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It always struck Joanne as odd, that she and Bobbie were as close as they were. It also struck Joanne as odd, that Bobbie never seemed to find it odd, how close they were. Not that Joanne wanted Bobbie to question the whole situation, of course—just, she knew all of Bobbie's other friends. She could see why Bobbie would choose to spend a fifth of her free time with someone unconventional and cool like Susan, or someone with the gruff teddy-bear personality of Harry, or especially a best friend with the endearingly anxious sweetness of Jamie. Joanne knew that, when she was Bobbie's age, you couldn't have paid her enough money to spend an evening with someone her mother's age. (Well, you actually could. But that was entirely beside the point.)
Still. If Bobbie wasn't going to question the status quo, then neither would Joanne, who would simply continue to announce to Larry that Bobbie was meeting them at the club and not give him space to protest. He never did, after all, and he always paid for the drinks; and if there was any way of keeping Bobbie coming back to her, it was probably in guaranteeing an endless stream of bacchanalian nights out, with Larry invariably picking up the tab. And yet, Joanne dared to believe that Bobbie, cheeks flushed and grin easy and gaze slightly unfocused, might still give her a ring now and then, even if the free alcohol suddenly disappeared. Imagine that. Joanne did, hazily, the sharpness of vodka scraping the back of her throat through undertones of crème de menthe; and then she let the thought go and ordered another drink.
That was the thing, though, she and Bobbie were nothing alike. Nothing alike, and just alike, of course. Of course. Joanne stared across the table at Bobbie, who was young and pretty and still could have it all, and who instead just watched. The girl who always "meant" to do things. Joanne heard herself sneer the accusation through a fog of booze, then considered how Bobbie had a career and an education and an apartment. All of which she'd gotten for herself, not because she could bat her eyelashes coyly and wrap any man around her finger (although she could do that, too, god knew she could, if she wanted). Joanne always preened herself with the smugness of a woman who had had life handed to her on a silver platter, who had had romance and riches and diamond rings glittering on her fingers; and yet here she was, with nothing better to discuss than one of her ex-husbands. Playing wife, with no better way to pass the time, far past her prime. Bobbie, meanwhile, had forged her own silver platter through who only knew how many blows and blisters, and she tore through the world still steaming with the sweat and ferocity of self-invention, only just barely hiding the fragility that still existed underneath.
Joanne loved her for it. Joanne hated her for it.
Maybe it was just the fact that vodka stingers were fairly flowing through her veins, by this point in any given evening. But at moments like this, Joanne stared at Bobbie, and it was like looking into a funhouse mirror. One that made her reflection twenty years younger (maybe a little more than twenty years, Joanne would never tell) and thinner, too (ha, ha, ha). But also the sort that revealed lost potential, the hollow might-have-beens that can hit a person on a too-quiet street, if the traffic grows too faint in your part of town late at night. She wondered for a crazy moment if this was what mothers saw when they looked at their daughters. The uncanny balance of resemblance and jarring difference. The desire to possess and to mold, warring against the need to see this girl—this girl, almost thirty-five years old and with life ahead of her still—catapult herself to heights beyond Joanne's imagination, higher than the spire of the Chrysler Building and beyond.
It was hope, yes; and it was resentment; and it was the inexplicable part of Joanne that wanted to nudge Bobbie to try a damn cigarette at least once, while also reveling in the existence of this outdated corner of culture where she, Joanne, could still be worldly and superior. (Maybe she'd start wearing a hat. If she was going to be a dinosaur, she might as well be one with impeccable taste.)
And then, in the midst of all of this, there was Larry—kind, doting, sweet, affectionate Larry, dancing as if no one was watching (knowing Joanne was, and was mocking him for it). Larry, who stayed by Joanne through thick and thin, who looked at her as if she made the sun rise over the East River every morning, who never expected any gratitude when he pampered her with expensive necklaces and was always delighted when she unexpectedly granted it him. Larry, who would never guess that, if Joanne was always a hair too caustic in front of Bobbie—always too much like someone other than Joanne—then it was meant as a warning siren, as a cry for help, as a silent plea for Bobbie to dodge the despairing unfulfillment that Joanne drowned in her cups, a plea to be so much better than Joanne had ever been and ever would be. Larry would never guess such a thing, because he claimed (foolishly, flatteringly) that Joanne, despite all her flaws, was perfect. He was too good for her, he really was. And, despite his constant words of adoration for the woman who hid herself beneath dark glasses and luxurious fur coats, Joanne lived her every day coiled in the paralyzing fear that one morning, Larry would wake up and notice the deepening wrinkles around her eyes and how thick her ankles had become in recent years. Joanne had initiated every one of her divorces, and she had always done it the instant she sensed that she was losing her power over her husband. Larry was truer than all the rest put together, or at least he seemed to be, and the stress of his seeming goodness was making Joanne crumble inside. She drank away the evenings to try to hush the endless murmuring that perhaps she loved him too much to leave him, that perhaps he was already drifting from her and she was willfully blind to his transgressions. That perhaps she was getting so sentimental in her old age that she wouldn't have the nerve to hurt him before he hurt her first.
Joanne watched as Bobbie staggered over to argue with Larry about paying the bill. Sweet kid. Bobbie deserved a Larry who treated her like a queen, even if she (like Joanne) might never be able to fully accept it. Bobbie deserved her Larry, more than Joanne did, certainly. And really, was it such a terrible idea? Why not just cut straight to the inevitable? If Joanne was going to lose Larry anyway, it might as well be on her terms—not so much losing him as gifting him to a beloved friend, to a Joanne 2.0, whom Larry could cherish just as adoringly while getting the upgrade he no doubt secretly wanted. Even if it wouldn't last, it would be giving Larry what he possibly desired, what he definitely deserved. It would be taking care of him, as Joanne simply couldn't, not when she was old and world-weary and lived perpetually under the harsh lights of a Manhattan that wanted everything to be dazzling and superficial and new.
But Bobbie was having an unexpectedly in vino veritas sort of evening, and her clarity struck Joanne between the eyes so hard that she felt almost sober again. She'd always known that Bobbie wasn't ready for marriage—a little, or a lot—no matter how emphatically the kid proclaimed it to the world. Hell, Joanne couldn't have said for certain if Bobbie even knew what she wanted out of romance, out of sex, out of intimacy, out of the mess that was being alive. But it was still something to watch her shift, even for a brief moment; to go from the fiercely independent and proudly self-made woman, who refused to even entertain the idea that she'd have to change who she was in a relationship, to someone who wanted in this moment to be taken care of.
Maybe it wouldn't last. Maybe Bobbie would wake up tomorrow, blinking into the sunlight and grumbling over a throbbing hangover, and she'd realize that being single really suited her just fine (no fear of an endless routine of morning coffees and folding laundry and closing the toilet lid, while the rest of the life ticked away). But watching Bobbie (who was Joanne and yet was not Joanne) grapple for even a moment with what it would mean to give up her autonomy and let someone else in, because it might be worth it—that was enough to drive Joanne to slip her arm under Larry's and guide him away from pretty young Bobbie and her thoughts. Because even if Joanne had spent most of her own life just watching, she had had the good sense to actually do at least one good thing. By tomorrow morning, most likely all of her own doubts and insecurities would be back in full force. But Larry was smiling a knowing, caring smile, and Joanne had the good fortune of being his wife, prickly as she could be. And, for the moment, she'd drink to that.