have moved in with Billy,” she says, as I triumphantly manage to hook one minibutton into its microscopic loop. “He said something about Billy not wanting to buy the cow when he’s getting the latte for free.”
I roll my eyes, muttering, “Raphael has given out so much free latte, he should have Starbucks stamped on his, um, udder.”
“Tracey!” Kate giggles. “Raphael is the first to admit he’s a slut, especially now that he’s not with Wade anymore.”
“He was a slut even when he was with Wade,” I point out.
“Exactly. But he has old-fashioned standards when it comes to me—”
“And me,” I interject.
“Right. He wants to marry off both of us, so that we can make him an uncle.”
“He said that?”
“He said aunt. Auntie, to be specific.”
“Oh, Lord. I can see it now. Auntie Raphael.” I shake my head. Raphael is one of my best friends, but he’s definitely out there. In a good way, of course.
“Whatever you do, Trace, don’t tell Billy what Raphael said.”
“About the free latte?”
“About being the aunt to our future kids. He’d probably consider that grounds for a vasectomy. You know how he is about gays.”
Gays. That’s what conservative Billy calls Raphael and his kind.
His kind being another charming Billy phrase.
What Kate sees in him, I’ll never know. Yes, he’s as beautiful as she is, and yes, he’s rich as a Trump. But he’s shallow, and opinionated and ultraconservative—the latter being his worst crime, as far as I’m concerned.
I was raised in Brookside, New York, a small town so far upstate that it might as well be in the Midwest. The people there—including my own family—are overwhelmingly blue-collar Catholic Republicans.
Billy might be a white-collar Presbyterian Republican, but there’s little difference between him and my great-aunt Domenica, who is convinced that homosexuals will burn in hell alongside Bill Clinton and the entire membership of Planned Parenthood.
“Speaking of Raphael,” I say, changing the subject as I fasten Kate’s last button, “what time did you tell him we’d meet him for the movie later?”
In the midst of studying her bridal reflection, Kate drops her eyes.
Uh-oh.
“I can’t go,” she says.
“Why not?”
“Billy—”
Of course, Billy.
“—is taking me to see Hairspray.”
“You already saw Hairspray.” Raphael got us both comp tickets when the show first opened, back when he was dating the wardrobe master.
“I know, but Billy has orchestra seats, and we’re going with his boss and his fiancée. It’s like a work thing. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, I know how it is.”
There’s an awkward silence.
She knows how I feel about her blowing me off for Billy. This isn’t the first time it’s happened. And Raphael is going to be pissed when he finds out that she’s not coming. These Saturday-night outings have been a regular thing for the three of us ever since Will and I broke up. Kate and Raphael teamed up loyally to make sure I wasn’t lonely.
But Kate didn’t come last week, either. Billy was sick, and she didn’t want to leave him.
You’d have thought he had pneumonia, the way she went on about it. Turned out it was just a cold. But she spent Saturday night being Martha Stewart-meets-Clara Barton: making homemade chicken noodle soup, squeezing fresh orange juice, hovering with tissues and Ricola.
Raphael and I spent Saturday night drinking apple martinis and bitchily dissecting the Kate-Billy relationship.
“Come on, don’t be mad, Tracey,” she pleads.
I sigh. “I’m not mad, Kate.”
After all, back when I was desperate to keep Will, I’m ashamed to admit that I’d have dropped my plans with Kate and Raphael, too.
But I didn’t like myself very much back then.
And sometimes, as much as I love Kate, I don’t like her very much when she’s with Billy.
I check out our reflections.
Six months ago, I couldn’t handle standing next to Kate anywhere, much less in a three-way dressing room mirror. Now, it’s not so bad. We’re like Snow White and Rose Red—literally, in these outfits. Svelte Kate with long fair hair and big blue eyes. Not-quite-as-svelte-but-no-longer-zaftig Tracey with long dark hair and big brown eyes.
She catches my eye in the mirror.
We smile at each other.
“You really do look good in that dress, Tracey.”
“And you look beautiful in that. I hope he gives you a ring for Christmas. It would be fun to shop for wedding dresses, wouldn’t it?”
She turns a critical eye toward the gown in the mirror. “Yeah, but remind me that I don’t like gowns with full skirts, will you? This one makes me look huge.”
“Huge? Come on, Kate. You’re teeny.”
“Not in this. It’s too froufrou. When I walk down the aisle, I’m going to go for sleek and sexy.” She reaches for the row of buttons. “Help me get out of it, will you?”
I oblige, still wearing the red dress. I’ve made up my mind to buy it for the Christmas party. Who knows? Maybe I’ll meet somebody there. Blaire Barnett is a huge agency that employs plenty of single men. And a corporate Christmas party is as good a place as any to hook up, right?
2
Wrong.
A corporate Christmas party is no place to hook up.
At least, not according to this article in She magazine, where Raphael is assistant style editor.
The article is Ten Office Party Don’ts, and I stumble across it while I’m sprawled on his couch, leafing through the December issue and waiting for him to get dressed for our Saturday night out.
1. Don’t dress in a revealing manner.
“Uh-oh, Raphael,” I call. “I’m in trouble already.”
“Tracey! Trouble? What kind of trouble?” He peeks around the edge of the chartreuse folding screen that separates
