“Stella, I can’t—”
“Nope,” she said. “Just one night. I’m forcing you not to be lame for just one night. Don’t be such a baby, Violet. Get your ass in a cab.”
“You talking about me?” Jamie said, after I hung up.
“Will you come to this party with me?” I said, before I could think better of it.
The party was at the Boom Boom Room, at the top of the Standard Hotel.
“The what?” Jamie said, as we rode the E train downtown, swaying back and forth from the rhythm of the tracks. “That’s really what it’s called?”
Stella may not have known the difference between Sunni and Shia, or Myanmar and Mozambique, but she did possess a specific and potent kind of vocabulary: the name of every chic restaurant and club and boutique and designer on the island of Manhattan. She always assumed I knew what she was talking about, because it was unthinkable not to know these things. What is New York if not the places where the wealthy and beautiful go to exercise their wealth and beauty? Her mental map of the city must have been a funny thing. Clusters of bright pinpoints in SoHo and the West Village and Chelsea, a few along Madison Avenue on the Upper East Side. The rest of the island just darkness. Although we had been sleeping under the same roof since January, Stella and I lived in virtually different cities.
“I’ve never been,” I said. “But she’s there all the time.”
“It’s kind of a ridiculous name,” Jamie said.
“Well, she’s kind of a ridiculous person.”
“She works in fashion?”
“Part time, a few days a week. She’s what you might call a lady of leisure.”
We walked west down Thirteenth Street toward the Standard. It was a Thursday night, which meant the neighborhood was thrumming. The lobby was packed with people waiting for the elevator to the rooftop club. “Wow,” Jamie said. “Doesn’t anyone have work tomorrow?”
“We do. And we’re here. We’re guests of Stella Bradley,” I said to the woman with the clipboard, who crossed off our names and gestured us into the elevator.
At the top of the elevator, a mirrored and carpeted hallway led to the club. I stood on my toes, trying to catch a glimpse of Stella. A gorgeous redhead in a tight white dress appeared next to Jamie and me, holding a silver tray with glass flutes. “Champagne?” she said, towering in her stilettos. She smiled and laid a manicured hand on Jamie’s arm.
I shook my head. Who knew what a drink at this place cost? Payday was eight days away, and I had to make the seventy dollars in my bank account last until then.
“Okay,” Jamie said, watching the woman walk away. “I get it.”
“You know, they’re paying her a lot of money to flirt with you. It’s her job.”
Jamie looked around, taking in the dramatic golden-lit pillar behind the bar, the shimmering ceiling, the view of the skyline. “Should we try and find your roommate?” he said.
Pushing through the crowds, I savored the sound of that phrase. My roommate. I was always the nameless friend, never the other way around. Jamie knew very little about Stella. I rarely talked about her. This suddenly struck me as a terrible idea. Why on earth had I invited Jamie? So that he could see us side by side, and realize how superior Stella was?
“I always thought that was a cliché,” Jamie said.
“What?”
He pointed at two girls dancing on the bar. “I thought that only happened in the movies,” he said, a look of innocent awe on his face. In this particular slice of the world, he was Dante and I was his Virgil. The two girls on the bar were teetering in their high heels, grinding to some smash hit from the past decade. One was a brunette, the other a blonde. I squinted and said, “Shit. That’s Stella.”
“That’s your roommate?” Jamie yelped.
“Please try to contain yourself. Stella!” I called, waving at her.
“Violet!” she shouted. She hopped down from the bar and squeezed through the crowd. Her hug smelled like cigarettes and perfume and mint. “And you’re Jamie,” she said, grabbing his hands and kissing him on both cheeks. I relaxed, a little. Of course they would get along. Stella could charm anyone when she felt like it. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Really?” he said.
“You both need drinks. Excuse me?” Stella said, waving down another white-dressed waitress. She plucked two glasses from the tray and passed them to us.
“We don’t have to pay for these?” I said, holding the drink hesitantly by the stem.
