A Special Place for Women

by Laura Hankin

  He took a sip of his drink. “Unclear if any of it was properly sourced or just total hearsay, but it was good. Really good.”

  I threw the bar towel over my shoulder and put my hand on my hip, affecting a much cooler posture than I actually felt. “So you’re being nice to me again? To what do I owe the honor?”

  He looked up from his glass and leaned forward against the bar, hangdog eyes looking into mine. “I was too harsh on you. I’m sorry. A whole combination of things was going on with me, and I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

  “Well. Thank you,” I said, then added, “What combination?”

  He leaned back again. “Oh, you know. Another piece I’d been working on got bumped from the issue, Emmy and I were in the midst of a huge fight, things like that.” He was silent a moment. “It’s been a bigger adjustment to working at the Standard than I thought it would be.”

  “Poor Miles,” I said. “It’s hard for you not to be the undisputed top dog?”

  “Yes!” he said. I rolled my eyes as he continued, “I know, I know, I’m a dick.”

  “A little bit.”

  “But I’m smart! I’m good at what I do. And so far in my professional career, whenever I’ve worked hard enough at something, I’ve mastered it. Since I’ve started at the Standard, though, I . . .” His voice got lower, so low that I had to step forward to hear it. “I keep screwing it up. I’m worried that I won’t be able to stop.”

  I grew careful—no sudden movements—afraid that I’d startle him off before he could finish talking. He’d never shown this kind of weakness to me before. Not that he’d pretended he was perfect in every aspect of his life—he’d shown me that he wasn’t when he sucked my face. But I’d never heard him express vulnerability about his professional competence. He always seemed so naturally good, so certain that he was right. Historically, I’d been turned on by talent. Nothing made me want to tear my clothes off like a big, throbbing brain, and Miles’s was one of the biggest, most throbbing ones I’d encountered. But now, as Miles let me glimpse his doubt, puncturing the illusion, I didn’t lose a single ounce of respect for him. I only loved him more.

  “I’ve finally gotten my chance at bat, and I’ve forgotten how to swing. That’s the biggest reason I was a jerk. When you told me about the NDA, I realized I’d made one more misstep.”

  “Hey, it was my misstep, not yours.”

  “No. It belonged to both of us. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but—” He sighed. “Oh, screw it. After I knew you were getting invited into the club, I passed up a different story that my bosses wanted me to take on so that I could focus on yours. They didn’t understand why, so I talked you up more than I should have, created a situation where there was no wiggle room. I made an error in professional judgment and staked too much on this story, because I know you’re wonderful and wanted the bosses to see it too.”

  I had no idea if anyone else was trying to get my attention to order a drink, and I didn’t care. In the dim lighting, Miles and I were the only two people in the whole place. “Are you in trouble with your higher-ups now?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Don’t dodge the question,” I said as he ran his fingers through his hair, then rested his hand on the bar. “Tell me the truth.” I put my hand on top of his, and he looked up again, right into my eyes.

  “I don’t know. But they want to schedule a performance review.”

  “I mean, that’s got to be normal, right? In a new job?”

  “I asked around, and I don’t think it is. Not this soon.”

  “Shit. I am so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Hey. It’s not your fault. Or, I guess it is in a way. Your fault for being so talented and making me want you to succeed.”

  “We’re still going to succeed,” I said. “Maybe you’ve never experienced this before, but when the rest of us mortals start a new job, there’s always an adjustment period. You’re not getting sent back to the bench, though. You’re too fucking good for that. I’ll get you something unassailable that you can bring into that performance review.”

  “You don’t need to . . .” He cut himself off, chewed on his lip. “You don’t need to make promises that you can’t keep.”

  “I’m not,” I said, and smiled at him. “This mess, right now? It’s just a hiccup. You’re still going to ascend to that Media Throne. King of the Editors. David Remnick had better watch his back.” He let out a soft laugh.

  “Jesus, Beckley,” he said, shaking his head. My hand was still resting on top of his, and he turned his over so that our palms were touching. “You make my life very difficult.”

