On the night of Rebecca’s holiday party, a Saturday in December, Jamie texted to see if I wanted to head uptown together.
Sorry, no can do, I wrote back. Having a wardrobe emergency. Original, right?
Sounds dire. Want company and/or help? he wrote.
Sure, I wrote, then gave him the address and told the doorman to let him up.
My wardrobe could stretch through a workweek. Cotton dresses that didn’t require dry cleaning, layered with cardigans and tights in cold weather, scarves and accessories from thrift stores. But the invitation to the party had said “Dress Code: Festive” and there was nothing in my closet that came close to festive. I could show up in one of my Monday-to-Friday dresses, put on some red lipstick and dangly earrings, and that would be fine. But was it a crime that I wanted to feel pretty? This was another TV trick. You dress for the role. The outfit is part of the story. When Rebecca was interviewing strongman dictators, she wore tailored black suits. After a natural disaster, she was in khakis and field vests. With a teary-eyed widow, she wore pastels in soft textures. Tonight, I didn’t want to look like my regular self. I wanted to look like the person I was becoming.
In college, Stella let me borrow clothes, but only on her terms—these were her things, and she hated it when I didn’t ask in advance. There was no time for that now. If I texted her, how likely was she to respond? So I selected several options from her closet and laid them on the bed. Rich silks and velvets in jewel tones and elegant blacks, infinitely more beautiful than anything I owned. There was a plum-colored wrap dress with a subtle gold pattern that fit me well. In Stella’s en suite bathroom, I cranked up the shower and hung the dress from the rod to steam loose the wrinkles. I was considering her array of shoes and jewelry, humming to myself, when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Fuck!” I said, jumping several inches.
Jamie raised his hands in apology. The shower had covered his footsteps. “Just your friendly neighborhood wardrobe consultant,” he said. “This is what you’re going with?”
I glanced down at my leggings and T-shirt. “Yes, Einstein,” I said.
“Is this your room?”
“My roommate. I’m raiding her closet.”
“That’s nice of her.” Jamie stuck his head in the closet. “Is she rich?”
I laughed. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve been in enough dressing rooms to know how much those cost.” He pointed at a pair of high heels with signature red soles. “More than any normal person can afford.”
“She is rich,” I said. “But I’m guessing the apartment tipped you off already.”
He smiled. “I like to give the benefit of the doubt.”
“I need another ten minutes,” I said. “There’s wine in the kitchen, if you want.”
The bathroom was steamy from the shower. I rubbed clear a circle in the fogged mirror and examined my reflection. The dress looked good on me. The wrap accentuated my waist, and the neckline plunged to just the right point, highlighted by the delicate gold necklace I’d found in Stella’s closet. I slipped into a pair of her nude pumps, and spritzed on her perfume for good measure. I felt like an entirely different person. I felt confident and attractive—and, at the same time, ashamed of my own vanity. Wasn’t it worrying, how much I’d grown to like these trappings? The clothing, the jewelry, the fancy parties?
Jamie was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, a glass of wine in one hand and his phone in the other. Until this moment Jamie had only existed in the office, or extensions of the office. It was jarring—strangely and suddenly intimate, like his life had superimposed itself over mine. Jamie was, I realized, the only person I’d ever brought into the apartment.
He glanced up from his phone. “Looks good,” he said, giving me a thumbs-up, with no special affection. I felt a private relief: he’d come over as my friend, nothing more.
The elevator opened into the foyer of Rebecca’s apartment. It was a small room with colorful wallpaper, a gilt-edged mirror, an umbrella stand, a table holding a miniature Christmas tree. Through the front door I saw a much larger Christmas tree in the living room. It had to be at least ten feet fall.
The party was in full swing. There was a jazz trio, waiters with hors d’oeuvres on silver trays, a crowd at the bar. The living room was a long rectangle, with windows facing south toward the Midtown skyline. The décor was tasteful, the art expensive-looking. Everyone was dressed up and sipping carefully, mindful of the carpets and furniture, not yet buzzed enough to forget that this was the boss’s apartment.
