“The thing that gets me, though,” says Clemence, because they’ve been talking about work, about what Clemence might possibly do now that the industry upon which she’s built her entire career has ceased to exist, “thinking about the succulents, Imean, is the way that capitalism has backed women into a corner. And Isaythis as a person who made a living for years writing about wedding dresses. But, Imean how can there be seven different people selling succulents at a single market?”
“It’s a side hustle,” says Naomi, who explains she’d read a thing about that particular market onblogTOthe week before. “And the hustle is real. The woman who runs it is a tyrant. She banned a vendor once because her name was too long and wouldn’t fit on the promotions.”
“But isn’t a side hustle worse?” Clemence asks. “Imagine having a full-time job and a cactus biz? That’s exhausting. And then there are the skincare coaches and dog therapists, and all those women who sell leggings in a cult. Why doesn’t anybody have a real job anymore? It’s like women entered the workforce but they ran out of jobs, so they just started making stuff up.”
“Ihave a friend,” says Jillian, “who’s literally a nail mechanic.”
“What is that?” Naomi asks.
Jillian says, “She’s certified.”
“By who?” Clemence is outraged. There should not be an authoritative body certifying anybody’s repair of fingernails. “Fingernails fix themselves. Nope, me, I’m going back to basics,” she tells her friends. “I’m going to be an indexer.”
She is met with blank faces. “People do that?” asks Jillian. “Iassumed it’s all automated.”
Clemence explains how not all of it is, because they barely give out academic tenure anymore, so most university professors are elderly and fixed in twentieth-century non-technical ways. “They post job listings in the backof poorly circulated magazines,” she says, “which cuts down on competition in terms of getting gigs.” She was even qualified, having aced an elective indexing course back in university.
“Does it pay any better than the cactus trade, though?” asks Naomi.
Clemence says, “Fortunately, I’m a woman of modest means.” Today’s brunch is a rare indulgence, and she has ordered the cheapest items on the menu—a fruit bowl and buttered toast. But it feels extravagant enough to be sitting on a restaurant patio on a beautiful day in the company of her two dearest friends, watching the world go by along King Street. After she and Toad had moved to the West Coast, it had been hard to acquire friends who felt like real ones. Plus she had been so consumed by the novelty of coupledom, anyway, and it was hard to meet anybody in the subdivision where they bought their home … until she met Larry and Lisa, and look where that led.
“You know, I’m happy for you. You’re reallydoingit,” Naomi tells her, and Clemence glows in her regard. “It’s not easy, coming back here, and starting over like this.”
Jillian asks if she’s seen that guy again, meaning Charles from the porch. She’s disappointed when Clemence confesses that she hasn’t—“Idon’t think he even lives there.”
“You’re not just hiding, trying to avoid spicing up your love life?”
“Idon’t have a love life. Idon’t want a love life,” says Clemence, “… although there is someone.” And this is the part where she explains about the cat, everything except the fact that he’s a cat.
“Now, come on,” they say. “Tell us all about him.”
“Or her,” says Naomi, very open-minded.
Jillian says, “Spill it.”
So Clemence explains about Bailey, which is the name she’s given him. “He’s kind of quiet,” she says, trying to make it all sound normal. “He likes heights.” She is failing. They look confused. “Climbing,” she clarifies. “Loves rock climbing,” she explains.
“Maybe he’ll take you sometime,” says Naomi. “Alittle expedition.”
“Imean,” Clemence says. “It’s just nice to have someone around.” But has she caught herself out now? Proving them right, that she’s bored and unhappy on her own? Because she isn’t—but if she insisted, they’d refuse to believe her. Her friends know her too well, except they don’t know that now she’s different.
“So, what’s he do?” Jillian asks her.
Clemence thinks of his stretches, the way he arches his back with his paws out front. “Yoga. He teaches yoga.”
“You should have brought him,” says Naomi. “We could have met him.”
“Oh, Idon’t think we’re there yet,” says Clemence. “Things are still pretty casual.”
“Between the yoga and the rock climbing, though,” says Jillian. “Imean, he’s got to be pretty well built.”
“He is,” says Clemence. “He is, well, built.” Not a word of a lie. Oh, except the teaching the yoga part. Everything else, her friends had inferred.
“So you’ve slept with him,” Jillian follows.
“Iknew it!” Naomi says.
“No,” says Clemence, closing her eyes. Was everybody obsessed with sex, or just these two? She looks at them again. “We’re taking it slow.” The server comes around again and adds hot water to her little teapot. “Still getting to know him.”
