Good Mourning by Elizabeth Meyer Read Free Book Online Page A

designer heels to work—and I decided that maybe Monica had the right idea with her old-lady comfort shoes.
    I heard my phone vibrate, and a text from Gaby popped up: HEY! IF YOU’RE TOO BUSY TO BOOK YOUR FLIGHT TO LONDON, I’M MORE THAN HAPPY TO DO IT FOR YOU.
    London. Ugh. I hated to let my best friend down, but there was no way I could go to the party. Monica had made the schedule for the week, and since I was the newbie, I got all the worst shifts—my days were going to be starting at either six a.m. or four p.m., and it wasn’t going to be pretty. Plus, I had to work weekends.
    I dipped my spoon deep into the froyo and picked up my phone. SO SORRY HUN BUT I THINK I HAVE TO WORK.
    Buzzzz. BUT YOU CAN’T MISS THIS PARTY!! PRETTY PLEASE?? DON’T MAKE ME GO WITHOUT YOU. CAN’T YOU JUST TELL YOUR BOSS YOU HAVE PLANS OR SOMETHING?
    Just as I was about to write back, Elaine’s name popped up on my phone. Why in God’s name is she calling me? I thought. Don’t get me wrong—Elaine did the obligatory check-in call from time to time, usually to ask how “our” fabulous friends were doing. But she spoke to Max much more than me, and even when we did connect, it always felt a little awkward, like when you’re sitting next to someone at a party who is four drinks deeper than you.
    I’m not going to answer it . She is just going to say something stupid, and I’ll hate her for it. I hit “ignore” and reached for the TV remote, but her name started flashing again. (Elaine does not like to be ignored.)
    â€œYes, hi, Nanny,” I said, not even attempting to sound happy to hear from her. “What can I do for you?”
    â€œLizzie, oh good, you’re there. I talked to your brother. What is this I hear about you working at a funeral home? Iknow this couldn’t possibly be the case, but I wanted to hear it from you.”
    Sigh. My new gig might have been a disappointment for my mother, but it would be an outright embarrassment for Elaine, a woman so “refined” she refused to let her staff pour her milk straight out of a carton into her coffee. They had to pour the milk into a silver pitcher first, then pour it into Elaine’s coffee or whatever Nanny Dearest was drinking.
    â€œNanny, I’m tired. I really don’t feel like getting into this with you,” I said.
    â€œWell, I didn’t ask you how you feel , Lizzie. You need to stop this foolishness. I know you’re upset that your father isn’t here anymore, but this isn’t the way a lady deals with things . You hear me? Can’t you go out with your girlfriends or something? What’s my Gaby up to these days? Why don’t you both come down for a visit?”
    A text from Gaby buzzed through. HELLO? OKAY, I’M COUNTING YOU IN. LONDON! PARTY! YAY!
    My head was pounding. Why didn’t anyone in my life understand that this wasn’t a joke? “Elaine . . . er, Nanny . . . I’ve—I’ve got to go,” I said, hanging up the phone before she could respond.
    I looked at the clock: seven p.m. Normally I’d be making plans to meet friends in the Meatpacking District, or maybe for dinner in the East Village. But I had eleven precious hours before I’d be sitting at the reception desk at Crawford, and the thought of putting on a cute dress, cabbing it downtown, and squeezing myself into a booth next to a bunch of friends fresh from happy hour was about as appealing as whatever brown liquid had oozed onto my shoes earlier. I turned off my phone. The only thing calling my name for the rest of the night was a pair of cashmere sweatpants, an oversized T-shirt, and a bottle of water.
    Besides, just about the last thing I needed was for someone else to ask me what the hell I was doing with my life, when I barely knew myself.

THREE
    Dirty Business
    W hen I was seven, my parents signed me up for ballet lessons. Or rather,