The Futures(46)

She was Japanese, her hair like a long curtain framing her face, her clothing artfully draped, her build slender and delicate. Her silhouette was like an old Al Hirschfeld sketch. “Sara, this is Julia Edwards. She was at Yale a few years behind us. Jules, Sara runs a gallery in Tribeca.”

“Hey,” she said. Her voice was smoky and cool. “Nice to meet you.”

Adam cast his eyes across the room. “I just have to say hi to somebody. I’ll be right back.”

I was nervous again without Adam there as a buffer. Surely Sara would dismiss me out of hand: a ditzy girl who didn’t belong, too young, too naive. She’d only talk to me until she could find an excuse to leave. But after he walked away, she smiled at me. She was less intimidating when she smiled.

“When did you graduate?”

“Just this year. In May.”

“Tough year. What are you doing in the city?”

“I’m working at a nonprofit. The Fletcher Foundation. I’m just an assistant, but—”

“But you have a job? Hey, that’s great. That’s more than a lot of people can say.”

I laughed. “I guess.”

“Most of my friends had to intern for, like, years before they found jobs. You’re doing fine.”

“It doesn’t really feel that way.”

“It will, eventually.” She had a knowing glint in her eyes. A lot of the people in this room did. I wanted that—the knowingness—more than anything. An understanding of the world and where I fit in it. Sara told me about her gallery in Tribeca, some of the artists she represented. She was going to Art Basel in Miami Beach in a few weeks. We talked for a while about the recent Turner show at the Met and the new Koons installation. I was surprised to find I was actually having fun. Sara made me feel like myself.

“Here,” she said as she lit another cigarette. “Here’s my card. Call me sometime. We can have lunch. And if you’re ever interested in leaving that job of yours, the gallery might be hiring next year.”

“Really?”

“Really. We could use someone like you. You seem smart. And nice, too. Too nice for Adam.”

She exhaled a plume of smoke. I laughed nervously. Too nice for Adam? I glanced down at her business card. A simple square with her name in raised black type. SARA YAMASHITA.

“There you are,” Adam said. “Come on—let’s say hi to Nick.”

“It was nice to meet you,” I said to Sara, slipping the card into my purse. “And thank you, really. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” She smiled serenely. “Keep in mind what I said.”

Nick had a real kitchen, too, a separate room with marble countertops and oak cabinets and a stainless steel range. He was holding court, in the middle of some story, and he turned toward us at the sound of his name. He was just like Adam, I could see—brimming with the same confidence, tailor-made for this kind of life. Nick stepped forward and reached for my hand. “You must be the famous Julia,” he said. “What can I get you guys to drink?”

He was tall and tanned, with very white teeth and a shock of blond hair. He wore a navy blue cable-knit sweater and khakis and soft brown loafers. He seemed to match his apartment: old money, old-money taste.

“I’ll have a bourbon,” Adam said, “and she’ll have a vodka soda.”

“With lime, if you have it,” I added. Adam always forgot the last part.

While Nick was fixing our drinks, Adam nudged me. “So what do you think?”

“This kitchen, holy shit. Is this guy a millionaire or something?”

“You were talking to Sara for a while.”

“Yeah. I like her. I can’t believe she runs her own gallery.”

“Don’t be too impressed. It’s all her family. Their money, their connections. Nothing she got on her own.”

“What, are you not a fan?”

“No, nothing like that. Sara’s a good person for you to know. But her dad is one of the biggest art dealers in the city. How hard do you think she had to work to get that gig?”

“She seems to be doing what she loves, at least.” I wished Nick would hurry up with the drinks. But he was distracted, greeting more people in that clubby way.

Adam laughed. “Sara’s not like that. I’m not sure love is an emotion she’s capable of.”

I tried to read his expression. For Adam to criticize someone else’s family connections seemed unfair. He had grown up in a Central Park West penthouse, his father a real estate mogul and his mother a society type. Adam was as privileged as they came. So what if he hadn’t chosen to follow his father into real estate? It was still strange for him to belittle Sara for doing something that almost anyone in her situation would have done. It stung, too, realizing that Adam could have said the same thing about me. The job I had, at a foundation run by our family friends—nothing I got on my own.

A thought occurred to me.

“How do you know Sara again?”

“Hmm?”

“Was she in your college, or what?”

“No. We dated for a while.”

“Oh.”

“It was freshman year. We met through the magazine.”

The same way that Adam and I had met. Adam’s reputation was well known. He’d slept around, a parade of flings and hookups, often a few at the same time, many drawn from the ranks of the magazine. This party had to be populated with other past conquests besides Sara. But weirdly enough, I wasn’t jealous. Maybe because I had no real claim over Adam. Being with Adam had become a way for me to step outside the bounds: a minor rebellion, leaving behind the boring life I had before. This was a different world, one of sommeliers and marble kitchens and doormen. It was a world where you could be blasé about the past and the consequences of your actions. A world where envy was what other people felt, not you.