem taller than usual, ask me what I want for dessert and if I don’t say rhubarb, she’s got me locked in the attic of that bloody mansion on 11th Street.’
‘I thought our safe word was peanut butter,’ Alex replied through a mouthful of doughnut.
‘Your safe word is peanut butter,’ I said, flushing at the very thought. ‘I don’t have a safe word, I’m English.’
‘Rhubarb it is,’ he agreed simply. ‘Perry Dickson, huh. Is she hot?’
‘Yes,’ I admitted grudgingly. ‘And she’s got some very nice trousers.’
‘You’ve got nice trousers too,’ Alex said, resting his hand on the top of my arse. ‘I can put her on the list for the show if you want me to.’
And there I was, hanging on the horns of a true moral dilemma. I did not want Alex to put Perry Dickson on the list for his show but I knew if I did, it would make her incredibly happy. It was a selfless act that would make someone else’s day, earning me many karmic brownie points, but it would also mean spending another second of my life with Perry Dickson, something I had vowed never to do.
‘Maybe,’ I said, staying non-committal until I’d consulted wiser minds on the matter, i.e. Jenny. ‘I’ll let you know.’
Hanging back on the edge of the street, we waited until the light changed before starting to cross 7th Avenue to the subway station. Besson’s offices might be cool but they were not convenient. I had to get the G to Lorimer and then the L to Bedford and, even then, it was still a fifteen-minute walk. Thankfully, the humidity had broken and the weather was civilized again, even if my commute wasn’t. As we crossed, I fished around in my satchel, digging around for my MetroCard and trying my best not to think about all those women from The M.O.B. rummaging through my things. Just as I caught the edge of the travel pass with my fingertips, my bag slipped off my shoulder, hanging precariously between me and
