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  “Fine,” she would huff. “I didn’t realize it was a problem. I won’t come to you anymore.” And she wouldn’t. For a while.

  Her mother was more understanding. An artist herself, she had always encouraged Steffi to follow a creative path. When Steffi dropped out of Emory—she was far too busy partying and having fun to bother with work—her mother, while not quite actively encouraging it, said that she had never thought Steffi would thrive in an academic environment.

  Her father, on the other hand, had almost had heart failure. There were only two things Steffi could do that would make him happy: work at a bank or insurance company, with a steady salary and a medical plan, or find a wealthy husband to take care of her. Given that she had been fired from every desk job she had ever attempted, and given her penchant for actors, musicians and writers, it was looking increasingly unlikely she would be able to make her father happy.

  “When are you going to grow up?” he shouted a couple of times.

  “You will find out what you are here for,” her mother said, and gently smiled. “It just may take you a little longer to find out, but that’s okay. It took me a little longer too.”

  Steffi still cannot believe her mother and father had once been married. She doesn’t remember a time when they were ever together. She was barely a toddler when they split up, but spent her entire childhood dreaming of them remarrying, even though, for years, they quite clearly hated each other.

  Now of course, as an adult, she has asked her mother.

  “Tell me again why you married him?”

  “I was young, he was handsome. I thought it would make my mother happy.”

  “Did it?”

  “Of course. To marry a Tollemache? My mother was over the moon.” Honor’s eyes clouded over as she remembered.

  “And they didn’t care about what you wanted?”

  “Things were different in those days.” Her mother smiled. “You married for a variety of reasons, and true love was rarely one of them.”

  “So you didn’t love him?”

  “Oh I did,” Honor said carefully. “Your father is a good man. I absolutely loved him, but we were such different people. Truly, we should never have married each other.”

  Her father still refuses to talk about her mother, unless it’s a sarcastic dig. You would think, considering he has married twice more since then, not to mention having had a long-term live-in lover too, that he would have moved on, but he has never seemed able to let go of the anger. Callie has theorized that it is because their mother humiliated him by leaving him so unexpectedly.

  And yet, when Honor’s second husband, the man she described as the love of her life, died eight years ago, Walter wrote her a long letter, expressing his sorrow, and his regret that he hadn’t been able to find the sort of happiness she had had.

  Callie had been stunned at the generosity and genuine kindness contained within the letter. She suggested that their parents meet up again, try to become friends, but her father quickly reverted to the dismissiveness of old, and said he wanted nothing to do with their mother. It was bad enough he had to see her at weddings and christenings, he said. The last thing he wanted was her as a movie date.

  Callie remains convinced it is because Walter is still in love with her. Throughout their marriage—fourteen years—he had been happy, had thought he had the perfect life. Walter hadn’t realized that their mother was, much like Steffi, a free spirit, but one who was trying to be a good daughter, a good wife, a good mother. A woman who was trying so hard to be someone she was not in order to please other people that the weight of the pretense almost suffocated her.

  Since her father’s last divorce, some five years ago, he has been on his own, and both Callie and Steffi are worried about him. Steffi has promised to go and stay with him up in Maine before Christmas, but she is dreading it. Her dad has invited Rob, but Steffi knows that he will hate him.

  A long-haired, left-wing, laid-back musician, who doesn’t have a clue what the word “responsible” means, isn’t exactly who her father has in mind for her.

  To be honest, he isn’t entirely who she has in mind for herself, but then he’ll smile that devastating smile at her and everything will melt, and she will think that things can carry on as they are. For today.

  “I like your bandanna,” a girl pipes up as Steffi inches past her, making her way through the crowd to their friends just in front of the stage.

  “Thanks.” Steffi smiles, recognizing the girl as one of the groupies trying to befriend Steffi because in her teenage world there is cachet attached to knowing the girlfriend of a member of the band. “Rachel, right?”

  The girl’s face lights up. “Yeah. You’re Steffi, Rob’s girlfriend.”

