“I meant to, I swear, but then Whitney called me, desperate for a babysitter because she had to get some all-important massage, and she was acting extremely suspicious!”

“I don’t care how she was acting. You promised me,” Amara said in a kind of disbelief. “After I stood up for you, kept your secrets, in front of everyone.”

“Secrets? What secrets?” Ellie asked.

“Never mind!” Claire said to her.

Amara kept looking at Claire, that devastating accusation in her eyes. “I told you why it was important to me, to Charlie, and you promised.”

“I know,” Claire said, thrusting her chin up, defensive, trying to push away her shame. If only Amara would just fucking listen. “But if you’d heard her on that phone call—she did not sound normal.”

“So what?” Amara asked, her disbelief turning to anger, her voice scornful. “Did you uncover some vast conspiracy?”

“No, but—”

“Of course you didn’t. You betrayed my trust for nothing,” Amara said. “I cannot fucking believe you. How idiotic, to follow—”

“I’m sorry I can’t just ignore my gut when it tells me something’s wrong, like you did for months,” Claire snapped, realizing as soon as the words flew out of her mouth that she’d gone too far. Amara stepped back as if Claire had pushed her. “I . . . I didn’t mean—” Claire began. “I’m so sorr—”

“All right, everyone. You want to know Claire’s incriminating fact?” Amara asked, her spine straightening, her shoulders thrust back. “That ‘Idaho Eyes’ band that Ellie and Meredith like so much—Claire used to be in it, but they kicked her out because she wasn’t good enough.” Ellie’s and Meredith’s eyes widened, and Claire thought that maybe Amara would stop there, which would have been bad enough, but Amara kept going, in a low, devastating tone powered by fury. “Oh, but the best part is that, right before they kicked her to the curb, she hooked up with the lead singer when she thought her boyfriend might have cancer.” This time, everyone’s eyes widened, and Amara turned back to Claire. “Doesn’t feel so great to have people betraying your trust, mucking around with shameful matters you’d prefer to keep private, does it?” she asked, practically spitting with disdain.

Claire felt a wave of nausea rise up in her throat, her eyes start to prickle. “Screw you, Amara,” she said.

“Guys,” Whitney said, desperation creeping into her voice. “Please, everyone is staring at us.”

“Whitney, why were you at the Windom?” Gwen asked quietly.

Whitney swallowed. “Well, I tried to get a massage,” she said, her voice light. “But they wouldn’t let me do it because I brought Hope along.”

“There are plenty of good massage places in the neighborhood,” Gwen said, staring at the floor. “Why would you bother to go all the way to midtown?”

“It’s supposed to be very good. The reviews online—”

“Yes, I’ve read the reviews,” Gwen said, looking back up straight into Whitney’s face. “I was interested in maybe going sometime, because it’s right near Christopher’s office.”

“Is it?” Whitney asked, cocking her head, clenching her fists at her sides, the blithe cheeriness on her face resembling a garish mask, her beauty turned grotesque.

“Whitney,” Gwen asked, “are you having an affair with my husband?” The other women in their semicircle grew very still, the suspicion coming upon them like a cloud covering the sun.

“What? No!” Whitney said. “What? I don’t understand what is going on. I’m sorry that you’re upset and worried, Gwen, but we’re here right now for this photo shoot, and everyone is waiting on us—”

“I ran into Christopher at the bar across the street from the Windom, half an hour after I saw Whitney go in,” Claire said.

Gwen flinched, then turned her big blueberry eyes back on Whitney. “Whitney?”

Whitney floundered, her mouth gaping open and closing. The force of all the other women’s stares hit her too as the other conversation in the loft stopped, the ridiculous pop song on the playlist the only sound besides their shallow, anticipatory breaths. “You’re fired,” she said to Claire, her eyes bright and frantic. “You’re fired from playgroup.”

“Oh, Whitney, you selfish, selfish cunt,” Amara said heavily. She moved to Gwen’s side and put an arm around her shoulder, and Gwen sank into her, beginning to wail. “There is no more playgroup.”

Chapter 31

There could be no photo shoot after that. The women flinched away from Whitney’s touch as she tried to get one of them, any of them, to look at her, and then they left her to explain everything to the baffled coffee-table-book woman while they changed as quickly as they could into their normal clothes and gathered their babies, reaching for Gwen’s hand, petting her hair, offering her comforts of various kinds ranging from excessive amounts of alcohol (Meredith and Ellie) to a meditation workshop (Vicki) to a willingness to castrate Christopher (Amara).

Gwen turned them all down. She needed to go home and be with her children, she said, and figure out if her marriage was salvageable. She didn’t know if she could be around them for a while—too many confusing, sad things tied up in the playgroup now—but she’d let them know if that changed.

“We’re here if you need us,” Amara said, then turned to the other women. “I suppose I’ll see you all around.” Her eyes lingered on Claire, who had just come out of the bathroom bearing a handful of toilet paper. Amara took a breath as if to say something before pressing her lips together and buckling Charlie into his stroller.

Claire approached Gwen, offering her the toilet paper to wipe her eyes. Gwen accepted the gesture, giving an embarrassed sniffle. “Oh, Claire,” she said. “You’re out of a job, and it’s all because you were trying to help me.” She straightened her shoulders, the old type A Gwen ready to make some plans despite her heartbreak. “I’m going to find you something new. I bet that somebody I know is looking for an assistant or office manager.”

“Gwen, you don’t have to worry about that right now,” Claire said. “Seriously.” She looked newly mature under the day’s makeup and hair job, with a new, mature sadness too.

“But I will,” Gwen said, touching Claire briefly on the cheek before wheeling Reagan into the elevator alone.

When Gwen came out into the SoHo sunlight, she broke down her stroller, hailed a taxi, and buckled Reagan’s car seat in. Then she slid in beside her daughter, wiped her eyes, and gave her driver an address in the West Village.