VI

Not that she hadn’t been to sophisticated parties. A fair number of them, in fact.

When she was young, her parents often threw ostentatious dinner parties in their apartment. Black-tie affairs with private chefs and jazz quartets. On these evenings, Mrs. March and her sister Lisa would be given an early dinner in the kitchen—usually a selection of leftovers they’d consume sulkily while the pink, glossy canapés that would be served at the party taunted them from the counter, warranting a surreptitious spit or two.

Their parents would then lock them in their rooms, which were connected by a bathroom. They would mostly spend the evening in Lisa’s room, since she was the eldest and that was the room with the television, and would watch horror movies and the occasional European art film, giggling at the nudity at increasingly breathless intervals.

Sometimes they would be startled by a shrill outburst erupting from the living room or animalistic snorts in the hallway. One evening the bedroom doorknob turned slowly, then more violently, shaking the whole doorframe, under the rapt gaze of the girls, who sat together, motionless, until the rattling ceased.

The cat, along with its litter box and food and water, would be locked in with them so that the guests wouldn’t be disturbed by it meowing or shedding on their coats or—God forbid—pouncing on the table. It would scratch at the door, yowling incessantly to escape. Upset by its suffering, Mrs. March would paw at the door in a pretend attempt to open it, then would feign vexation so that the cat would understand that she, too, was trapped inside.

The mornings after these parties the house would smell different, like sandalwood perfume and cigars and—confusingly, because her parents owned none—scented candles.

When Mrs. March turned seventeen, she was finally asked to attend one. It was her father who mentioned it offhandedly to her one Saturday morning from behind his newspaper.

Feeling very mature or very nervous or a combination of both, she stole a bottle of sherry from the liquor cabinet and drank from it in her bedroom, shyly and haltingly at first, then in great consecutive gulps.

That night, she debated somewhat too animatedly with her parents’ friends about theater and art. She laughed mindlessly at jokes she was not sure she understood. She interrupted a profound, intellectual discussion of the nature versus nurture debate, quoting Mary Shelley, whose work she’d been studying in class. She ate every single course the chef had prepared—a heavy, decadent Tudor-era feast—including roast venison and meat pie—and continued to drink until she realized all the guests had left and she was standing alone holding a glass of port she didn’t remember pouring.

She hugged the toilet bowl through the night, kneeling on the cold tiled floor of the bathroom she used to share with her sister, and was sick well into the morning, purging her body of the thick, meaty meal, which came out of her in stringy pieces.

She hid in her bedroom until well past lunchtime the next day. When she eventually emerged, the furniture placement in the living room seemed to be ever so subtly off by an inch, her father’s books looked to be out of order, and the blue china vase on the piano depicted a dragon when she was sure it had always been a bird.

Her parents sat at opposite ends of the sofa, each reading a copy of the same book, seemingly oblivious to the stench of liquor-dampened velvet. They didn’t look up as she walked in. Neither made mention of the party at all, which Mrs. March took as their grim tacit acceptance of her flaws—but her mother did insist on washing her hair. It was something she had always done for her daughter and continued to do until Mrs. March left for college.

On this day, the day after her parents’ party, Mrs. March knelt on the bathroom floor as her mother sat on the rim of the tub and lathered. They did not speak but her mother did tug especially hard on her hair, and Mrs. March fought to curb her nausea, which was particularly challenging with one’s head upside down. She considered this to be her punishment for her behavior the previous night. As her mother roughly rubbed her scalp, she vowed not to drink another drop of alcohol until she had graduated college.

She kept her word, attending university parties more as a spectator than as a reveler. Like a ghost, she would weave through the dorms and fraternities, observing the drunken Ping-Pong matches and the couples kissing ravenously in dark corners.

She met her first serious boyfriend, Darren Turp, at one of these early campus parties. Mrs. March had imposed upon herself another steadfast rule: she would lose her virginity to the first boy to ever tell her that he loved her. And so she did, a year and a half later, on an unseasonably hot spring day, sweating on Darren’s dorm mattress (his father, good friends with the dean, had secured for him a single room). Afterwards, they fell asleep, and when Mrs. March awoke that evening, she struggled to recall anything other than sunlight on closed eyelids and sheets tangled tight around her ankles like clutching hands. She eased out of the bed as quietly as she could and inspected the sheets using Darren’s Eagle Scout flashlight, but there was nothing—not even a rusty, menstrual-like smudge. Her hymen, that so-called sacred piece of her, must have broken a long time ago.