  Steffi nods. “I’ll see you later.” No point in pretending they have things in common, and having been working nonstop all day, Steffi hasn’t got the time for small talk or to explain that the only reason her dark-blond hair is in braids and bandanna is because she hasn’t had a moment to wash it. It’s not exactly glamorous.

  “Hey, love!” Susie reaches over and gives her a hug. “Cute braids.”

  “Thanks. What’s going on?”

  “They’ll be on in about five minutes. How was work?”

  Steffi reaches into her bag. “You just reminded me—your favorite was on the menu today. I brought it for you.”

  “Carrot cake?”

  “Nope.”

  “Lemon bars?”

  “Nope.”

  “Basil pesto quinoa?”

  “Honey?” Steffi frowns. “How many favorites do you actually have?”

  Susie breaks out in a peal of laughter. “Everything, sweetie. I love all your cooking. So, seriously, did you bring me my absolute favorite of all? A mushroom and pecan burger?”

  “I did! And I brought you some sweet tomato pesto to go with it.”

  “I love you, Steffi.” Susie reaches over to give her another hug, then takes the recycled cardboard box and puts it in the bag down at her feet.

  “I love you too,” Steffi says, meaning it. It is perhaps the thing she cherishes most about this relationship: the wives and girlfriends of the other members of the band. They are the only other women who truly understand the nature of their rock-band life: that the fans at the concerts are constantly in competition with you, that you spend vast amounts of time on your own while your men are on tour, or recording, or doing press.

  Steffi loves the sisterhood. Loves that on a Sunday, while Rob is at practice, Susie will drop in with baby Woody on her hip and drag Steffi out for a long walk and gossipy chats over steaming vats of green tea.

  It is this she cannot give up, she realizes, for, eighteen months into their relationship, Steffi is beginning to wonder if she really wants to be a rock widow; she is beginning to question what she and Rob really have in common.

  Not that she doesn’t adore him, but Rob’s world revolves very much around Rob, and Steffi is aware that she is growing ever so slightly tired of hearing the same stories again and again. If he were interested in other things, in . . . well . . . her, for instance, it might be okay, but Rob has to have the spotlight shine on him, and it’s not that she minds that exactly, but she often feels they are two people living completely independent lives, coming together late at night for sex, a pretense at intimacy, before separating in the morning with a quick kiss and going out to live their respective lives. Alone.

  Coming to gigs reminds her of all that is exciting about him. She knows it’s superficial, but standing in a room and seeing how many women are screaming for him fills her with a sense of pride, because she is the one he loves.

  Although lately she has been questioning even that. “Love ya, babe,” said frequently and in passing, isn’t quite the same as a heart-felt “I love you.” The word love seems to be used so loosely among their friends that she sometimes isn’t sure of its meaning.

  The band is great tonight. Steffi has learned that you can tell, as soon as you walk
into the room, how the performance will be. It’s not about the practice, or the moods the band members are in; it’s about the energy in the room. When it is good, the show will be amazing; when it is flat, and no matter what the band tries to do, the performance will be off.

  They finish their second song, and Rob spots Steffi in the front. Whatever happens between us, Steffi thinks, I will always look at you and find you devastatingly handsome, will always be side-swiped by that long dark hair and that smooth, tanned skin.

  He grins at her and does his funny little strutting dance, which she always loves watching, raising an eyebrow and winking at her after his spin. She cracks up laughing and shakes her head. Even though she knows it’s not going to be forever, he has the ability to make her laugh, and for now, as she continues to try to convince herself, that seems like enough.

  Spinach and Chickpea Coconut Curry

  Ingredients

  1 can chickpeas, drained and rinsed, or 2 cups home-cooked

  chickpeas

  1 can organic diced tomatoes

  2 medium potatoes, diced into 1-inch cubes, parboiled

  3 cups torn spinach leaves

  5 cloves

  1½ teaspoons turmeric

  1½ teaspoons curry powder

  3 cloves of garlic, minced

  1 can coconut milk

  Method

  Combine the chickpeas, tomatoes, potatoes, spinach, cloves, turmeric, curry, garlic and milk in a pan. Bring to a boil, turn down the heat, cover and simmer for 30 minutes. Serve with rice or pita bread.

