“That is so kind of you, Elise. But actually, the search will be very targeted,” Adrienne said. “A friend of my father’s at Air and Space here has found me an apartment in the Kennedy-Warren.”
I nodded bitterly. Only the best for Adrienne.
The Kennedy-Warren was the most historically significant rental building in the city. It was also known to be one of the most sophisticated, filled as it was with lots of ex–New Yorkers who were journalists, novelists, television pundits—transplants to Washington whose jobs paid better than freelance copyediting. I would’ve killed for an apartment there when I first moved. Set back from the street with its stately façade and grounds, the building was located right in the heart of our beloved Cleveland Park. She was like a heat-seeking missile, this woman, programmed to destroy my life with breathtaking precision.
“They’re holding it for me. So . . . ” she continued, voice singsong, eyebrows raised to imply it was all going to be a piece of cake, “assuming I like it, and I’m sure I will, I’ll give them a check, fill out the paperwork, take a few measurements, and then we’ll be free until dinner.”
“Dinner?” Gayle said, looking lost.
Donald’s grilled dinner. To which I hadn’t invited her.
“Yes, dinner,” Adrienne said, “at Elise and Donald’s. Donald’s going to cook.”
“Donald’s going to grill,” I clarified.
There was a difference. A big difference. Cooking was decidedly feminine, grilling was not; cooking required a degree of skill and finesse, grilling did not; cooking was relatively safe with minimal risk to flesh and limb, grilling was (hopefully) not.
“Sounds lovely,” Gayle said, sighing: Cinderella kept back from the ball.
“Aren’t you coming?” Adrienne asked, knowing full well she wasn’t. It was just supposed to be the four of us: Adrienne, me, Donald, and Terrance, a friend (single, male, attractive enough) of Donald’s (my idea) from work. Not four plus a one-woman cheering section for Adrienne.
“Well . . . no . . . I . . .”
“Oh, please!” she said with excessive emotion. “You must come!”
It was official: the evening—my life—my future—was completely out of control.
“So you’ll be there?” Adrienne asked, waiting, with bated breath, for Gayle’s immediate verbal RSVP. “That’s okay, isn’t it, Elise?”
“Yes of course!” Gayle said, even before I had a chance to answer. “I’d love to!”
They hugged, Adrienne claiming Gayle as her ally, Gayle an innocent, unwitting, well-intentioned pawn in this unhappy marriage, a child who just wanted to be loved.
“To the Kennedy-Warren then,” said Gayle, as we approached the car and they slid into the back seat. And I obliged.
The apartment—two bedrooms, two full baths, a huge living room, dining room, kitchen, and sun-room on the seventh floor— all (save for the bathrooms) with spectacular views of Rock Creek Park and the National Zoo—was, as expected, perfect. Adrienne marched from room to room, inspecting closets, kitchen cabinets, assessing spatial relationships. The possibilities, like her bust line (her coat was not just open, now, but off), were endless. Finding everything to her liking—or almost everything, I should say: she wasn’t crazy about the medicine cabinet in the second bathroom, or about the original metal latches on the kitchen cabinets which were, as yet, unpolished (the princess and the pea, was she)—we returned to the lobby (famous for its stunning art deco detail, which she knew all about, having majored in art history at Yale, she somehow found it necessary to inform the building manager who was escorting us) to complete the rental transaction.