  “I know,” I said. He curled his fingers over mine, brushing my skin with his thumb, back and forth. We stayed like that, not speaking, just touching, breathing, until a man down at the bar started waving his arm frantically for my service.

  “All right, I’ll let you do your job,” Miles said, putting some money on the bar. “But I’ll see you soon?” He paused. “I want to see you soon.”

  “The Women Who Lead gala is at the end of the week. I’ll be there, along with a lot of the women from the club. Maybe you should get yourself a press pass, like last year,” I said.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe I will.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Things happened quickly with the judge. My post had struck a nerve—the right words at the right time—and caused some legit reporters who had been quietly digging to kick their work into high gear. Only a few days later, on the night of Caroline’s gala, the New York Times published a more substantiated account of his conflicts of interest, citing my anonymous post in the body of the article. It seemed Craig Melton might not be long for the bench.

  Margot texted me the link as I was getting ready for the gala, and I read it while brushing my hair. “Holy shit,” I said, my heart thumping.

  Raf ducked his head out of my bathroom. “What?” Since the gala was only a ten-minute walk from my place, he’d come straight to my apartment from the restaurant to get ready with me, toting a garment bag with his tuxedo inside of it. He’d bought this tux—his first one—a couple of months ago, when he’d started getting invited to fancy events, but still felt self-conscious and constrained in it. Now he wore only the tuxedo pants and an undershirt, waiting until the last possible moment to put the rest of it on.

  “Look at this article,” I said, holding out my phone to him, and he began to read. His undershirt showed off the muscles in his arms. They weren’t large—he wasn’t chugging protein powder and doing dead lifts in the gym—but still, they were sinewy. Solid. Sexy? No!

  “This article is happening because of what you wrote?” he asked. Our eyes met as I nodded. “Jilly, that’s amazing,” he said, his face breaking open into a smile, and I felt a weird zing inside of me. Stop that, I told my vagina.

  “Hopefully it’ll be enough for the inner circle,” I said, breaking our eye contact, moving away from him. “Okay, I’m gonna put on my dress.”

  I emerged from my bedroom a couple of minutes later, struggling with the zipper of an off-the-shoulder floor-length gown. It was black, velvet, and ’80s inspired. Or rather, not ’80s inspired, but actually ’80s, since that was when my mom had bought it. This was the one thing I took with me from her closet. The one thing that still smelled like her. (Even though that must have been just my imagination. She hadn’t worn it in decades.)

  “You look . . .” Raf began, then cleared his throat. “You look nice.” He had changed fully into the tux by now. It made him into a man. He came behind me to zip my dress up the rest of the way, and his fingers brushed against my back.

  “Thanks. All dress credit goes to my mom.”

  “Damn,” he said, stepping back and taking in the dress again. It was fitted around the waist and hips, with a slit to show off some leg. “This was Kathleen’
s?”

  “Yeah. She wore it to one fancy event in her twenties, and then she saved it forever because it was the nicest outfit she ever owned. Well, besides her wedding dress, but she threw that off a bridge after the divorce.”

  “No,” Raf said. “She threw it off a bridge?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “At least that’s what she told me. When the divorce was finalized, she drank a bottle of champagne and threw her wedding dress into the river.”

  “Kathleen,” Raf said, laughing. He shook his head. “She was the best. And that was her necklace too, right?” I touched the chain around my neck and nodded. His face grew contemplative. “We used to hang out my senior year, when you’d gone off to college. Did you know that? I’d go over to your house on Sunday mornings when my parents were at church, and we’d have breakfast together. She made the strongest coffee I’d ever tasted.” He paused. “It was not good. It was tar.”

  “Oh, it was fully disgusting,” I said.

  “Yeah, and she didn’t like milk or cream, so she never kept any around the house!”

  “When I realized you could add things to coffee to make it taste good, it was a revelation.”

