Free Under the Influence by Joyce Maynard Page A

of prostitutes,” I told her. “She said I reminded her of one.”
    â€œOh, great.”
    â€œShe wanted to hear about my photography.”
    â€œDid she invite any of the retarded people over, too?” Alice said. There was that old bitterness to her voice. In the past it hadn’t bothered me, but now it did. She almost sounded jealous.
    â€œDevelopmentally disabled, not retarded,” I said. “But no.”
    â€œWell, that’s quite an invitation then.”
    â€œShe probably just felt sorry for me,” I said. “More than likely I’ll never hear from her again.” Only I would, I knew. I had written the date on my calendar the minute I got home, not that there was a chance I’d forget it. Dinner at Vinny’s with Swift and Ava, that Friday night. Now, here I was, lying.
    â€œI thought we were supposed to get together yesterday,” Alice said.She didn’t say more, but this was when I realized I’d forgotten. We’d planned to see the new Coen brothers movie.
    â€œOh, no,” I said. “Things were crazy at work. I’ll call you to reschedule as soon as everything quiets down.”
    â€œSure,” Alice said, but I knew from her tone she wasn’t buying my excuse. My job was boring, but never crazy. “Just let me know when it’s a good time.”
    But I didn’t call her. And the next time Alice asked me to go to the movies with her, I said I was busy. Ava and Swift had invited me to have dinner with them at a different restaurant. Mediterranean, this time. The time after that, when Alice called to suggest we catch a movie together, I said no. The Havillands hadn’t invited me anyplace, but I hoped they would. And that was enough.
    â€œI guess you’re one of the popular girls now,” Alice said.

13.
    â€œW e might want to do something about your wardrobe,” Ava said. It was a Saturday morning, and I had just shown up at Folger Lane to work on the photo project. Estella had already poured me a smoothie and set a carrot muffin on a plate for me, still warm from the oven. Swift was heading out to his qigong class. “Don’t let her give you a hard time,” he called out to me. “I happen to like sweatpants.”
    Even when she wasn’t going anywhere, Ava always wore something interesting. That day it was a hand-painted silk blouse and a pair of linen pants with a silver necklace I’d never seen before, and earrings to match.
    â€œI just threw these on because they were handy,” I told her. I was wearing a faded T-shirt and stretched-out pants.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter if all you’re doing is passing appetizer trays, or even cleaning toilets,” Ava said—not that she ever spent any time doing the latter. “It just makes you feel better when you’ve got a wonderful outfit on.”
    â€œI guess I never think about clothes much anymore,” I told her. This wasn’t completely accurate. I loved nice clothes. I just didn’t own any.
    â€œIt’s about valuing yourself, Helen,” Ava said. “And letting the world know that’s the kind of person you are.”
    Despite the number of times I’d been to their house, I’d never been upstairs, but now she took me there in her special elevator. “It’s time you paid a visit to my closet,” she said.
    Ava’s closet was the size of my whole apartment, more or less. One wall held the shoes. (Never mind that they never saw wear.) She must have owned a hundred pairs, which were arranged—thanks to Estella, no doubt—by color, with a row of handmade cowboy boots lined up along the floor. Then there was the scarf and hat wall, and the purses. One whole rack held nothing but sweaters in every shade of cashmere but yellow. Ava hated yellow. Then there were the silk blouses, and the Indian tunics, and the floaty silk pants she favored because they concealed how thin her