She continued to date sweet, unassuming Darren until her senior year, when she met and became infatuated with George (George March is the most attractive man on campus). She told Darren she was leaving him without so much as an explanation. He beseeched her to stay, or to at least sleep on it, and when she pointedly refused, he pestered her to call his mother and break the news to her personally. “My mother at least deserves an explanation,” he said hotly, “after everything she’s done for you.” Mrs. March had spent several Thanksgivings at the Turps’ home in Boston, where she and Darren slept in adjacent rooms so as to please the proudly traditional Mrs. Turp. Each morning, at the crack of dawn, Darren’s mother would creep into her room—at first Mrs. March assumed it was to ensure the couple had not spent the night together, but it turned out Mrs. Turp was grabbing her guest’s towels to warm them in the dryer for her before her morning shower.

And so Mrs. March dialed Mrs. Turp from a pay phone outside the cafeteria minutes after breaking up with her son. It was raining considerably, the sky lighting up and rumbling at three-second intervals. The women could barely hear each other over the thunder.

“I have seen it fit to propose that Darren and I part ways—”

“What?”

“Darren and I have agreed that it would be best—”

“Can’t hear ya!”

“I’m leaving Darren!” Mrs. March screamed into the receiver pressed against her left ear, her finger plugging the right. This outburst was met by silence, followed by Mrs. Turp’s cold, clipped voice: “All right then. Thank you. Good luck with everything.” With that, the line went dead, and Mrs. March left the phone booth without another word to Darren, who had been pacing outside the entire time, drenched. She allowed herself sixteen minutes to weep for their relationship, which was the exact duration of her walk back to her dorm.

Once married to George, she lifted the self-imposed drinking ban and began to enjoy wine and kir royales at the growing number of events to which her ascendant husband was invited. One function, an exclusive event at the Met that took place after operating hours, involved a private tour of an upcoming exhibit, followed by a cocktail party in the members-only dining room. The partygoers drifted from table to table, clinging to them as if to lifeboats.

It was at this party where Mrs. March saw Darren again. Eight or nine years had passed since their breakup, but Darren had the same blotched cheeks, the same curly hair, the same style of striped linen shirt (though her heart sank when she realized this particular shirt was unfamiliar to her—as if she somehow retained the right to know his entire wardrobe forever).

George was lost in animated conversation, which gave her an opportunity to approach Darren, who was in a corner sipping at something pink. She tapped him on the shoulder, and when he turned, his face fell. “Oh,” he said, “it’s you.”

Entirely because there were people watching, Mrs. March belted out a honking laugh, pretending he had made a joke.

“I saw you earlier,” continued Darren, “with Professor March. Are you two actually dating?” His eyes darted toward George, who was still chatting away.

“Yes—well, we’re married,” said Mrs. March with unconcealed pride, her hand rising to flash the sizable ring on her finger. “He’s not a professor anymore,” she added, hoping Darren would inquire about George’s recent success.

He huffed. “I should have known,” he said.

“Known what?”

“That you cheated on me with a professor.”

Mrs. March swallowed. “I did no such thing.”

“Of course you did! Someone told me they saw you two together the day after you dumped me. Couldn’t even wait forty-eight hours, could you?”

Mrs. March was left speechless. It seemed silly, albeit somewhat flattering, that someone would go to such lengths—would consider her important enough to spy on.

“And of course you went for the professor,” said Darren. “Everything you do is just for show.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Did you even care about me? Or did you zero in on me because my family had money?”

Mrs. March was about to point out that her own family had much more money than his, but she shushed him instead, saying, “People are staring.”

“Well, I’ll have you know I’m doing quite well now. I’ve been hired at The New Yorker. They pay rather well, as you might know.”

This news stung a little, for George had recently submitted a story to The New Yorker, where it had been firmly rejected.

“Congratulations,” said Mrs. March meekly. She longed to throw her drink on him, to spit in his face—no, what she really wanted was to know who had told him about her and George and if anyone else knew about it, this small tarnish on her reputation. Dizzy from the alcohol and the music, she walked away from Darren, her small, stupid “congratulations” now tormenting her. She managed, with effort, to appear chipper and carefree the rest of the soirée, all the while avoiding the curly-haired figure bobbing menacingly among the crowd.

Later, she eventually unearthed, through gentle prodding of friends in common, that he had lied to her. He was merely a copy boy—and a poorly paid one at that. As George continued to soar, Darren, as far as Mrs. March could tell, failed to arrive in the literary world (or any world for that matter). She had won. What she desperately hoped for now was that Darren would never lay eyes on George’s new book. It would give him so much satisfaction.