The Drifter(80)
Betsy remembered how she worried at that age, and how she was always concerned about the type of mother she’d become. Back in college, Teddy had given her his dog-eared copy of Geek Love, the Katherine Dunn book about circus freaks that college kids flocked to in the early 1990s for its combination of gore and commentary about the damage parents inflict on their children in order to better their lives. When one of the characters, a dwarf-like creature, becomes pregnant in the book, she gives up her daughter to be raised by nuns and watches her blossom into adulthood while posing as a strange but kindhearted neighbor. She didn’t want her child to grow up thinking she was a monster, or even the daughter of a monster. At the time, Betsy thought it was pure, twisted fantasy. Now she knew better.
Her potential return to Gainesville, which would be the first time she’d spend more than twenty-four hours away from Remi, was still on her mind when she made it to her corner of the office—not the corner office, just an office near the corner—cutting through a center hall to avoid walking past the regal-looking women in the Jewelry department and the trendy, angular specialists in Asian Contemporary Art, with two nonfat lattes, one for herself and the other for the department assistant, Nina, who thanked her with a woozy smile.
“Rough night?” Betsy asked, marveling at the way last night’s mascara and three hours of sleep could look so perfect on her twenty-five-year-old face. “You were here so late! Did you go out after?”
“Is it that obvious?” Nina asked, without the apology that Betsy would have been compelled to offer back when she was in those shoes. Betsy felt that the twenty-five-year-olds owed a world of debt to the forty-year-olds who made showing up at work reeking of last night’s tequila shots without retribution possible.
“Sadly, no. But I know you,” said Betsy, stashing her bag under her desk, feeling generous, considering that Nina was in early and obviously had been covering for her. “I used to be you,” she mumbled, under her breath.
“Oh, Liz, I should tell you, Jessica came by to see if you might be free for lunch,” Nina said, eyebrows raised. Nina was the only one who called her Liz, and Betsy was weirdly OK with it. At work, officially, she was still dignified, aloof Elizabeth. Jessica had left to start her own highly lucrative business as an art consultant to aesthetically challenged tech entrepreneurs, but she still breezed down the halls like she ran the place.
“Uh-huh,” said Betsy, trying out her best nonplussed expression, turning on her desktop, sorting through the marked-up catalogue copy before her. “What time?”
“She was here to check out the pre-sale. I think she’s buying for a new client or something? I don’t know. She was here about a half hour ago,” said Nina, who straightened up in her chair, shoved the last bite of her bagel into a balled-up napkin, and tossed it into the trash. “And again now. She’s here now.”
“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.”