The Housewife(5)

I close my eyes and picture my roses outside the window, shimmering little droplets of water clinging to their velvet petals. I think of the drapes I saw at Williams-Sonoma that I’ve been wanting to buy for our bedroom, creamy linen with messy garlands of roses, birds, and butterflies. I can just imagine what they would look like on our windows, gently billowing in the spring breeze.

There. That’s better. I open my eyes, pick up the pan, and empty it into the trash. Then I lift the Black Forest cake with buttercream frosting and dark chocolate ganache drips from the cooling rack and put it on the cake plate. I get the toffee shards I made earlier from the refrigerator and carefully arrange them on top of the cake.

I open the drawer and take out a packet of tall, thin birthday candles. I put a single one in the middle. It’s not a big birthday, and what grown man wants to blow out forty-three candles anyway? Who wants all that spittle and germs on their chocolate drip? Nobody. I’ll ask him to snuff it out between his fingers, or I’ll do it for him.

Marie walks in and puts down a pile of dirty plates on the counter. She flicks the trash can open with the foot pedal, about to scrape the contents of a dirty plate into it.

I glance at the broken glass on top of the trash.

“Actually, Marie, I’ll do that.”

She looks at me with surprise, but before she has a chance to object, I’ve taken the dirty plate from her. “Can you make sure everyone out there has a full glass of champagne, please? I’m going to bring out the birthday cake.”

“Very well, Mrs. Davies.”

“Thank you.”

I wait until she’s gone and go back to studying my creation. Then I move one of the delicate toffee shapes slightly to the side. There. That will mark the piece that I’ll cut for Meredith. I retrieve the thinnest, sharpest shards of glass from the trash and examine them in my hand. I select one that’s both long and jagged, and push it into the cake, right where I put the piece of toffee that marks Meredith’s slice.

It’s not that I hate her, it’s just that I didn’t like the way she spoke about my baby, how lucky it was that I lost it. I never had a baby on the way; I just ordered the fake test online. Those tests always come back positive when you pee on them. That’s the point, but still. Meredith didn’t know that. And I don’t think you should talk about other women’s babies like that. Even if they were never real .

I’m about to push in another shard of glass when Eileen walks in unsteadily, an empty bottle of champagne dangling from her fingers. I spin my head around so fast my hair flicks into my eyes.

She freezes, staring at the cake. I swallow, scrambling for excuses, when she blurts, “My God, Jodie, that looks incredible.”

I let out a breath. “Thank you, Eileen.” I open the trash with my foot and brush my hands over it.

“You’re so talented. That must have taken hours.”

“I love cooking, so you know, it’s not a chore or anything.”

“Lucky Roy. My husband will be flirting with you all night once he sees this, if he hasn’t already. Now. I’m on a mission, so don’t let me get distracted. We need one more bottle of champagne.” She holds the empty bottle up.

“There are lots more of those in the refrigerator,” I say lightly. My heart is still racing. I smooth my hair back and tuck it behind my ear.

Eileen tilts her head at me. “You know, you really do look like her.”

I return to rearranging bits of toffee on my cake. “Who?”

“Deborah.”

“You think so? It’s hard to tell from a painting.”

“I was looking at her photo earlier, the one on the console table in the hall,” she says. “Wait. I’ll show you.” She puts down the empty bottle on the counter.

“No,” I say quickly. “You don’t need to show me.”

“Just wait. I’ll be right back.”

I press my fingers against my eyelids. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

“There,” she says. She has returned, triumphantly holding the photo up. It’s a vacation snap of Deborah standing on a boat deck with the gray sea behind her. She’s in three-quarter profile, grinning broadly at the camera, her hair swept back by the wind.

“Look.” Eileen holds up the photo right in front of my face.

I glance at it and shrug, then pick up a knife and smooth some of the buttercream. “Like I said, Roy has a type.”

“No, look. It’s the ears,” she says, frowning now. “So interesting…” She touches her own earlobe. “Most people have hanging earlobes. Yours are attached, like Deborah’s. And the shape of your ears is very distinctive. It’s quite unusual that you’d both have them.”

She frowns at me, holding the frame against her chest, waiting for me to agree, I guess. I take the photograph from her and put it on the counter, face down.

“You wanted some more champagne?” I say.

She blinks. “Right! Yes. Thank you.” She opens the refrigerator. “You’re probably related, you know. Quite closely, I’d say. What an amazing coincidence that would be! I must tell Roy. You could be cousins—”

I’ve slammed the fridge door shut, making her jump. I smile to soften the blow. “We’re not cousins.”

Eileen has gone pale. “I…”