The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs Read Free

wanted to,” I say. “But obviously you don’t.”
    Martin stabs a piece of lamb with his fork and shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Is this really appropriate , ladies?”
    The correct answer, obviously, is no. Picking a fight with my boyfriend’s mother, a woman who already dislikes me, is not appropriate. It also is not wise. But by this point in the evening, I don’t care. I just want this dinner to end, and the sooner that happens the better.
    Unfortunately dinner stretches on for an interminable two hours, giving me ample opportunity to take a minor misstep and turn it into a totally radioactive fuckup. And, knowing me, that’s exactly what I’ll do. Whether it’s muttering expletives while wiping Martin’s lap at The Capital Grille or railing against those who order chicken at a steakhouse—which Sandy ultimately did—I always manage to say exactly the wrong thing when the Prescotts are around.
    Adam tries to play referee, jumping in with a story about his latest coup, an assignment to a Supreme Court case. He embellishes wildly, crediting himself with far more responsibility and power than he actually has, but Sandy and Martin eat up every word. They love it.
    This is Adam at his best: the future politician, captivating the table with his charm and panache. From the moment I met Adam, I was, like any woman with a pulse, attracted to his chiseled features, his intelligence, and his ambition, but his charisma—that’s what sucked me in. That’s what hooked me. When Adam is “on,” being around him is electrifying, a total thrill of a ride you never want to end. He made me feel interesting. He made me feel alive . He took me to parties filled with political movers and shakers—White House Correspondents’ Dinner afterparties and charity galas and Harvard alumni events. He treated me like someone important—like someone who mattered. How could I not fall for someone like that? The man is magnetic, enchanting everyone he meets with his smiles and jokes and shiny white teeth.
    All of which seems great until I realize tonight he is acting this way to shut me up.
    Every time I attempt to join the conversation, Adam raises his voice and plows over me like a bulldozer, crushing me with his anecdotes and convivial banter. He kicks, squeezes, and prods me beneath the table, like I am an out-of-control five-year-old at a dinner party. I can’t get a word out, which, it becomes clear, is the point.
    And that, I decide, is total bullshit. Adam used to love my spunk. That’s what he told me, anyway. I was nothing like the girls Sandy tried to fix him up with, girls who’d had debutante balls and regularly appeared in Capitol File magazine. Sure, I went to an Ivy League school, but in his Harvard-educated eyes, I “only” went to Cornell, which he considered a lesser Ivy. I grew up in a house the size of his parents’ foyer, wrote about financial regulation for a living, whipped up puff pastry from scratch. I was different , damn it. And that made me special. But tonight I do not feel special. Tonight I feel as I have on so many occasions recently: like part of a social experiment gone awry.
    During a lull in Adam’s act, Juanita appears with my carrot cake, an eight-inch tower of spiced cake, caramelized pecan filling, cream cheese frosting, and toasted coconut. Miraculously, none of the frosting stuck to the foil—a small triumph. Juanita starts cutting into the cake, but I shoo her away and volunteer to serve the cake myself. If Adam wants to cut me out of the conversation, fine, but no one will cut me out of my culinary accolades.
    I hand a fat slice to Sandy, whose eyes widen at the thick swirls of frosting and gobs of buttery pecan goo. I cannot tell whether she is ecstatic or terrified. Something tells me it’s the latter.
    “My goodness,” she says. She lays the plate in front of her, takes a whiff, and then pushes it forward by four inches. I gather this is how she consumes dessert.