Always the Last to Know(42)
Oh, that word. That terrifying word. “Don’t be catty. She’s doing great stuff.”
But of course it had crossed her mind. Juliet was only eleven years older than Arwen. But apparently, those were akin to dog years, and it sent a quiver of fear through her, a shameful fear she couldn’t admit to anyone. She’d always been a solid presence in the architecture world, often asked for quotes or sound bytes, speeches, articles.
Then, just like that, she was yesterday’s news.
After Arwen had been working at DJK for a year, Juliet went out for drinks with some of her closest architect friends, all of them women. They were in Chicago for a one-day design showcase, a PR kind of thing. Arwen was in Maui, checking the site of a hotel expansion, and Juliet suspected she’d been DJK’s second choice as spokesperson for the Chicago gig.
Whatever. The drinks arrived, and within seconds, the issue Juliet knew was coming arrived. “Tell us about your whiz kid,” said Yvette.
“She’s doing very well,” Juliet said. She couldn’t be anything but positive, and she suspected the group knew it.
Silence dropped over the table. “What’s said in Chi-Town stays in Chi-Town?” suggested Lynn. Everyone nodded, except Juliet.
“I’m sorry, Juliet,” Yvette said, “but what’s the big deal with her? She’s not exactly special. Forgive me for saying so, but there it is. All of a sudden, it’s like there’s only one female architect in the world, while the rest of us have been slogging it out for decades.”
“Maybe it’s timing,” Juliet said. “You know how it is. Sometimes you just get attention.”
The other women murmured. A few looks were exchanged—disappointment, maybe, that Juliet wasn’t going to throw her protégé under the bus.
“Do you ladies know I love opera?” Susan said. She was the oldest of the group at sixty-five and, at one time or another, had been a mentor to every other woman at the table. “I even studied it in college, believe it or not. Music performance minor.”
“You’re so cool,” Juliet said with a smile.
Susan smiled back, her face kind. “One time, my husband and I went to hear Pavarotti sing. And from the first note out of his mouth, my body just broke out in goose bumps. Everyone in that building knew we were hearing the greatest tenor in three generations.” She took a sip of her martini. “Then, a few years later, we heard Andrea Bocelli. You know, the handsome one?”
“He’s blind, you know,” said Linda.
“Yes, dear, everyone knows that,” said Susan. “So we went to the concert, and Bocelli was good. Very good. It was very entertaining. The crowd was in love.” She paused. “But he’s no Pavarotti. He’s not even a great opera singer. He’s a pop star who sings opera, Elvis Presley and Christmas carols. Which is not to take away from his talent, his spark. But if you love opera, if you know opera, he’s a mediocre singer who gives a great performance.”
“By which you’re saying . . .” said Lynn.
“This young woman we’re discussing is no Pavarotti.”
Juliet was so relieved, she closed her eyes. It wasn’t just her.
The week following the conference, Santiago Calatrava, one of the actual living legends of architecture, was quoted saying Arwen Alexander was the most exciting new voice out there.
Susan sent Juliet an e-mail. Guess I was wrong about Andrea Bocelli. What do I know?
A week later, Arwen was nominated for the AIA Young Architects Award and the Moira Gemmill Prize for Emerging Architecture.
No one at DJK had ever been so recognized. Juliet’s friends, those women at the table in Chicago, went silent. Arwen was on the rise, and you didn’t cast aspersions on a woman on the rise no matter what she did or did not bring to your field.
It was the elephant in the room. If there were any men who shared the opinion that Arwen was a Bocelli, not a Pavarotti, they didn’t dare say it, especially after Santiago had praised her.
Arwen was no dummy. Without saying a word, the dynamic in the office changed. She stopped popping into Juliet’s office to chat, or asking if she wanted to grab a glass of wine before heading home. Her clothes got better—she’d always had style, but now it was Armani and Christian Louboutin, Tom Ford and Prada. She bought a Tesla. She moved from a rental in downtown New Haven to an incredibly hip and spacious loft in a former manufacturing building and had a party for the entire staff plus spouses, and did all the cooking herself. Apparently, she’d developed a passion for Northern Indian cuisine when she spent a summer there during college. Oliver, who had lived in New Delhi for a few years as a teenager, said Arwen’s samosas were the best he’d ever had. Traitor.
Architects were paid well. But not that well. Family money? A rich lover? Arwen never mentioned anyone, and she lived in the loft alone. As far as Juliet knew, she was single.
Juliet still offered input and guidance on Arwen’s projects, because that was her job . . . but there was that tremor. Arwen seemed to tolerate her advice now, not seek it. Dave and the rarely seen Edward Decker, the D in DJK and the other living partner, stopped by Arwen’s office to chat when Edward graced the New Haven office with his presence. Once, it had been Juliet he stopped by to see.
It was chilling. It was as if architecture were a river, and Juliet had been a white-water rafter for all these years. Suddenly she’d been turned into a rock, the water flowing around her, the raft way, way ahead.