She laughed. “Of course not.”
Stella tossed her hair over her shoulders. Her dress was stiff and boxy and asymmetrical, interesting rather than beautiful. That was what her boss, a young fashion designer, was known for. His work was experimental and not remotely flattering, and therefore it was only feasible to wear his clothing if you were already thin and gorgeous.
“What’s this party for?” Jamie asked.
“An after-party,” Stella said. “We had our show tonight.”
“Show?” he said.
“It’s Fashion Week.” She arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t know that? I am so ready for this week to be over. It’s been endless.”
“It seems like really hard work,” Jamie said, smiling.
“It is!” Stella said, sailing past the sarcasm. “You try pulling off a runway show when half the designs aren’t even finished by the night before. And looking good on no sleep.” She drained her glass, handed it to another passing waitress. “Anyways. We might as well have some fun.” She draped her arm around my shoulders, considerably taller than me in her high heels. “Violet was so much fun in college,” she said to Jamie. “You should have seen her freshman year. She was wild.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” I said.
“I know how it looks now. She probably seems so professional. So put together. But back in the day, oh my God.” Stella laughed. “Straight out of the Everglades. Barely civilized.”
“Stell, come on,” I said.
“Is she like this with you, too, Jamie?” She tilted her head, faux innocent. “She’d never tell me anything about home. She never wants to talk about it. So mysterious, right?”
My mind flashed through a carousel of images, any one of which Stella might choose to conjure. The obvious candidates were the embarrassing moments, drinking too much, fumbling encounters with boys. But I hadn’t accounted for the times, again and again, when I dodged her questions about home. I thought my evasions were clever. I thought, on some level, that Stella wasn’t really listening.
But she was always listening, even when it didn’t appear that way. Tucking away that knowledge for future use. There was a greedy, excited sparkle in her eye.
“I don’t blame her,” Jamie said. “You get old enough and you start to realize that no one really cares where you’re from.”
Stella looked annoyed. “That is not remotely true,” she said. Then she smiled, reassuming her power. “So this one time, freshman year, we went to this party and—”
“Jesus, is this a roast?” I snapped. “Did I miss the memo?”
Stella laughed and kissed me on the cheek, leaving a sticky press of lipstick. “So sensitive. You’ve gotten so boring, Violet. Is she like this at work, too?”
“Actually,” Jamie said, “Violet’s kind of a big deal these days.”
Stella laughed. “Oh, really? Pray tell.”
But Jamie ignored her tone. “You’re looking at Frontline’s newest associate producer,” he said. He was smiling at me, pleased and proud.
My stomach churned. Stop, I thought, please stop. Didn’t Jamie see the look on Stella’s face? This wasn’t my role in our relationship. She could only stand the spotlight being on someone else if that spotlight was unflattering.
“She was just promoted tonight,” Jamie continued. “Youngest AP in KCN history.”
“Huh,” Stella said, turning to me and arching an eyebrow. “So this means, what? No more getting people coffee? Because that’
s basically what your job has been, right?”
Sometimes it frightened me, how perceptive she was. She knew precisely where a person’s vulnerabilities lay hidden. She knew exactly where to angle her knife, for maximum pain. Maybe I loved Stella because she was the opposite of everything I’d grown up with. Or maybe I loved her because she was, at some level, just like my parents. More likely to mock me than believe in me. Moments like this, I thought, Either she’s an asshole or she’s right, and the world sure doesn’t treat Stella Bradley like she’s an asshole.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I said.
“You’re single, right?” Stella said to Jamie, looping her arm through his. “Come on. There are some models you should meet.”
Half an hour later, my dignity somewhat restored by hiding in the bathroom and responding to e-mails on my phone, I pushed back through the crowd in search of Jamie. But Stella appeared at my side and grabbed my arm.
“There you are,” she said. “Where have you been?”
“I’ve been here this whole time,” I said. “You just haven’t noticed.”