The party had self-segregated by occupation. The camera guys and editors were over by the couches; the ladies from hair and makeup were laughing by the bar; the writers were huddled in a serious-looking conversation. Even the producers broke down into distinct groupings: the live producers, who tended to be extroverted and chatty; the field producers, who were adrenaline junkies with intricate war stories; and the tape producers, who had a hard streak of independence. The assistants were scattered throughout the party, identifiable by their timidity. By rights I should have been with them, but instead I stuck with Jamie.
Beneath the ornamented tree was a pile of wrapped boxes and gift bags. “Remind me what she got you last year?” I said.
“A first edition of The Sound and the Fury.”
I rolled my eyes. “Is that really your favorite book?”
“No,” he said, grinning. “But Light in August is.”
“Are you trying to impress me? Because it’s not working.”
“Liking Faulkner is a requirement if you’re from the South.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Ironic, huh?” Jamie tilted his head. “Violet Trapp, always rejecting her roots. But isn’t Faulkner the one who said that the past isn’t dead, it isn’t even—”
“Hey, look at that!” I said, as a waiter walked by with a tray of pigs in a blanket. “Excuse me, sir? Could we please try those?”
“Nice save,” Jamie said.
“Can’t talk,” I mumbled through the crumbs. “Mouth full.”
A while later, I was ordering a drink at the bar when Rebecca appeared next to me. She was dressed like an off-duty Jackie Kennedy or Audrey Hepburn, barefoot in slim black pants and an oversized white sweater, hair pulled back in a bun. It was a power move. In a room of people wearing their best dresses and high heels, suits and ties, Rebecca’s unadorned beauty stood out.
“Your first holiday party,” she said, squeezing my arm. “Are you having a good time?”
“Yes! Thank you. Your apartment is beautiful.”
“I can’t bring myself to care about interior decorating. Eric did most of it. Where is he?” Rebecca started scanning the room, but then she stopped and frowned. “I hate the jazz trio. I truly hate them. We’ve hired them five years in a row, mostly out of pity. I think they’re getting worse. Do you like jazz?”
“I…I don’t really know.”
“Eric is always dragging me to these awful places in the West Village. He loves it and I have no idea why. Where is he?” She stood on her tiptoes, which wasn’t much help for a petite woman in a room full of high heels. “Eric! Come here.”
The man who appeared from the crowd was tall and lanky, with thick dark hair and matching eyebrows. Eric was a novelist, a literary man-about-town, often appearing on panels and giving talks at the 92nd Street Y. He and Rebecca had met as undergrads at Harvard and had been together ever since.
“This is Violet,” Rebecca said. “She’s new. She’s a star.”
I felt a flush of pride, an electric sense of self-possession. Although, just as quickly, it faded: Rebecca probably said this to everyone. Compliments were cheap. Why not toss a few bread crumbs from your balcony? Rebecca liked the reciprocal adoration that came with making other people feel good.
“Lovely to meet you, Violet,” Eric said, shaking my hand.
Rebecca touched my arm. “Excuse me. See that guy? He’s in charge of our budget for next
year and he needs a little sweet-talking.”
Across the apartment, one of the KCN executives was about to leave when Rebecca blocked him from the door, prying his coat away and handing him a freshly procured drink. He obeyed, looking nervous, as she pushed him into a quiet corner of the dining room.
“The poor man,” Eric said. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”
I nodded, confused, and made some general noise of agreement.
“Apparently your corporate overlords want to keep a tighter leash on travel expenses,” Eric said. “But it’s hard to say no to Rebecca Carter. You must know that by now.”
“She’s very talented,” I said. “Well, obviously, yes, I don’t need to be telling you that. I meant—”
“They really ought to give them training,” Eric continued, ignoring me. “The way the CIA trains their officers to resist interrogation. Those poor men need some mental toughness. Otherwise it’s not a fair fight. She’ll get her way, and he’ll run tuck-tail back to the fortieth floor. Then they’ll have to fire him, and hire someone new. On and on the orchestra plays.”
