Rich and Pretty by Rumaan Alam Page B

than being smart.
    â€œSo what’s the deal with the temp?” Karen, nonchalant.
    â€œThe deal?” She can’t look elegant with chopsticks. She’s using a fork.
    â€œHe’s cute.” Karen has a boyfriend, named Evan. He’s an illustrator, which doesn’t seem like a proper job, but he makes a living. He’s nice, but he has a goatee. The three of them had a drink once, after work, last summer. Evan hadn’t been wearing enough deodorant.
    â€œYeah, he’s cute,” Lauren says, like they’re discussing the weather.
    â€œOh fuck off like you haven’t noticed.” This is another thing about Karen: She’s foulmouthed.
    â€œI’ve noticed,” Lauren says.

Chapter 8
    A s a kid, Sarah hated Sundays, felt itchy from first thing in the morning, not because of church, Huck and Lulu weren’t church people, but from that awareness of the looming Monday, that quiet sadness of the city on a Sunday, though it was worse, worse by far, to spend the Sunday in Connecticut, as they sometimes did, and she’d lobby to leave the house by lunchtime so she could be home, safe, ready for something, some nameless thing that was gathering, that she could sense. She still doesn’t love Sundays.
    They wake early. Dan gets the coffee, she gets the paper, which the doorman has dropped in front of their door, pointlessly wrapped in its blue plastic bag. They don’t lie around in bed, which she makes up the minute they’re up because she hates an unmade bed, but they don’t rush to dress either, and Dan will turn on one of those soft news Sunday-morning programs, folksy and upbeat, and do four, five things at once, drink coffee, watch television, check e-mail, read the paper, make notes, look at his phone.
    Sunday nights are, it’s understood, dinner as a family. There have been exceptions, as of course there would be over the courseof thirty-two years: illness, travel, work, college. Dan understands. Dan comes, it’s nice to be four instead of three, some balance restored, contra the God they don’t believe in, the one who killed her brother. This Sunday Dan’s not there, he’s at work; there’s always that, because work is respected in this house, particularly Dan’s work.
    â€œYou saw that the Westons are putting their house on the market?” Lulu flits. She doesn’t like to sit. She’ll eat three bites, get up and start cooking dessert. They never eat in the dining room, these nights, just the family: That’s for formal affairs, when there’s a caterer on hand. Sundays, they eat in the kitchen, talking while Lulu stirs and chops and takes breaks to dash back to the table for another bite or to get a sip of water. “There’s bread, I bought it at a stand in Union Square just for tonight, I almost forgot it.” Lulu gets up again to fetch the bread.
    â€œWhere are the Westons going?” The same roast potatoes, the same crunch. It’s comforting, as it’s meant to be. Sarah sips her wine.
    â€œThe Westons are what we in the industry call ‘cashing out.’” This is a classic of Huck’s: references to the “industry,” no matter what’s being discussed. It’s not funny, though Sarah accepts that he means it as a joke.
    â€œEmpty nest!” Lulu deposits the bread on the table. Slick and oily, a cross-hatching of rosemary on it. “The twins are out of college now, what do they need with that big old house, just the two of them? This looks good, doesn’t it?”
    It does look good. Sarah tugs at the end of it, no need for the knife—they’re not formal. It’s surprisingly gummy. “I’m out of college, Mom. What do you need with this big old house?”
    â€œCan’t break bread when the bread won’t break, Lulu.” Huck tugs at the loaf.
    â€œI’ll get the knife.” This, said as she’s already across