Her full contact details, down to her home address, are attached.
I save them and send a text back.
Felix:Enchanted x.
She shoots me a smile. “Me too,” she says.
“So, Hope,” my father says, “not to be a bore, but what do you do for work?”
“I’m a publicist,” she says. Her face takes on the same sheepish expression she had when she mentioned her job this morning.
“Is that what you went to grad school for?” I ask.
“God no.” She laughs. “You definitely don’t need a master’s to write press releases. I did an MFA in fiction. I actually had hoped to go to Cambridge to study English literature, but it didn’t work out.”
“We went to Cambridge!” Pear exclaims. “Daddy made us go to business school before he would let us take over his company.”
“We do private equity,” Prue adds. “Consumer brands. Have you heard of Maquille? That’s our latest. We’re expanding globally. We just opened a flagship in New York.”
“I’ve been there!” Hope exclaims. “Bought an eye cream I really shouldn’t have splurged on, but my God is it good.”
“It’s brilliant, isn’t it?” Pear says. “We’re obsessed. I’ll send you a box with the whole line.”
“Why didn’t you make it to Cambridge?” Dad asks. “I’m an alum myself. Could speak to someone for you, put in a good word.”
“Daddy’s famous in the UK,” Prue whispers theatrically. “Verygood connections.”
I want to die of shame at this pronouncement, but Hope seems unfazed.
“Oh, thank you,” she says. “But I was accepted to the program. I just had so many student loans already that moving overseas didn’t make sense in the end.”
“The American education system is ghastly,” my mother says. “Not to mention the healthcare.”
The conversation turns to the wonders of the NHS, which leads Dad to itemize his health problems, which leads Prue and Pear to gag, which leads Mum to say her life’s work was raising them and look what happened, what a waste. Hope seems highly amused by all this. I like watching her laugh—she really does have the best laugh—and I’m relieved she finds my family’s antics funny rather than alienating.
When our mains are taken away, Hope rises to her feet.
“I hate to run,” she says, “but I promised to meet my friend for the dance show in the theater.”
“Oh Felix!” Pear cries. “Are you performing?”
I glare at her.
“Thank you for putting up with us, Hope,” Mum says.
“Heroic,” says my father.
“It was a pleasure,” Hope says. She touches my arm. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yep,” I say. “Have fun tonight.”
I’m a bit disappointed that she doesn’t ask me along to the show, but I don’t want to invite myself and elbow into her girls’ night. I spend the evening at the piano lounge with my family, watching my sisters dance to Billie Holiday and Cole Porter with cruise ship ambassadors. Prue’s is a seventy-one-year-old retired firefighter from Calgary. Pear’s sold used cars in Manchester and decided to join the cruise circuit when his wife died. My mother gets jealous that her daughters are enjoying such scintillating life stories and abandons my dad for a former wrestling coach from Minnetonka, Minnesota.
My phone pings with a new message from Hope.
Hope:Thanks for letting me crash your dinner.
Hope:Your family is a riot.
