Rich and Pretty(28)

She couldn’t have gone to California, those years ago, because she would have been going only for Greg, and that seemed idiotic, pathetic, would have been vastly overestimating what their relationship had been, never mind that he hadn’t asked her to. College ended, their romance ended, and they’d both known that was coming. In fact, if they’d broken up, formally, a conversation, in bed one morning, she can’t remember it. He was very sweet, and she had loved f*cking him, but life had a lot more in store for her, in New York City, in publishing. Adventures. Now it’s eight years later and far too late for her to move to California. And on the good days, she retains that sense that life holds something in store for her. On the bad days, she is not so sure. On the average day, the day like today, she can let her mind wander. But what would she do for a job? She can’t style props, whatever that means. Still, on a chilly evening it’s nice to think of bougainvillea.

Sarah is there before her, sitting, looking at her phone.

“Am I late?” Lauren doesn’t want to start the evening off on the wrong foot.

Sarah shakes her head. “I’m early.”

Lauren falls into the chair. If there’s a ladylike way to sit down, she’s not mastered it. “How are you?”

Sarah puts the phone into the bag on the banquette beside her. “I’m good! I’m actually superhungry.”

“Me too. It’s the fall. Hibernating season.”

“God, this is the last thing I need, I’m supposed to put on a dress that you can be damn sure is going to be sleeveless. I can just see myself, arms wiggling in the breeze.”

Lauren makes a sort of tsk sound in response, to register that she’s heard and that she disapproves. “You look great,” she says, but so close on the heels of what Sarah’s said it doesn’t sound sincere.

A pained smile. “How are you?” Sarah asks.

“I’m good, actually. Today was a good day.” As Lauren says it, she marvels at it: She can’t believe it’s true.

Sarah looks surprised. “Do tell.”

“You don’t need to look so shocked,” she says. “Am I such a downer? I have good days.”

“I’m just happy for you,” Sarah says. “Anything noteworthy or just generally a not bad day?”

That afternoon, the remnants of the expensive prechopped salad bar salad (spinach, chickpeas, broccoli, tuna, carrot, sunflower seeds, balsamic vinegar, $11.95) still on her desk, Mary-Beth had toddled over, which is how Lauren now thinks of her gait, and paused there behind her chair for a moment laden with meaning. “Lauren,” she’d said.

This was not of itself worth note—she was her boss, of course they talked—but there was something in it, her pronunciation, some suggestion, some clue. “Do you have a second?”

This too: the implication that they needed to speak privately. Lauren had followed Mary-Beth to her office, worrying about the tuna salad on her breath like someone out of a commercial for gum, or an unimaginative television show. Mary-Beth even asked Lauren to close the door, or anyway, nodded toward it meaningfully.

The short of it: a promotion, and a significant one, the shedding of the epithet associate, a standing invitation to pitch projects, an expectation that there would be travel, and meals out, and even occasional reimbursements for such. The imprint is quite firmly in the black, it seems. Dallie will be leaving; the organization, lean though it is, will be reorganized; and Lauren will find herself, suddenly, quite near the top of the structure. And more—further changes coming, something unspoken but suggested, Miranda taking on a different role, one in the parent company, quite literally kicked upstairs, to the hushed, glass-walled thirty-sixth floor, where all the very most important meetings in the building take place. Mary-Beth had always liked Lauren, told her so, just like that, acknowledging that this change is big, unlikely, amorphous, a gift, a reward, for being good, for being liked. Mary-Beth even mentions the celebrity chef, the quarrelsome Cuban. They’ve been keeping tabs on Lauren, it seems.

Lauren shrugs. “A good day, is all. I don’t know. There’s this chance that I’m going to get some new responsibilities. Which I think is good. I mean, more work, but more interesting work.”

“You mean they’re finally realizing that you’re incredibly overqualified for your job,” Sarah says. “Thank f*cking God. Congratulations. A raise?”

Once, years ago, when they were roommates in the city, unable to stop herself, Lauren had peered into one of the fat envelopes from Prudential that arrived for Sarah monthly. The sum—the only sum she was able to divine, amid all those numbers and charts—was astonishing. “A raise,” she says, but doesn’t say what she wants to, which is that Sarah would consider the sum in question inconsequential. “A decent one.” It’s not much to speak of, really, but it’s hers.

They order drinks: a martini, both of them; it seems retro, and celebratory, and somehow funny, and when they’re delivered, precariously, the liquid spilling out over the lips of the unwieldy glasses, Sarah takes a sip, as if for strength, then raises the glass. “Huzzah,” she says.

“Thanks,” Lauren says. She sips her drink. “Editor. No associate.”

“Not assistant?”

“Editor,” she says.

“Fucking great,” Sarah says. “I knew it.” She pauses. “By the way, I just should say it, so whatever, but if you’ve been mad at me since the last time we hung out, I’m sorry.”