The Pact. Jennifer Sturman

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      “But why didn’t I listen to you?” I asked. “You all tried to tell me what a nightmare he was—God only knows how many times—and I just didn’t want to hear it.”

      “You were doing what you wanted to do,” said Jane.

      “Even though what you wanted to do was completely fucked up. I mean, it was clear the guy was bad news from day one.” Hilary poured wine into her glass and passed the bottle to Luisa. “He was so full of himself.”

      “He was not bad news from day one,” Jane protested. “He did a lot of things right at first. Remember all of the flowers? And when he took Rachel to Walden Pond? You have to give him at least a few points for that.”

      “He’s a man,” said Luisa, stubbing out her cigarette and preparing to light another. “It’s a waste of time to dissect what he did right and what he did wrong.” She pointed the end of the unlit cigarette at me and locked her dark-eyed gaze on mine. “The most important thing is to learn to enjoy men but also to take care of yourself. Next time you’ll know better.”

      “But what if I don’t know better?” I asked. “What if the next one is equally awful but in a different way, so that I don’t recognize that he’s awful?”

      “Maybe next time you’ll listen to us,” said Jane.

      “That’s right,” agreed Hilary. “You’ll remember what a fool you made of yourself with Chris, and you’ll listen.”

      “You know, Hil, you haven’t always had the greatest judgment yourself. Remember Tommy Fitzgerald? And what about that guy from the Owl Club? What was his name again? The one with the—?”

      “You’re one to talk, Jane. Remember freshman year when you and Sean were taking a ‘break’ and you started going out with that asshole from the crew team?”

      “Okay, enough,” said Luisa. “We’ve all made mistakes—there’s no need to catalog them.”

      “Luisa’s right. None of us has a very good record on assessing the men in our lives. And when push comes to shove, the rest of us always figure it out before the one who’s actually in the relationship.” Emma was so quiet that when she did speak people listened closely. We were all silent for a moment, considering her words.

      “Well, the point is that if any of you come to me and tell me my boyfriend’s an asshole, I promise I’ll listen,” said Jane. This was easy for her to say, given that Sean was as close to the ideal boyfriend as a mere mortal could be. Still, her voice held a challenge in it for the rest of us. She looked around the table.

      “Me, too,” said Emma, thoughtfully. “In fact, I’d even make a pact on that.”

      “Well, I’d probably already know the guy was an asshole, but I’d listen to you,” said Hilary. “You can count me in.”

      “No argument here, especially if it means that I never have to go through a relationship like this again,” I said.

      “Luisa? What about you?” asked Emma.

      She gave a slight shrug. “We’ve made so many pacts that it’s hard to keep them all straight. Remember the one about giving up caffeine? That lasted about five minutes. Why should this one be any different? What happens if we all promise to listen to each other but then we don’t? Then what?”

      “Then the rest of us take matters into our own hands,” replied Hilary. “Obviously. We waste the guy.”

      That made everybody laugh. “Come on, Luisa, don’t be such a skeptic,” said Jane. “This one’s serious.”

      “Fine, fine.” She caved in to our pleading with another shrug of her shoulders. “I’m in.”

      “Good. Then it’s unanimous. We’re making a pact,” said Emma.

      “A pact,” agreed Jane.

      “Let’s toast!” urged Hilary.

      We laughed and clinked our glasses together—all except Jane, who hated when people clinked. In unison, we drank.

      None of us would have guessed where this pact would lead.

      CHAPTER 1

      Perhaps the only thing worse than getting drunk by accident is not being able to get drunk on purpose. I’d switched from champagne to vodka tonics during the second course, but I still felt as clearheaded as the valedictorian at an AA graduation. And somehow calling for tequila shots seemed unseemly in these staid country club surroundings. Instead, I asked the waiter for another vodka tonic, meeting his raised eyebrows with an innocent smile and a request to go easy on the tonic.

      The Fates were conspiring against me this evening, I all too soberly reflected. Here I was at my best friend’s rehearsal dinner, and rather than overflowing with joy I wanted to put my head down on the crisp linen tablecloth and weep. And not because of the bridesmaid’s dress I was scheduled to wear the following evening at half past six. (Although I was still curious as to how Emma, who I sincerely believed had only honorable intentions towards us all, had managed to find a style and color that didn’t flatter even one of her four bridesmaids.)

      No, the dress and the prospect of wearing it were just fanning the flames of my distress. And while I dreaded the toast I would shortly have to make, it was merely fuel for the fire.

      The horror, I thought. The horror.

      If I turned my head to the right and counted over three seats, I could see the reason for my silent anguish in the flesh, smugly resplendent in a custom-made charcoal pinstriped suit and vivid Hermés tie, his black hair slicked neatly back from a widow’s peak.

      Richard.

      He was talking to a client who’d stopped by the table to say hello. He suddenly looked my way, as if he could feel the weight of my eyes upon him. He met my gaze with a smarmy wink and returned to his conversation.

      I didn’t know then that a smarmy wink from Richard should have been the least of my worries compared to everything else the weekend held in store. I stifled a shudder and took a big gulp of my fresh drink, trying to ignore how much it tasted like insect repellent and fighting off yet another pang of anxiety. The clock was ticking, moving inexorably toward disaster; the ceremony that would bind Emma to Richard was to take place in less than twenty-four hours.

      I sent a desperate glance around the table for moral support, a reassuring word of some sort. The seat directly to my right was empty, reserved for the best man, whose flight from the West Coast had been delayed. Not that I expected any friend of Richard’s to be remotely comforting in this situation. Emma, sitting next to Richard, had turned in her seat to greet one of the many well-wishers who’d come by to speak to her. She’d been so busy with the stream of visitors that she’d barely touched the food on her plate, and the shy smile on her face was starting to look more than a little forced.

      To my left sat Matthew, the sort of guy you could always count on to help you out of a difficult spot. Tonight, however, he’d be the least appropriate person to turn to. He hated Richard as much, if not more, than any of us. With good reason. Matthew was the one Emma should be marrying. Unfortunately, this was glaringly obvious to everyone except Emma. I felt indignant on Matthew’s behalf СКАЧАТЬ