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About that time an equally well-coiffed lady walked past sporting a Birkin bag. (Yes,
allow me to apologize in advance, but I happen to know what a Birkin bag looks like.)
“Angela!” one of our ladies screamed. “Sweetheart!”
She embraced Angela in the fashion of ladies who lunch, projecting loud air kisses left
and right.
“Hello, Ellen ,” said Angela with the warmth of a fruit bat.
The other two ladies each took her turn wrangling an awkward hug from Angela, whose
expression remained faultlessly neutral, if not downright catatonic.
An uncomfortable silence ensued. It occurred to me that Angela was the owner of the
house in Anguilla and that her erstwhile chums were terrified she had overheard them diss-
ing her.
After an excruciatingly awkward pause Ellen gestured to us.
“We were just telling these gentlemen about your vacation home,” she said.
“Oh?” Angela replied, arching a ruthlessly plucked eyebrow.
“Yes, darling,” Ellen gushed. “We were telling them what a fabulous deal you gave us.”
More silence.
“They own a Caribbean home too,” Ellen rushed on.
Angela turned to us, ignoring her friend with the majesty of a mastiff ignoring a gnat.
“Where is your house?”
I felt unaccountably nervous, as if the Queen had singled me out for a chat at a Buck-
ingham Palace garden party.
“Vieques.”
More silence still.
“Bombs,” she said at last.
It took a few moments for this to sink in.
“They left,” I said.
“The bombs?”
“The Navy.”
“So it's quiet now?”
“Except for the roosters.”
Her Birkin bag wiggled slightly. I suspected a small dog. Or maybe a transplant organ.
“Do you have a card?'
“I'm afraid not.”
“Are you online?'
“Not yet.”
“Good luck.”
And with that she was gone.
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