The Drifter(56)
“I’m here to see Cheryl, in human resources,” Betsy said. “I’m here for an interview.”
She heard a snicker from somewhere in the back, behind a wall paneled with gleaming mahogany.
“Certainly, miss, I’ll take you back to Ms. Morgan,” said the youngest-looking one of the three, who had lank blonde hair to her shoulders. Her scarf was covered with perky seashells. Once they rounded the corner to a long, carpeted hallway, her voice dropped to a hushed tone.
“Oh God, just ignore them,” she said. “They’re impossibly mean. There’s a girl who works here who’s from England and so posh. I mean, they’re saying that she’s a Windsor, like, she’s related to the Queen. And Bea, the big one, tortures her so much that she sucks her thumb in the break room. She’s twenty-two! I’m Jessica, by the way.”
“I’m Bets. . . . Elizabeth. Elizabeth Young,” Betsy said.
“I know who you are. Kenneth told me to look out for you,” she added, glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone was within earshot. “Here’s the deal: When you get into the interview they’re going to ask you if you’re married, and what you do on the weekends, and even though it seems like it’s illegal or something you have to answer them. Just make it all sound really fabulous even if it’s a big fucking lie. I live in Connecticut with my parents in my childhood room with a canopy bed, but they’d have to beat that information out of me. I’m a Catalogue girl. Most of the people in that job are just aiming to get into Client Services so they can meet a rich husband. I’ve got bigger plans. You’re interviewing to be an assistant in one of the departments, and then maybe you’ll be promoted to junior cataloguer. I think that’s a better fit?” Jessica said, as her eyes scanned Betsy from head to toe.
“And listen, if you get the job, do yourself a favor and buy yourself a nice bag. It’ll take you a year to pay it off but it’s worth it.”
She knocked on the door to Cheryl’s office and mouthed “Good luck,” and then slid back down the hall. Betsy clutched her new Coach saddlebag reflexively, worried that it was too late to return it.
Jessica disappeared silently down the plush carpeted hallway.
Betsy remembered nothing about the interview, aside from the fact that she thought she blew it. Later that night at Cedar Tavern on University Place, she and Gavin sat up front in the window, which, on that chilly spring night, was fogged around its perimeter like a Maxwell House commercial. She told Gavin about horrible Princess Di and about Jessica from Connecticut, and that she hoped she would get the job just so she could be her friend.
Much to her surprise, “Elizabeth” got the job, on a provisionary basis. She had three months to prove herself. When she walked into the building the first day, she had a vague idea that working there was a rite of passage for twentysomethings who spent their teen years on horseback and tennis courts and summer holidays in Europe, like Caroline, not her. And there was scarcely an hour that passed at her new job when she didn’t think of her old friend. Betsy knew she didn’t belong there just by eavesdropping on the women who handed out catalogues at the front desk, and the more experienced women who escorted VIPs through the auction previews. They were whispering about handsome divorcées with impressive collections of post-war art, what Yoko Ono was wearing when she came to meet with the contemporary art specialists about selling pieces in her collection. They memorized the gossip columns like they were racing forms and exchanged cookie recipes. Betsy’s time was spent behind the scenes, researching and cataloguing prints, lithographs, and lesser paintings for upcoming sales. She was also out of her depth with the department specialists, all experts in their fields and haughty in their own right. She wasn’t as certain of her place there as Jessica, whom Betsy quickly realized was a sort of snake charmer, fearless and smiling in the face of viciousness and capable of winning over even the most bloodless of their colleagues.
Betsy was also worried that someone would find out, at any moment, how little she remembered of the tedious art history classes she’d taken, the hours she’d spent nodding off to the sound of her professors droning on about Medicis and encaustics. Betsy loved the way the art made her feel but was lousy with details. Her only defense was preparation, so she read for hours, watched, and learned. She just wanted to press her nose against the glass and peek in for a while, never expecting to survive, there or anywhere, for long.
CHAPTER 15
CONFESSIONS
February 2, 1993
Two years later, no one had caught on to the fact that she didn’t know what she was doing, and she was beginning to think that was how the whole system worked. On some level, everyone was faking it, at least a little, pretending like they knew what they were doing until they didn’t have to pretend anymore. Betsy’s job wasn’t exactly the lowest on the food chain, but most days still involved stuffing envelopes, running out for sandwiches, or schlepping around town to pick up signed contracts from clients, who were often reluctant to put their prized possessions on the auction block. Sometimes, the sellers just grew tired of the pieces, and treated their collections as a living thing that needed to grow and change. Most were forced to liquidate out of necessity: a nasty divorce, a death in the family, bankruptcy. Betsy was oddly at ease in the midst of this kind of crisis, almost relieved, actually, to see that other people suffered, too. She was learning not to be so naive, and that even if a life looked perfect from the outside, it didn’t always stand up to closer scrutiny.