It's awkward at first, sipping tea with two women that you used to know rather well (your lives used to revolve around each other in the never-ending gravity of Victory Munitions) and now, you realise, barely know at all. Betty is quiet, laid back. Gladys is obviously no longer a high-society girl. You want to ask a hundred questions but the way you left means you have no right to ask any of them.
"So, your career is doing well," Gladys says finally. "Betty keeps all the clippings." Then Gladys makes a noise, a noise like maybe Betty's foot has connected with Gladys' ankle. "Well, you do," she huffs at Betty, then sips at her tea. Kitty nearly drops her bottle but with cat-like agility both Gladys and Betty reach out and steady it. They're distracted enough by it that you hope you can change the subject.
"I do well enough," you say quietly. They both look up then.
"Gladys' father cut her off," Betty says absently.
"Hey!" Gladys says, and there's a movement under the table like Betty's shins might have met Gladys' shoes.
"It's not like she couldn't tell, having you slumming it here with me," Betty says.
"For the last time, I am not slumming it," Gladys retorts and it's nice to be part of this, to be part of their everyday bickering. You didn't realise you missed it, but you're comforted by the fact that they're not just showing some veneer or facade, that they still feel close enough to you to act naturally. "I love Kitty, I love this house, and I love you, you stupid woman."
"Oh that's right, get at me for my -" Betty starts. You don't hear much after that. you froze up at the mention of love, that little voice having a parade in your frontal lobe. They don't even notice, they just keep talking. Gladys eventually turns to you.
"Betty went undercover. I wasn't letting her be just another butterbox baby. I'm not ashamed of what I did, and I'm not ashamed of her. Or Betty," she adds as an afterthought.
You nod as though you understand, but really you don't. You don't know what a butterbox baby is, and you don't know why Betty had to go undercover. You remember, briefly, the one time you went undercover and you reflexively wipe your mouth. Betty notices; her eyes follow your hand, linger on your mouth. You look away before she does.
"Not undercover, not really. I just got a job there. Trust me, you don't want to go to a maternity home for unwed mothers." She shudders a little at the memory.
"You got it shut down though, didn't you?" Gladys asks, and Betty looks away like she lost part of herself there. Gladys' hand slips onto Betty's forearm, their hands tangle together and you have to look away. It's too much, suddenly. You shouldn't have come here, even if you wanted reconciliation. You should have gone to the hotel bar, or a coffee shop. But you didn't know that they lived together; not until it was too late. Not until you were already in their house, casually touching each other in a way you've never been able to recreate with anyone else.
You've had some female fans, waiting at the door for you after the show. Holding out pictures of your face to sign, or little autograph books. It never really bothered you, or seemed odd, until one of them insisted she buy you a drink at the bar. Things were pretty hazy after that, and your memories of that night still make you blush. They do things differently in America.
You're blushing now, you realise, when Gladys peers at you curiously.
"Enough about us, tell us all about the high life of a singer."
"Not much to tell," you say with a half-shrug. "Different room every other night, lots of champagne. It's busy, but it's not..."
"Enough?" Gladys asks. You shake your head.
"Fulfilling," you say quietly, and sip your tea. It's gorgeous. It's the first cup of home-made tea you've had in a long time, steeped to perfection and pointing out everything you're missing out on. "It has its good points, though," you say quickly, in case either of them thought you were ungrateful. "The people are nice and I don't have to... worry. Like I used to." You look at Betty and she shrugs.
Author's note: FYI don't google butterbox babies. Just don't.
Title from Gotye's 'Somebody that I used to know'. Also the police of buttfuck nowhere get suspicious of cars parked at a closed library in the middle of the night, so, you know, that's fun.