The Life Lucy Knew. Karma Brown
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and the wet strands of hair stuck to her back and shoulders. “Seriously, we don’t have time!” But her protests were lost in her laughter as Daniel jumped into bed beside her, snuggling both of them under the duvet.
“If we’re already going to be late...” he said, grinning, his own damp hair stuck to his forehead in wet spikes.
Lucy thought once more of her mom’s inevitable irritation, and of their friends who would be standing there waiting for them to arrive—the champagne perfectly chilled and ready to pop—then said with a sly grin, “What’s another few minutes?”
* * *
They arrived at the Thompson Hotel, where the engagement party was being held, nearly an hour late. It was hard to say which mother was angrier, though after some discussion they decided they had been right with the earlier guess. While Daniel’s mom was visibly displeased—telling because she was the stoic sort who rarely showed emotion—she did express relief they weren’t hurt after they said their taxi driver was in a fender bender (which did not happen, but was completely plausible).
But Lucy’s mother would have none of this excuse. She was onto them the minute her younger daughter opened her mouth—Lucy had never had much luck trying to feed her mother anything but the truth, so should have known better. But at least she didn’t call them out on it in front of everyone. Merely narrowed her eyes before saying, “Well, how awful. I’m so glad it wasn’t more serious.” Dad hugged Lucy tightly, while Daniel’s father, a personal injury attorney, had a dozen questions for his son about the accident and what happened. Luckily Daniel’s mother shut that down quickly, reminding everyone they were here for a party and the champagne had been waiting long enough, and Obviously everyone is fine, so let’s get on with things.
And despite lamenting the social gathering—Daniel was raised on a regular diet of parties and events thrown by his high-society parents and had developed a severe aversion to anything requiring black tie—Daniel relaxed as soon as he got a couple of drinks in him. They danced and sashayed among friends, chatted politely with their parents’ acquaintances and extended families, and by midnight only a handful of die-hards remained, including Lucy and Daniel, Jenny, Margot, Alexis and her current beau, Allen, who was a performance artist (Lucy had to laugh watching Mrs. London attempt to understand what it was he did for a living).
Jenny, Margot, Alex and Lucy kicked off their shoes, then stole a full bottle of top-shelf Scotch and a glass off the bar and headed up to the rooftop, giggling drunkenly as they did. Lucy poured the glass full to the top and it was passed down the line while they leaned against the rooftop’s ledge, enjoying the warm night and the very expensive booze Daniel’s parents were paying for.
“So, Mrs. London,” Jenny said, after a big sip from the communal glass, “when’s the first garden party?” The rest of them broke into sloppy laughter, and Lucy snorted.
“Screw you, Jenny,” she said, taking a sip straight from the bottle. The Scotch warmed a path right to her belly. “There is only one Mrs. London, and she’s downstairs.”
Margot raised a brow. “You’re not taking his name?”
“Of course she isn’t,” Alex said, grabbing the bottle of Scotch and taking a swig. She wiped her mouth with her arm and hiccuped. “We’re Sparks girls. Forever and ever, right, Luce?” She threw an arm around her little sister and kissed her on the side of the head.
“I’m sort of surprised.” Margot swirled the remaining finger of Scotch in the glass before tipping it back.
“You are?” Lucy asked, spinning out from under her sister’s arm to look at Margot. “Why?” For whatever reason, even in her drunken state, Margot’s opinion mattered a lot to Lucy.
Margot shrugged at Lucy’s surprise. “You seem the type.”
Lucy was immediately offended, despite believing there was nothing wrong with wanting to take your husband’s name...even if she didn’t want to. But Margot’s words stung. You seem the type? Was that a diss or a compliment? Maybe she saw Lucy as confident enough in who she was for it not to matter if she gave up her maiden name.
Jenny murmured something about how she would for sure take her husband’s name, because her last name hadn’t been the easiest to live with.
Alex snort-laughed and said, “I don’t know. ‘Jenny Dickie’ has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”
But Lucy decided she was too drunk to sort out what Margot meant, so better to come right out and ask. “The type?” she finally said, turning to Margot. “What does that even mean?”
Margot pushed off the wall, then came to stand right in front of her. “It means nothing. Don’t get worked up, okay?” Then with only a few inches between them, she leaned in and gave Lucy a quick kiss, right on the lips. The move erased any response Lucy might have given, and she found herself slightly breathless. “I should have said he’s the type,” Margot added, smirking.
Daniel’s the type? The type to what? Want his wife to take his family’s name?
They had discussed it, the whole last name thing, after Daniel proposed. And while he admitted he would have preferred them to share a surname, he was fine with whatever she wanted to do. Lucy was about to announce all of this, felt the need to defend Daniel and her feminism, but by the time she pulled herself together, Margot was already walking back toward the stairs. “Come on, ladies. We’re out of booze, and therefore possibilities, up here.”
They stumbled behind her, Lucy touching her lips as she did, which were still slightly tacky from Margot’s gloss. A few shots of tequila later Lucy had forgotten the conversation—and the three or so hours following it—entirely. Until the next day, when she and Jenny nursed hangovers with plates of waffles and rehashed Margot’s comment. Lucy let Jenny reassure her she and Daniel were not “predictable” and Margot clearly had no idea what she was talking about.
“Maybe I will take his last name,” Lucy said defiantly, cutting her waffle with more gusto than was required.
“Maybe you will.” Jenny pursed her lips and pointed her fork Lucy’s way, matching her tone.
“I can still be a feminist and take my husband’s name.”
“Damn right you can,” Jenny said.
Lucy put down her fork. “Lucy London.” She repeated it a few more times. “Not bad, right?”
“Not bad at all,” Jenny said. “But I’m probably not the one to ask. Jenny Dickie, remember?”
They laughed so hard that Lucy, who had unfortunately just taken a bite of her breakfast, spit the piece of her waffle right into Jenny’s face, which only made them laugh even harder. Then Lucy went home and told Daniel she was going to take his name, after all.
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