Page 61 of The Family Guest

My hand shaking, I speed-dialed her number, relieved her name was at the beginning of my long list of contacts. She picked up on the first ring.

“Well, hello, dahling!”

“Alexa, I need to see you.” The words tumbled out of my mouth like they were stuck together.

“Nat, you sound weird.”

Drunk by 9a.m.

“Is everything okay?”

“No!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone. Can we meet for lunch?”

“How about the restaurant at Neiman’s? That way I can do a little shopping afterward and return the pair of shoes I bought last week.”

“Fine. What time?” I rushed the words in case she changed her mind.

“Why don’t we say at one.”

“That works. See you then.”

That’s if I didn’t overdose on Xanax. I reached again for the bottle.

* * *

The Neiman Marcus café in Beverly Hills had long been a destination for “Ladies Who Lunch.” While the old-fashioned décor had been updated, now contemporary and chic, the clientele was still the same. Just a little younger. Well-dressed, perfectly coiffed women with the latest designer handbags and usually at least one Neiman’s shopping bag in tow.

The hostess showed me to our table. It was in the middle of the busy restaurant. Alexa preferred to be seated in the open rather than secluded in a corner because, as she put it, she liked to see and be seen. She loved to be the center of attention. Sometimes I wondered why she was my best friend. Except for serving on many of the same committees, having husbands who were best friends, and sending our kids to the same school, we weren’t much alike. She was loud and brazen; I was more inner and reserved. My fashion sense was conservative, hers ostentatious, never letting age or wealth dictate her choices. Maybe I simply liked her because she was a lot of fun and spoke her mind. And you could always count on her to know the latest gossip and, most importantly, get the job done.

I glanced down at my phone. I was fifteen minutes early. I ordered a stiff drink—a whiskey straight up—something I never drank—but with what I had to tell her, I needed one.

Liquid courage.

Alexa was fifteen minutes late. By the time she arrived, I was on my second drink. Given that I’d drunk almost an entire bottle of wine earlier, it’s a good thing I’d Ubered here because in my inebriated state, there was no way I was going to be able to drive home. Let alone make it out of this place without falling on my ass.

Alexa made eye contact with me. She gave me her big toothy smile and waved. She looked chic as always in a stunning Chanel suit, accented with lots of chunky gold jewelry, and breezed over to me in her six-inch-high pumps. I was convinced she was born wearing stilettos. It took me several blistering months to learn how to walk in them, the cheap, faux-leather kind from Payless, which were all I could afford before I met Matt.

Matt the philanderer.

As she neared the table, I stood and she hugged me, giving me one of those pretentious double-cheek kisses. “Dahling, I’m sorry I’m so late.”

She reeled off a lame excuse. But it wasn’t her lateness that was disquieting. She was always late. It was something else. Something that was heating me like a fever.

Her honey-blonde hair was now a vibrant shade of red and she was wearing it loose, letting it go naturally curly past her shoulders. As she hugged me, a familiar scent wafted up my nose. An unmistakable combination of jasmine and lavender. A sickening feeling pooled in the pit of my stomach. Weak in the knees, dizzy from the alcohol, I wobbled on my feet and thought I would vomit again. The world was tilted on its axis and spinning around me.

Stop the world! I want to get off!

She kept her feline-green eyes on me. “What’s wrong, dahling? You look like you just lost your best friend.”

In truth, I had. I was fraught with raw emotion. Shock. Anger. Disbelief. Hatred. Indignation. Disgust. How could Alexa do this to me? Unable to control my impulses, nor form words, I raised my hand and slapped her face so hard my palm stung.

She let out a gasp and flinched, jerking her head so I could see the five-finger red welt I left on her cheek.

“You slut!” I seethed.