Free With Friends Like These: A Novel by Sally Koslow

should be our next destination, because planning a September getaway was the special entrée on the night’s menu.
    As I was frizzling artichokes, the phone rang. “Need any wine?” Taliasaid, calling from Chloe’s car. “Last chance to hit that liquor store in the Village.”
    “Thanks, but I’m good.” Decanted Chianti sat on my walnut sideboard, reflecting the setting sun. Two more bottles waited, with prosecco in reserve for toasting should Rome win the bake-off.
    “In that case, you’ll see us in ten minutes,” Talia said, adding, “If we don’t wind up in New Haven.” She let loose with her gravelly laugh, a sound that I imagined had, pre-Tom, hijacked many a man-child lost in a fog of lust.
    “Not fair—this time I know where to go,” Chloe shouted over a robotic voice politely urging a right turn.
    “How late are we?” Talia asked. “Is Quincy there yet?”
    “No sign of her,” I said as I hung up.
    Quincy had been incommunicado all week, though I’d e-mailed her. Twice. I was hoping she wouldn’t roll in an hour late claiming she’d been shanghaied by that holy state she’d spoken of when authors blast through their writer’s block and compose like hellhounds. Quincy could go wherever her effing flow took her as long as she didn’t forget about our dinner, which would mean postponing our decision about this vacation that had all four of us politely posturing.
    Blowsy roses cut from my garden faintly perfumed the screened porch where we’d be eating. I considered playing some opera—
nah, overkill
—and popped in Sinatra. As I walked back to the kitchen, my phone rang again. “Hi, doll,” Arthur said. “Am I interrupting you and the ladies?”
    “No, but I can’t talk.” I ground more pepper into the sauce. “Good real estate karma?”
    “Fuck no,” Arthur grumbled.
    When I’d mentioned the apartment in his building, within the hour Arthur had conned the doorman into telling him which unit was for sale, then insisted that I rush over to meet him in the lobby. The two of us sat like fools, feigning animated conversation, for almost an hour until the broker glided in, the kind of bitch who’d wait on you at Bloomingdale’s while she broadcast the not-so-subliminal message that you’d best stickto the plus-size department in the store’s bowels. I detested her on sight, and didn’t care if the feeling was mutual. It only juiced my competitive streak and made me salute Arthur’s ingenuity—not that I didn’t want to piss in my pants as I crossed the threshold of a find that Quincy had laid claim to as if it wore a plaque with her name on it. I had to remind myself that there was no way she was going to get that apartment. If anyone deserved it, it was a person from the building. Let’s call that person Arthur.
    “No luck? Well, that’s a bitch,” I said to him. The loyal girlfriend-me was galled, the friend part relieved. “What did the hag broker say?”
    “She won’t return my calls.”
    “Sorry.” I couldn’t cough up a
darling
or a
sweetie
, and wanted to ditch this topic. “What else’s going on?”
    “Which movie should I rent for Friday?” So we weren’t going to a Broadway show. One thing about Arthur: with respect to being stingy, he was consistent. “I’m thinking that Jesse James flick.”
    Pretentious, too. Nonetheless, I was about to wolf-whistle on the leading star’s behalf when the doorbell chimed. “You hear that? I’ll call you when they leave.”
    Although my townhouse isn’t large or even detached, my end unit’s leafy backyard gives me the illusion of privacy. And it’s mine, all mine and the bank’s, from its Dutch door overlooking steps bordered with purple petunias to a fieldstone fireplace that climbs to the second floor. Two extra bedrooms are tucked into the eaves. I don’t invite tall guests.
    Talia thrust a bouquet of daisies in my arms as we greeted each other with the usual kiss parade. “Love the sundress,” I said