professional actresses, really got into the idea of being costumed. Alice had taken her ensemble to the theatre and changed clothes in the dressing room after her Grandma Finneganâs Wake performance.
âI feel like shit,â Izzy announced suddenly.
âLetâs find the ladiesâ room then,â I suggested.
âNo, not that kind of shit. Iâm not going to puke or anything. This is only Diet Coke,â she said, raising her glass. Izzy suddenly burst into tears.
Alice put her arm over her friendâs shoulder and began to comfort her. âDo you want to get up? Move around a bit? Letâs take a walk. Howâs that sound?â
Izzy shook her head. âIâ¦feel soâ¦unloved,â she sobbed. âSorry,â she immediately added, fishing for a tissue in her evening purse. âMy hormones are going insane.â She assumed an expression of forced cheer. âDonât mind me! Iâm okay!â
âHey, you want to dance?â Alice asked her.
Izzy nodded. âYeah. Thatâs like a moving hug. And I really need a hug. Damn! I used to act this way when I was drunk! â
âWell, you have a different âexcuseâ now,â I said. âThe hormones. Itâs okay. I seem to remember being pretty wacko both times I was pregnant too.â
âHow old are your kids?â Izzy asked.
âEleven and sixteen. And as temperamentally different as two kids could possibly be. One is an angel and the otherâ¦isnât.â
âI hope this is a girl,â Izzy said, patting her belly. âTheyâre much easier.â
âItâs a myth!â I snorted, wondering what the hell Molly was up to tonight. She said she was going to the movies with a girlfriend this evening, having promised on all she held sacred (so I had my doubts) that sheâd do her homework first. At her age, most of her classmates go out on weekday evenings as long as they observe a curfew, so itâs bootless for me to try to force her to stay at home. I did remind Molly that it was a school night, but Iâm pretty confident, from experience, that my words carried all the weight of a mayfly.
Alice devoured the maraschino cherry in her cocktail, followed by several valiant though unsuccessful attempts to tie the stem into a knot with her tongue. Izzy slurped down the remainder of her diet soda, then the two of them negotiated their way to the crowded dance floor. The music was a sultry though occasionally strident German torch song that managed to simultaneously relax me and make me nervous. I leaned against the ruby-colored banquette and sipped my vodka tonic, closing my eyesâwith one hand on my purse, of courseâletting the tune get under my skin. A few moments later I returned my focus to the dance floor, wondering why Iâd accepted Claude and Naomiâs invitation. It had nothing to do with socializing in the same venue as some of my clients. In many instances, avoiding those situations is impractical.My laundry room clients are women Iâve grown fond of; we frequently run into one another in the building, chatting informally when we do. To maintain appropriate boundaries, the only actual rule I enforce is that the dirty linen aired during the sessions in the basement stays in the basement.
My ambivalence tonight came from something else entirely. I just wasnât in a dancing mood and felt guilty that I wasnât enjoying my complimentary drink.
I watched Alice and Izzy doing the junior high hug-and-sway. Izzy suddenly burst into tears again on Aliceâs shoulder. Without missing a beat, Alice removed the white pocket square from her tuxedo jacket and dried her friendâs eyes. It was a touching, unguarded moment that suddenly made me realize that I have no girlfriends whose shoulders I can cry on. In fact, I have no friends who I feel as close and connected to as I do with some of my clients. Iâve heard colleagues