She put her hands on her hips. “It’s because of what I said about the coffee, isn’t it? But that’s what you always say, Violet! You’ve complained about the coffee, like, a hundred times.” Stella laughed. “You’re always saying how, what do you call it, underutilized you are.”
“I know,” I said, although the sting was still there. “It’s fine.”
“Violet!” She squeezed my hand. “I was just kidding. Of course I’m happy for you! Duh. What kind of friend would I be if I weren’t?” She took the glass from my hand and sipped. Then she made a face. “Is this club soda? Are you sober right now?”
“More or less,” I said.
“But we need to celebrate. And these places suck unless you’re drunk!” She dragged us to the bar and ordered a pair of tequila shots. “Cheers,” she said, clinking her glass against mine.
As Stella was about to order a second round, a colleague asked her to say hello to some VIP from Vogue. “I’ll find you later!” she shouted. I finally spotted Jamie in the corner, chatting with an older woman. She had cropped gray hair and purple-framed glasses and a black kimono. When I waved at him, he smiled. Jamie and the woman shook hands, and Jamie gave a slight bow as he stepped away.
“Did you just bow to her?” I said, after he came over.
“I don’t know,” he said. “These parties are confusing, okay?”
“Who is she?”
“Kind of famous, I think. I didn’t catch her name. But she’s a designer. She was friends with Andy Warhol, once upon a time.”
I laughed.
“What?” Jamie said.
“Nothing,” I said. “I just love that at this party, with a room full of models, you wind up talking to the only octogenarian.”
He smiled. “She’s the most interesting person here. Present company excluded.”
Outside the hotel, we were greeted by a cool September night. Even though it was past 2 a.m., I felt awake and alert, and strangely relieved. My two worlds had collided, and it wasn’t that bad. I took a deep, satisfied breath.
“Walk with me for a little while?” I said. “It’s such a nice night.”
As we made our way east, after a long silence, Jamie said, “So that was Stella.”
“That was Stella.”
“She’s something, isn’t she?”
“That depends on what the meaning of something is.”
“Ha ha, Bill Clinton.” He elbowed me. “Is she always like that? She’s so on.”
“She loves an audience,” I said. “Especially a brand-new audience. You don’t know her tricks. And you’re not her friend yet. So she’ll try harder to impress you.”
“But why does she care what I think?”
“Okay, it’s like this. One time in college she was worrying about her new haircut. I told her it looked great, which it did, by the way. But she didn’t care. She said, ‘Your opinion doesn’t mean anything to me, Violet. Of course you think it looks good. You love me.’”
“Ah,” Jamie said.
“But the upside,” I said, “is that, when you get to know her, she stops trying to impress you. Because what’s the point? And then she’s a lot more fun to be around.”
After another stretch of silence, Jamie said, “Know who she reminds me of? Rebecca.”
“Rebecca Carter?”
“It’s that energy. Rebecca’s more polished now, but she wasn’t always like that.”
“Are we talking about the same Rebecca Carter? The one who once dodged bullets in Sierra Leone?”
“You’d be surprised. You drop Stella Bradley into a war zone, I bet she does pretty well.”
It seemed like an absurd thought, on its face. Stella, a journalist?
“Her ego is already big enough. Don’t ever tell her that.” I was laughing like it was a joke. But then why did I feel a distinct ping of panic, somewhere deep in my brain?
I promised Jamie a nightcap in exchange for walking me home. Upstairs, I studied the contents of our liquor cabinet and called into the other room, “Any preferences?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he said.
When I carried two glasses of wine into the living room, Jamie was studying the photographs on the mantelpiece. Like the rest of the décor, these were selected by Anne. She’d included a few photos of me and Stella from college, but mostly the images were of the Bradley family. Jamie squinted at a towheaded Stella, aged three or four, her arms wrapped around the family’s old golden retriever. “Cute kid,” he said.