  Raf smiled. “Anyway, I thought I was doing her a favor, going over on Sundays. You were gone. She was lonely. It was a way to get my parents to stop bugging me about church. But then when she went out of town for a couple weeks on vacation and we had to skip the breakfasts, I was kinda sad. She was fun. Funny. Just . . . nice to be around.”

  I swallowed. “She loved you. She was really proud of you. One of the last things she ever did was hang up your Vanity Fair article on our fridge.”

  “Really?” he asked. “That’s nice to know. I miss her. Not as much as you do, I’m sure. But sometimes when I’m lonely, I think about how nice it would be to call up Kathleen.”

  I wasn’t going to mess up my makeup for the gala by getting all teary-eyed and sentimental, so I shook my head and said, “Strange, I think about that sometimes too.” I squared my shoulders. “Okay, let’s go. Couple in Love?”

  “Couple in Love,” he said.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The gala was on the top floor of a hotel overlooking Central Park. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed an expanse of dark trees on one side and the lights of Columbus Circle on the other. The red taillights of cars glittered down below. When you were so far above everyone else, even traffic looked pretty.

  Caroline had gone for an autumnal theme, with staff tastefully placing bowls of freshly picked apples from Hudson Valley farms on various surfaces. Knobby decorative gourds adorned the tabletops where we would be sitting down to dinner. Everywhere, the well-dressed elite milled around, including a few minor and not-so-minor political figures. Some of the Nevertheless women were there, Iris Ngoza and a couple others whose names I didn’t know. They murmured something to each other and sent approving looks my way. Because of Raf, who had cleaned up so nicely, standing by my side.

  Sure enough, Iris turned and made her way over to us. “Rafael Morales? I’m a huge fan of your restaurant,” she said, and then focused on me. “And, Jillian, you’re a writer, yes? I’ve enjoyed some of your work. I’m finishing a book too, nonfiction, a manifesto on body positivity that a publishing company asked me to write. If you ever want to talk shop or have me put in a good word for you at my imprint, please let me know.” She smiled at me and walked away, as if getting a book deal were just that easy, like all one had to do was snap one’s (unequivocally accepted and loved) fingers. So the hum in the air wasn’t all about Raf. People knew about the New York Times.

  “I’m going to go check our coats,” Raf said.

  “I’ll grab us some drinks.” I held out my hand as if we were in a sports huddle, and he put his on top of mine.

  “Break!” we said. I turned back to the crowd.

  An official photographer loped from group to group, snapping pictures, while some members of the press chatted with the luminaries. I looked for Miles but didn’t see him. Probably better if he didn’t show up. Whenever Miles and I had been in the same room together at Quill, we were connected by an invisible string. I was always aware of his presence, tugging quietly at me, even as I did whatever else I needed to do. If he came to the gala, I would have to acknowledge that I knew him—after all, we had a proven track record of working together at Quill—but not let on anything about our continued acquaintance. Tonight, I needed to assure my invitation to the inner circle, not get all distracted by whether or not Miles was looking at me. Still, I longed for him to see me in this dress.

  I wandered into the fray as a jazz trio played standards in the corner and waiters walked around offering bacon-wrapped dates. There, waiting for cocktails at the bar, were Caroline and Libby, smiling at each other.

  “It’s only my second East Coast autumn,” Libby was saying to Caroline as I made my way toward them, “and it’s truly blowing my mind. Like, I just want to leaf-peep all day long?”

  “That’s adorable,” Caroline said, putting her hand on her heart, looking at Libby like she was a loyal puppy. “And correct. Autumn is the best season.”

  “Yeah, summer can go fuck itself with a butternut squash,” I said.

  Caroline blinked. “Jillian. Hi.”

  Libby squealed and threw her arms around me. “You look gorgeous! So retro.” She looked pretty herself, pink-cheeked, in a gold-sequined dress that showed off her curves. Caroline, meanwhile, wore an ivory dress with a feathered bottom (like a bride, marrying her nonprofit), and a diamond necklace that managed to convey that, while she was very rich, she wasn’t the kind of woman to spend all of her money on luxuries when she could use some of it to save the world. Her eyes darted around the gala as if she were running through the world’s longest to-do list in her head, checking things off in record time.

