The Drifter(81)

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.

“Look, I don’t know what is going on with you these days, but your head is not in the game. And not that it’s my business, really, but as a friend I have to tell you that I hear your approval rating around here is at an all-time low. I mean, you were never Miss Popularity, but it’s worse than ever.”

“Well, I’m a little preoccupied, but I wouldn’t say I am loathed, exactly,” said Betsy, taking a swig of her latte with what seemed, immediately, like too much panache.

“Hmm, actually, I might. I might almost say loathed. If you’re not going to do your job, trust me, there are a dozen people here who will. This isn’t France, Betsy. You’re not grandfathered into permanent semiretirement just because you’ve worked here for nineteen years,” said Jessica. She folded her arms, which were toned from boxing and Pilates and, Betsy often chuckled to herself, pushing away all of that food, across her chest. “I’m just worried you’re closing yourself off from the world. Name one actual friend you have in the building, now that I’m gone.”

“Nina!” said Betsy. She could see from the corner of her eye that Nina was leaning far forward on her desk trying to hide behind the half wall of her cubicle.

“That doesn’t count. You’re her boss. She has to pretend to like you.”

“Oh, then I guess your former assistants didn’t get that memo, as they say. A couple of years ago, I was grabbing a yogurt out of the fridge one day and I heard one of them say that she was going to take the new Paul Smith shirts you made her order for your husband and have the letters ATM monogrammed on the pocket! That doesn’t sound like something a ‘friend’ would say, does it?”

“Which assistant was it? Alexandra or Sam?”

“Oh, please, why does that matter? They don’t even work for you anymore. What are you going to do, have them fired? I was just saying that to . . .”

“Absolutely. I can make one phone call and have them fired by someone else. And by the way, if the assistants find out that you were the one who shared that little story, that wouldn’t be the fast track to likability and redemption around here.”

“Whoa. Is that a threat?” Betsy asked. “Fine, Jessica, you’re right. I have no friends. I have no friends because . . .”

“Because why? What is wrong, Betsy? All these years and sometimes I feel like I hardly know you.”

Betsy sighed. “Jessica, the truth is I am a terrible, terrible friend.”

Jessica, for once, was speechless.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. I don’t want to slip even further out of the game, right? Miss the second half? Insert your favorite sports metaphor here.”

Betsy stood up to emphasize her point. She watched Jessica walk out of the door and down the hall, listening to the hollow knocking footsteps of her platforms get softer as she strode away. She glanced back at the sticky note again.

“The last thing I need is to go to a reunion,” she said to no one in particular, suddenly mystified, remembering her bitter fights with Caroline, the ruthlessness of her sorority. “It’s like I never left.”