Free With Friends Like These: A Novel by Sally Koslow Page B

hawk wholly credible knockoffs on the bridge leading to it.
    “I have to admit it’s sounding pretty sweet,” Chloe said. “The Italian part of
Eat, Pray, Love
was my favorite!”
    “That’s everyone’s favorite,” Talia sniffed. “Strangle me with my prayer beads if I ever agree to stay even one night at an ashram.”
    “Didn’t you love that because the author was such a squawk box the monks turned her into the ashram’s hostess?” Quincy asked.
    “On point, gang,” I said shrilly, while I considered that if I were to visitan ashram—an event as likely as me moving home to Staten Island—that’s the job the brothers would assign to me. “We’re still talking Rome. You know, the Eternal City.”
    “We could be like Audrey Hepburn in
Roman Holiday
,” Chloe said.
    Chloe and I share the belief that romantic movies peaked before we were born. “Or the women in
Three Coins in the Fountain
,” I added.
    “There were three friends in that story,” Quincy said. “Who stays home?” This time no one could miss her blistering tone.
    “What’s your problem?” Talia asked, turning.
    “Actually, now that you mention it, the euro,” Quincy said, and buttoned up her face. Even in the flattering amber of my living room light, I saw a crease on her forehead that I’d never before noticed.
    “You’re right,” Talia said without skipping a beat. “What are we thinking? Italy would be
molto costoso
.”
    “Who said anything about fancy?” I said, failing to suppress my annoyance. “I know any number of reasonably priced hotels and restaurants.”
    But Chloe was talking over me. “I got bedbugs once at a four-star hotel in Venice. Red tracks running up my arms like some sort of addict. I was mortified to show them to a doctor.” The other two seemed riveted by her account of dermatological distress. “I doubt we’ll get bedbug bites in Vegas.”
    “I see,” I said. “You’d rather go to the ersatz Italy, the one in Nevada?”
    “The fountains at the Bellagio are choreographed to opera,” Chloe said.
    As if that were a selling point. “Go on,” I drawled.
    “You can ride in a gondola at the Venetian,” she added.
    “The gondolier will have a ya-you-betcha accent,” I countered. William Macy in
Fargo
had wormed his way into my brain in my attempt to see Arthur’s features as quirky rather than porcine; I’d been thinking about an article I’d read on sexual attraction that insisted that only unimaginative women require handsome men.
    “I’ve read about great deals to Vegas,” Talia said. “You can stay at Caesars Palace for about a hundred bucks a night.”
    Quincy cut in. “But isn’t it a dump?”
    Chloe looked hurt. “Midweek every hotel’s a bargain in Las Vegas, even the Wynn.”
    “Midweek won’t work,” I said, “at least not for me. We blocked out a long weekend months ago. I can’t change my schedule.”
I’m not like the rest of you, whose lives come with male safety nets
.
    Chloe had retreat written all over her face. “Of course we’ll stick with those dates. But think of all the shows.”
    I was trying not to.
    “What about you two?” Chloe turned to Quincy and Talia.
    “Vegas is depressing,” Quincy said. “People gambling away rent money and chasing ninety-nine-cent shrimp cocktails.” I tried to catch her eye, to show that I agreed. She looked through me. “Graceland. That’s America.” She got up, hummed a few bars of “Don’t Be Cruel,” and announced, “I’m already holding the Gold and Platinum Suite.”
    And they thought
I
was pushy?
    “The hotel plays Elvis movies on a constant loop.” I saw Quincy’s mouth continue to move and Chloe and Talia respond. Had I really screwed Quincy? Absolutely not, since under no circumstances would she and Jake wind up with that Eldorado apartment. In that case, shouldn’t Arthur have a crack at it? He’d already lived for years in that pile of choice bricks. Bottom line, it had nothing to do with me.