“Um,” I said. “Yeah.”
We struggled through small talk for several minutes. I kept thinking Eric would find an excuse to end this painful conversation—didn’t he have other people he wanted to talk to? Finally, as a last resort, I said, “I read your piece in the Times last week. It was great. I thought it was such a brave stand to take.”
He smiled. No, he beamed. The op-ed had been completely forgettable. An argument for preserving the freedom of the novelist, as if there was some campaign being waged against it. But it worked. Eric lit up as he told me about the high-minded reason he had written it. Then, with growing animation, he started on the rumors and gossip of the literary world. By the time I finished my drink, Eric was laughing so hard he was wiping tears from his eyes. Rebecca returned, raising an eyebrow. “Are we having fun?” she said.
“Oh, Becky, this one’s a keeper,” Eric said, as if I was the source of his uproarious laughter for the last twenty minutes.
“Right,” she said. “I’m just going to borrow her for a minute, okay?”
Rebecca steered me toward the bar. “You’re a trouper,” she said. “Thanks for babysitting him. Pretty dress, by the way.”
“It wasn’t—he was so nice, it just—”
“Of course. He’s wonderful. I do love that man. But Jesus, can he talk. Have you read any of his books?”
“Well…no.” My cheeks reddened.
“Most people your age haven’t. He’s a little, let’s say, vintage. Had his only big hit over fifteen years ago. But his is the kind of business where you can dine out on one hit for a long time.” She laughed. “If only we had it so easy, right? We have to reinvent the wheel every single goddamn night.” Rebecca clinked her glass against mine. “Enjoy the rest of the party, Violet.”
Jamie and Eliza were across the room, near the windows. “I see you met Eric,” Eliza said. Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “And you’re still standing?”
“Remember last year?” Jamie said. “When he buttonholed that assistant?”
“His mistake,” Eliza said. “That kid should have known better.”
“What happened?” I said.
“He told Eric that realism in the novel was dead,” Jamie said. “Whatever that means.”
“And Eric spent the rest of the party jabbing his finger into this kid’s chest, telling him that unless you’ve actually done it yourself, you don’t get to comment upon the form.” Eliza smirked. “That’s what he said, right? Comment upon the form.”
Jamie rolled his eyes. “Which is rich, because you know who considers himself the real executive producer of Rebecca’s show?”
“It’s like clockwork,” Eliza said. “We do a segment on the latest celebrity divorce and within thirty seconds, he’s e-mailed Rebecca and copied me. Eric likes to remind his wife that this tawdry stuff is beneath her dignity. That she should overrule her producers. Because Rebecca is in charge of her own show, not me.”
“Wow,” I said.
Eliza laughed. “Have you seen this apartment? That Brioni suit he was wearing? Like he doesn’t love the life that Rebecca’s ratings pay for.”
It was 1 a.m. by the time the party died down. When a subway finally arrived at the Lexington Avenue station, it was nearly deserted. Jamie, who was splitting a cab back to Park Slope with a colleague, was worried about me getting home by myself.
“I’m a big girl,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
“But you’re still new around here,” he said. “Text me when you get home.”
On rare days when it was relatively quiet at work, Jamie and I would take our lunch break together. Him with a plastic container of salad, me with my packed Tupperware, sitting outside if the weather was good. Jamie took to removing his watch and laying it between us. Otherwise, talking and talking, it was easy to lose track of time. We’d come back inside, eyes readjusting after the noontime glare, and I’d feel refreshed and happy. But then Jamie would run into Eliza, or Rebecca. My happiness looked like a cheap imitation compared to what Jamie had with them. A different depth. A sense of trust.
Jamie had stopped asking me directly about my childhood. He saw that it made me uneasy. Instead, during one of our lunches that fall, he described the family vacations they’d taken to Florida. It was a clever technique, a way of drawing me out.