  Chapter Four

  “Hi, I’m Emily Samek.” The pretty girl on the doorstep gives Callie a big smile and shakes her hand.

  “I’m so glad you’re here!” Callie steps aside and pulls her in. “Especially since Jenn couldn’t make it. Thank God she suggested you, or I don’t know what I would have done. The kids can’t wait to see this movie. Are you sure it’s okay?”

  “Of course!” Emily says. “And you want me to keep them out for dinner?”

  “I do. It’s Book Club tonight,” she says with a shrug, by way of explanation. “I’ve got all the girls coming over and I still haven’t made the tomato tarts.”

  “I’m happy to help, if there’s time.” Emily follows her into the kitchen. “I love cooking!”

  “Really?” Callie hesitates. “Oh God. Cooking or kids. Nope. I have to get the kids out of the way. Maybe if you’re able to babysit for us again you could do some cooking with them?”

  Emily beams. “That would be great!”

  “Kids!” Callie roars up the stairs. “Emily the babysitter’s here. Get your shoes on and get downstairs.”

  “I don’t wanna go,” Jack whines, his small face appearing at the top of the stairs. “I wanna stay home.”

  “Not tonight, baby,” Callie says. “But you’re going to see Up!”

  “Really?” His face lights up. “On a school night?”

  “I know! You are so lucky!”

  “Yay!” He disappears off to his room to find his shoes, cheering. “Liza? We’re going to see Up!”

  Callie shakes her head in resignation. “You can get them ice cream too . . . I know, I know, I’m a terrible mother.”

  When the kids clatter downstairs she gives them giant hugs and closes the door gently behind them.

  Callie was one of the founder members of Book Club. She’d never actually thought of herself as a typical Book Club woman—she didn’t always enjoy large groups of women—but because it was only three of them in the beginning, and the other two—Betsy and Laura—were women she knew well, it felt like hers, and three years on she loves it.

  As with so many book clubs, it is less about the book and almost entirely about camaraderie. It is about women remembering who they were before they had children. Women who can collapse into a sofa with a glass of wine and not have someone pulling at their T-shirt or running in demanding that Mommy punish a sibling for hitting them.

  It is about laughter. And friendship. And bonding. It has become a bright spot in all of their lives, and tonight, as with every other Book Club night, the women will dress up, put on makeup, sparkle just a little bit more. Not for their husbands, but for the other women.

  When it’s warm enough, Book Club has always been outside, or at least starts outside, with drinks in sun-filled gardens, around serene swimming pools, on fieldstone terraces overlooking hills, before moving inside or onto screened porches, while the drink continues to flow and the women get more comfortable.

  During the summer, the women all wear dresses. Brightly colored silk or chiffon sundresses with strappy sandals, their skin glowing as they sip their pomegranate martinis and throw their heads back with laughter, knowing how beautiful they all look.

  But now, in the autumn, Book Club means fires, glasses of red wine, cozy sweaters and curling up on squishy sofas. It is the time of year that Callie adores, and she is looking forward to everyone’s arriving.

  She flicks the light on in her dressing room and idly pulls out a couple of dresses. She isn’t really a dress girl, has never felt entirely herself in dresses, although for special occasions she’ll put one on. Tonight she decides she’ll wear jeans. She’s always more comfortable in jeans, and she’ll pair her favorite dark skinny ones with high boots and a pale pink chiffon blouse. A long delicate gold chain with a chunky crystal at the end, and she’ll be perfect.

  There is a uniform out here, and it is quite different from the uniform Callie wore when she lived in the city. In the suburbs, the women wear smarter clothes, more dresses, more color.

