“I’m more in the mood for dessert,” I dodged, “but I’ll come say hi anyway. Aunties, will you’ll excuse me?” They gave me appreciative smiles as they side-eyed Laura’s deep-cut dress, which looked amazing, by the way, but looking amazing wasn’t the first priority for Colombo 07 aunties.

The space directly in front of the bar was, as expected, taken up by a group of young men in varying stages of inebriation. There were a lot of “Machangs,” “Ados,” and general swaying going around. I took a deep breath and held it till we walked past them, but none of them paid me any attention. All eyes were on Laura in her low-cut dress, but of course no one dared approach her. This was Colombo society, after all. Not some rave on a beach. No one would dare be rejected in public. Any form of interest was conveyed covertly, either through friends, or relatives, or lusty, meaningful eye contact and sly smiles. Straight out of a Jane Austen novel, but usually with a lot more booze.

Laura led me over to a secluded area behind the bar where a group of girls had gathered. They stood around a small cocktail table, discreetly sipping on their cosmos and Long Island iced teas. A little mountain of—of course—Louis Vuitton clutch bags was nestled on the table between them, and they were all dressed in some variation of colorful, flowy maxi dresses. I couldn’t have felt more out of place—a crow in the middle of a flock of exotic flamingos. I immediately wished the floor would open and swallow me up.

“Ladies,” Laura boomed, “meet Amaya. One of Kaavi’s old friends.” It felt strange that I, who had known Kaavi since she wore braces, was being introduced by Laura, who had known her all of five minutes. But still, the group, a mix of Sri Lankans and foreigners, all smiled and said hi.

“Hi, lovely to meet everyone,” I said, taking care to make sure my voice didn’t squeak. Is there anything more intimidating than a group of immaculately dressed women sipping on cocktails?

“Amaya, this is . . .” and Laura rattled off a list of names there was no chance I could possibly remember, but it was strange that I didn’t recognize anyone. There was no one from the fancy international school we went to, nor from college.

“So,” one of them asked the moment the introductions were over, “how do you know Kaavi?”

“We went to school together, so I’ve known her since we were kids,” I said, and then taking the opportunity, “And how do you guys know her?”

“The three of us,” a redhead in a stunning green dress said, pointing to two other girls in the group, “all interned at J.P. Morgan at the same time.”

“And Lakshi and I,” said a very tall Sri Lankan girl in sky-high heels, “work on Kaavi’s charity with her.”

So that explains why they are new. The thought hit home more than I cared to admit. Kaavi had a new life after I left. New friends who thought she was important enough to fly halfway around the world for. She’d moved on.