“My brother was fifteen and I was thirteen,” he said, shaking his container to disperse the salad dressing. “My parents let us wander Ocean Drive by ourselves. My brother convinced some older girls to buy beer for us. You know what they got us? A six-pack of O’Doul’s.” He laughed. “We didn’t know any better. And the weird thing is, I actually felt drunk. We lay on the beach and talked for hours. It was so much fun.”
He had a dreamy look in his eyes. The place he remembered was the Florida of ultramarine Miami skies, candy-colored midcentury architecture, forests of sleek glass condos. Palm trees and fast speedboats and mouth-puckering ceviche. As Jamie kept talking, I had a dizzying, vertiginous realization: he thought that this was common ground. He thought we had the same picture in our minds.
But I had only seen pictures of places like Miami. I grew up in a shitty town that could have been Anywhere, America. The beach wasn’t a factor. The beach was for rich people, or nice families who took vacations. And the one time we attempted a family vacation, I could tell there was something weird about this beach. On the Gulf side, there were no crashing waves or cool breezes. Just a flat blank canvas of gray-greenish water, stretching into the void. Water that had gone limp and surrendered to the heat, overtaken by the creeping, ticking life of the state. Mosquitoes thickened the air. Stingrays clustered in the shallows. The day was a bug-bitten, sunburned disaster. “I was trying to do something nice,” my mother snapped, slamming the trunk after we packed the car up. My father laughed. He was good at drinking just enough to ignore her moods, but not so much that he couldn’t drive home. “Nice costs money,” he said. As he turned the key in the ignition, he caught my eye in the mirror. “How ’bout you, girlie? You got any money?” My mother snorted. Laughing at me always made her feel better.
I couldn’t blame Jamie for not understanding. I hadn’t told him anything about it. Most of the time, it didn’t matter. We were in New York, we worked in television news, and life was crazy enough that we had plenty to talk about. It was comforting to think how childhood shrank in the rearview mirror of time. That proportion of my life, that giant black hole, would only get smaller and smaller.
As Rebecca’s party had worn on, it had segregated itself in a different way: not just by occupation, but by tenure. The old hands, like Jamie and Eliza, kept to themselves. They had different things to talk about. They had seen it all before. I found them so much more interesting than the interns and assistants. When Eliza and Jamie told war stories, their laughter was sanguine. Problems diminished in the long view. Experience could be a breakwater against se
asonal storms.
I wanted that. I wanted nostalgic stories in common with Jamie and Eliza, a shared history. Recently Jamie had taught me the phrase “salad days.” At first, stupidly, I thought it was a reference to what he ate for lunch. Then he clarified: it meant his earliest years of naive inexperience. “But you seemed to skip those,” he said, one day. “How’d you get to be such an old soul?”
Practice, I thought. Years spent with the Bradley family, observing their refined art of omission. In good Wasp fashion, they never dwelled on the bad parts. It worked for them, and I figured it could work for me. But that answer was too depressing, so instead I shrugged and said, “No TV or internet in our house. Only the radio. I grew up like it was the 1940s.”
Jamie laughed. Clever enough, and it threw him off the scent. See, I could be like other people. I could toss out occasional filigreed details from the past. And this detail happened to be true. I didn’t have to explain that my mother shoved our TV to the floor during an argument with my father and it never got replaced. That our internet was cut off after the bills went unpaid.
“Violet,” a voice said. And then louder, “Violet.” I thought I had dreamed it, but when I opened my eyes, the voice was in the room. A hand on my shoulder. A draft of air from the open bedroom door.
“Jamie?” I said. Because I realized, half awake, that I’d forgotten to text him the night before. Illogically, I thought maybe he’d gotten worried and came to check on me.
“Who the fuck is Jamie?”
I rolled over. She was standing in the doorway, backlit by a brilliant ray of sunshine from the living room. Heeled leather boots, skinny black jeans, oversize cashmere hoodie, and blond hair piled into a messy bun. “Oh,” I said. “Stella!”
“Surprise,” she said, flatly. She was oddly stiff when I stood up and hugged her.
“When did you get in?” I said. “Just now?”
“A little while ago.”
“What is it?” I said. “Is everything okay?”
Necessary People Page 6