  In the city, Callie and all her friends wore jeans everywhere. Jeans with cute ankle boots and sweaters, or jeans with heels and gauzy tops in the evening. She’s still fighting the suburban pull, although she did confess to Lila that she has succumbed, and—shh, don’t tell anyone—actually has a couple of Lilly Pulitzer shifts at the very back of her wardrobe.

  The coffee table is strewn with various copies of Anita Shreve’s Testimony , half-empty glasses of wine, plates covered with crumbs. In the center of the table is an almost-finished pumpkin gingerbread trifle, with a dozen spoons sticking out.

  This has become their secret tradition. Every month a different member is assigned dessert. Everyone brings something—cookies, lemon bars, brownies—but they are always picked up at the grocery store, and only one has to cook a decadent dessert from scratch.

  And it must be huge.

  There are no plates for the dessert; only spoons are handed out. They all stand crowded around the dessert and on the count of three they plunge in, scooping dessert by the spoonful, figures, calories and men be damned.

  Tonight Betsy made the trifle, and nobody spoke for a few seconds, just moaned with joy as they gorged.

  “If no one pounces,” Callie says as she walks in from the kitchen, eyeing the trifle, “I’m going to finish that up.”

  “You can afford to,” says Laura. “You’re tiny. You could eat an entire trifle every day and it probably wouldn’t show.”

  “You know what’s really weird?” Callie scrapes the last of the trifle and licks the spoon. “I was way bigger before I had babies.”

  “That is weird,” Laura says. “And unfair.”

  “I know. I wasn’t huge, but always had, like, ten, fifteen pounds I needed to get rid of, and I always knew that once I had kids I’d get rid of it.”

  “Instantly?” one of the other women asks.

  “No. Until recently I still wanted to lose a few pounds, but strangely it seems to have simply dropped off. I guess I’ve been so busy I just haven’t eaten that much. I’m making up for it now, though.” She grins, putting the spoon down and taking the empty dish into the kitchen.

  So many things have changed, she thinks, as she quickly washes up the dish so she doesn’t have to deal with it later. Her fortieth birthday was terrifying, but now, at forty-two, she realizes she is, indeed, in the prime of her life.

  Her skin is glowing, her hair sh
ines and she is completely comfortable in her skin. She wakes up every morning, loving her life. She has a husband she adores, children who light up her life (except when they’re fighting and driving her crazy), and work that fulfills her.

  She loves her family, her friends, her home. And tonight, as happens so often, she is amazed that she seems to be in the minority.

  For so many of the women seem to be unhappy. Not on the exterior. If you didn’t know, you would never know. You would think they had wonderful husbands, glorious children, beautiful homes and privileged lives.

  It has been a shock, these past three years, for Callie to discover how few of the women are happy with where they are. Oh yes, their houses are beautiful, but they’d really like one with room for a swimming pool . . . then they’d be happy.

  Or they adore their kids, but the live-in nanny/housekeeper just walked out—yes, she is the seventh in a row—and they can’t possibly cope. Does anyone know anyone? Filipina, perhaps? Or Brazilian—they’ve had good luck with those.

  And often, it is sharp bitterness about their husbands that takes her breath away, couched in humor of course. Always couched in humor.

  Callie puts the bowl on the draining board and goes outside to where the secret smokers are huddled on the bare teak furniture—the cushions having been put in the garage at the beginning of autumn.

  “Hey, guys.” She sits down and reaches forward to borrow someone’s glass of wine and take a sip. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “Freezing.” Sue shivers. “I have to stop smoking. I can’t stand this.”

  “Really?” Callie looks at her. “But I thought you only smoke when you drink.”

  “Right. And I only drink every day. At the witching hour. I keep telling the kids I’m just running to the postbox, and Sophie nearly caught me the other day.”

  “Doesn’t everyone drink every day?” asks Lisa. “Seriously? How are you supposed to get through the evening without some help? My husband’s not home until eight, I’ve spent the day running around like a crazy person, I’ve done homework with the kids, got through bath time and fed them, and I’m about to explode. It’s just one glass of wine, though. Isn’t that . . . normal?”