“Do you want to sit?” I said, nodding at the couch.
After we sat down, Jamie lifted his wineglass, the red liquid remaining level as his glass tilted toward mine. “To your promotion,” he said.
“God,” I said. “I’d almost forgotten.”
“It’s been a long night.”
I set my glass on the coffee table. “Thank you for coming with me,” I said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Are you kidding? And miss a chance to see the famous Boom Boom Room?”
Jamie set his wineglass down, too. He shifted, angling his body toward me. His knee brushed against mine. “Although it is kind of nice,” he said. “Just the two of us.”
“Oh,” I said. Suddenly seeing what was happening.
Jamie leaned in, his face growing more detailed. His freckles, his unkempt eyebrows. As he kissed me, his hand cupped the back of my head. It was gentle but deliberate, as if to show he’d been thinking about this for a long time.
It’s not that the kiss wasn’t nice. It’s not that I hadn’t occasionally considered it, given how close we’d become. But in that brief moment, his hair smelling like the cold outdoors, his lips tasting faintly of red wine, the kiss was just a kiss. Nothing more. No spark of chemistry, no jolt of excitement. An ending, rather than a beginning.
After a second, Jamie sat back. “Too fast?” he said.
I shook my head, stared at my lap. Looking him in the eye felt cruel.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, God, Violet, I’m so sorry. Did I totally misread the situation?”
“I’m not good at this stuff,” I said.
Jamie took his hand off my knee. I wanted to be honest, but how? Because the real truth blaring through my mind, the real calculation underneath, was your career is more important than this. At best, being with Jamie would be a distraction. At worst, it would fuck everything up.
“I mean,” I continued, staring at my hands, as if the answer lay there. “We work together. And you’re one of my best friends. I’d have no clue how to navigate that.”
When I finally looked up, Jamie was shaking his head and smiling. “You’re right,” he said, a note of palpable relief in his voice. “You’re completely right. This is ironic. I always suspected you were too smart for me, and this proves it.”
“So we’re okay, then?”
“Of course,” he said.
; I didn’t really have to ask. Jamie was an awful liar, and if he had been upset or embarrassed, it would have been obvious.
“Good,” I said. “Because I mean it. About being one of my best friends.”
After we said good night—Jamie texted me a simple “thank-you” from his cab—I felt a stinging flash of loss. The knowledge of what I’d just given up, of the door I had just closed. There would have been simple ways to navigate the conflict. We could tell HR. One of us could transfer to another show.
But that would mean putting my ambition second. I wanted to succeed, to prove that I could do this. I wanted that more badly than I’d ever wanted anything. The world is shaped by powerful forces—politics, finance, media—from which most people live distantly, feeling the ripple effects but never understanding the origin. In the past year, I had finally crossed a crucial threshold. I was standing on the side of actor, not acted-upon. I sensed myself getting stronger, sharper, better. But I also sensed how desire fed on itself. It ballooned inside of me, until it squeezed out room for anything else. Sometimes I wondered whether it was deforming me.
But maybe that was backwards. Maybe you had to be deformed in the first place to be capable of such blistering want. Things weren’t getting pushed out. It was that there’d never been anything else in there. Just a void, waiting to be filled.
Chapter Seven
on a saturday night in late October, Anne and Thomas had a party to celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Anne didn’t like birthdays—“They make me feel so old,” she said, wrinkling her nose—but she did like throwing big parties. For this one, they spared no expense: they rented out the Rainbow Room, hired a twenty-piece band, and invited a hundred friends.
Stella and I were in a cab crawling north along Sixth Avenue. It would have been faster to take the subway, but after ten months of living in New York, Stella no longer believed in taking the subway. It wasn’t for her, she said, with the same dismissive conviction that her mother took toward birthdays.
“I can’t believe this is my Saturday night,” Stella said. She kept rolling the window up and down, over and over. It was raining, and I could see the cab driver flinching every time she did it.
Necessary People Page 10
