“Elizabeth! There you are. The scary preschool saga continues, huh?” Jessica breezed in wearing a black, belted Jil Sander shirtdress that might look plain on anyone with less confidence, or less prominent collarbones, a minimal but substantial gold ring, and towering Saint Laurent platform boots. Her hair, which was once lank and dishwatery, was now icy blonde, nearly platinum, and always pulled back in a sleek ponytail.
Jessica Martin was now Betsy’s oldest friend. She had been there from the beginning, helping her navigate the complexities of the environment, letting her tag along to cocktail parties where she’d meet important collectors or potential clients. At first, Betsy could mask her anxiety with as many glasses of free champagne as she could swallow and still remain standing. Eventually, she and Jessica both accepted the fact that Betsy was better off behind the scenes, or dealing privately with loyal clients, gallery owners, and dealers she’d grown to trust. It had been over a year, though, since Betsy had brought in any significant business. Her department’s sales were being eclipsed by the competition. Her colleagues in London were starting to grumble that the New York office wasn’t pulling its weight. Perhaps her greatest shame was that most of her peers had long since moved on, establishing careers in public relations or consulting or anything more glamorous, and she felt stuck.
SHE AND JESSICA had remained close, as close as Betsy would allow, for almost twenty years. She was a bridesmaid in Jess’s wedding, one of eight. She kept a photo of the bridal party in a frame at home and would always manage a laugh when she saw herself among the beaming smiles of Jessica’s aggressively highlighted high school friends and cousins. Around Jessica, Betsy would always be the girl in the grungy sweater.
“Lunch at Nougatine?” Jessica asked.
“God I wish,” Betsy said. “But I can’t, I’m so behind. Here, sit for a second.”
Jessica sat in one of Betsy’s Sergio Rodrigues leather chairs, which was low slung and pouchy, like an oversized, glamorous baseball mitt, and made her friend seem even more angular and narrow than usual.
“Is it the mom guilt again? Trust me. You’ll get over it,” said Jessica, who’d married a venture capitalist who was more than pleased to introduce his clients to his art-savvy wife for consultations, and had a six-year-old son, Cash, named without an ounce of self-awareness. She kept the job for the cachet, the occasional media profiles that included her as an “influencer,” and the excuse to buy $1,500 shoes. “Who is it serving, really? Remi is being raised by a competent woman, otherwise known as Flavia. Just get over it.”
These days, Jessica always twirled her hands around when she talked to Betsy, like she was holding a martini, letting the tiny ice chips make faint clinking sounds against the glass. Frequently, she was.
“Remi asked me why I wear makeup before I left this morning,” Betsy said, desperate to change the subject and get to the pile of work before her but unwilling to show it. “And I wanted to tell her that being a mom was like being president. Four years in and everybody looks like shit.”
“Ha! So true. Speaking of, I had another Kim Gordon sighting at a gallery last night. You know that she paints now, right?” she said. Betsy was obsessed with Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth. She was the standard by which all other women were measured. “I know you’re desperate for her to get Botox so you can finally paralyze your face, too. But I must say she is still wrinkly and still fabulous.”
“Uh-huh.” Betsy nodded, distracted, scanning the pages in front of her. “She’s always been an artist.”
“Elizabeth?” Jessica was annoyed by anyone who didn’t grant her their full attention.
“Yes? Oh, Kim Gordon, right. Sonic Youth is going out with Pavement on a reunion tour,” Betsy said. She thought of Gainesville. Her chest tightened. Reunion. “We should go and seek comfort in the presence of other elderly and infirm music fans.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think so. Jesus, are you even listening to me?”
“Of course I am. You just reminded me of something, that’s all.” Betsy scribbled “reunion?” on a sticky note and tagged it on the bottom of her screen, next to the one from last week that said “Milk: Almond or hemp?”
“Oh, hey, you know that I was over at Phillip’s last week, and their Prints department is killing it,” said Jessica. She turned and headed for the door.
“Why? What do you mean?” asked Betsy. She looked up from her work, trying to look more inquisitive than defensive.
“Well, they’ve just got some major stuff coming up.”
“I see. More major than what we’re doing, obviously,” said Betsy.
“I just thought you’d want to know what’s happening with the competition. I never see you out and around anymore. I just don’t want people to think you’re out of the game.”
“Out of the game. Nice, Jess. That’s just what I need,” she said, coolly.