  “You’ve done a beautiful job,” I said to Caroline. “I mean, I know the night has barely started, but already I’m impressed.”

  “I had a lot of help from Libby in pulling everything together this week,” Caroline said.

  “Oh, it was my pleasure,” Libby said. “Seriously so fun. I felt like I was in The Devil Wears Prada, but with a nice boss!”

  “Exciting day all around,” I said. “A gala, some interesting stories in the New York Times—”

  Caroline’s eyes landed on a server with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Excuse me.” She marched off toward him. “Are those mushroom tarts? No, the senator is allergic!”

  As Caroline continued to lecture the waiter while greeting whichever important new arrivals came her way, Libby glanced around, then said, almost shyly, “I wanted to tell you . . . Keep this between us for now, please. But I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said at our sleepover, about your mother and how much you wished you could still talk to her. And so . . .” She blew out a breath and then said, in a rush, “I called my mom last night.”

  “Holy shit,” I said. “How did it go?”

  “Oh,” she said, her eyes growing a little red, “we talked for two hours straight and then I agreed to go home for Thanksgiving. She even said she was going to work on my dad to convince him to stop by at some point. Which I have more mixed feelings about, and he probably won’t even come, but it’s sweet anyway.”

  “I’m really happy for you,” I said, and I was, even if I did feel a tingling in my throat—treacherous, jealous tears—as she glowed, lit up from within like a jack-o’-lantern, very on theme for this gala’s autumnal decor.

  “We’ll just have to watch a lot of movies and not discuss anything political. But it’ll be nice, I think.” She cut herself off, looking at me. “Oh, I am being so insensitive. Do you have a place to go for Thanksgiving?”

  “I . . .” I hesitated.

  “I’m sure Raf will want you to go home with him, but if for whatever reason that doesn’t work out, you should come with me.”

  “
You don’t have to say that.”

  “I mean it! I know how hard it is not to have a place to go. And besides, it’ll be fun. We’re going to stuff you full of so much good food, and my mom will have to be extra nice to me because we have a guest. So, win-win.” She beamed. “I’ve got your back, you’ve got mine!”

  “Thanks, I’ll think about it,” I said, the tingling in my throat intensifying. How dare she be so thoughtful, to offer a solution to something I didn’t even realize I’d been worrying about? I grabbed two glasses of champagne, taking a large swig out of one. “I should go find Raf.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I found him, all right, in the middle of a conversation with Miles—the two of them in their tuxedos angled toward each other, beanpole Raf nearly half a head taller than distinguished Miles. Neither one of them was entirely relaxed in this upscale scene. Or maybe something else was causing the tension in their bodies.

  Raf turned toward me as I approached, and I watched Miles watch Raf watch me. And then Miles turned and saw me for himself. His eyes traveled over my body, and it got very warm in the event hall.

  “Um, hi, guys,” I said.

  “Ah, Jillian,” Miles said, and casually shook my hand, although he squeezed my fingers before letting go of them. He held a half-empty scotch in his other hand. “I was just introducing myself to your celebrity chef, hoping to get a quote or two from him on why he’s attending this gala. What do you say, Mr. Morales?” He pulled a voice recorder out of his pocket and held it up to Raf’s mouth. “Any thoughts on the patriarchal underpinnings that prevent women from reaching true representational parity?”

  Raf flushed, uncomfortable. “Oh, um, I don’t need to—”

  “You know why he’s here, Miles,” I said, and put my arm around Raf’s waist, handing him my extra glass of champagne. “Because he is a wonderful, supportive boyfriend.”

  “Right, right, of course.” Miles took another sip of his drink. “You two make a beautiful couple.” He lowered his voice and continued, in a sardonic tone, “Very convincing. I would never have guessed that you’re not actually into each other.”