Clemence says, “Okay.” It’s none of her business, anyway.
“There’s no life in him. He looks like a vampire. You, you’re fat and healthy. It’s a bad match. Does he expect you to feed him?”
“Well, Ican’t, really. He’s got a lot of intolerances. He’s kind of delicate.”
“My son is more attractive.”
Clemence doesn’t speak. This is a trap.
“Charles eats everything. The meat, the gluten …”
“Good for him. And he’s married to a doctor.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No, you did,” says Clemence. She is suddenly very tired.
“Hang on.” Mrs. Yeung disappears back into her apartment. Charles’s book is still sitting on the table in her foyer. Clemence thinks about whether she’ll ever see Charles again. She hears his mother banging around in the kitchen, and keeps waiting. She wonders when the Yeungs moved up to the first floor. Students live in the basement now, even though the space is dark and dingy.
Mrs. Yeung comes out again with a mason jar. “It’s soup,” she says, thrusting it into Clemence’s hands. “For your boyfriend. None of the gluten. Tell him it’s vegan.”
“It is?”
Mrs. Yeung shrugs. “More or less. It’s good for him. Good for strengthening.”
Clemence thanks her, and turns to head upstairs.
Mrs. Yeung calls, “I’ll tell Charles you say hello? Next time Ispeak to him?”
“Sure,” says Clemence, appreciating this woman’s formidable use of emotional torture. When combined with her kindness and generosity, the effect was absolutely discombobulating, and most people would just surrender.
“I’ll tell him you brought your boyfriend by. That Imet Tony.”
“It’s Toby.”
“That part,” says Mrs. Young, not wrongly, “doesn’t matter at all.”
Fourteen
Bonnie Lathbury drives downtown and takes Clemence out for sushi, telling her that if she apologizes to her sister, Sandro will hook her up with one of his colleagues for an editing job.
“Ican’t read Italian,” says Clemence.
“It’s atranslation.” Bonnie efficiently moves the wasabi away from her California roll. She and Roger don’t do spice. “Just say you’re sorry. Idon’t understand the point of you moving all the way back here if you’re only going to be on the outs.”
“That wasn’t up to me!” says Clemence. “Prudence is being dramatic.”
“Prudence is being Prudence,” says Bonnie, eyeing her carefully. “Besides, Ithink you’ll need the money.”
Clemence nods, picking up the last sweet potato tempura; this is true.
Bonnie’s still watching her.
“What?” Clemence asks, with her mouth full.
“Toad called.”
Clemence chokes, which is distressing, but also opportune because, as she struggles to breathe, she doesn’t have to hear what comes next, or say anything herself, and maybe this could be a convenient way to go … except that she doesn’t really want to die, and the tempura is easily dislodged from her throat. Bonnie refills her water glass, and Clemence takes a sip, wondering how long she can drag this out for, if she might get away without saying a word.
