A Very Good Life

by Lynn Steward

  She reversed direction and walked past Bea’s office, noticing that the door was slightly ajar. She turned around and decided to wait outside Bea’s inner sanctum to make sure Helen wouldn’t slip out unnoticed. Heart pounding, she stood near the open door and heard Helen expressing dismay.

  “You know how I feel about having shoes in my department, Bea. Can’t you help me convince them to find somewhere else to put this Pappagallo shop? Shoes belong with shoes. It just doesn’t work for me. I don’t want to see them. Period.”

  There was clear exasperation in the junior buyer’s voice.

  “But it works for Ira and Dawn,” Bea responded calmly, “and they firmly believe in the merchandising potential for this young market. “Don’t quote me, but I heard Ira’s daughter will be working in the shop this summer. You gotta get on board, Helen. Think young. Think upbeat.” Her voice rose with sudden enthusiasm. “Think Biba!”

  “Bea, if I hear that name Biba one more time!” Helen interrupted.

  Bea ignored her. “The kids are all drinking espresso, and I’ll probably go down for a cup in the afternoon.”

  “What are you talking about?” Helen asked. “You’re going to—”

  “Helen,” Bea slowly responded, “Pappagallo stores have love seats and espresso machines. It’s that Southern hospitality. They were introduced in Atlanta. Anyway, we have no choice. Remember, Pappagallo is leasing the space.”

  There was a noticeable silence inside Bea’s office.

  “Breathe deeply, Helen,” Bea advised with a laugh. “You’re going to hyperventilate. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “Espresso machine?” Helen repeated. “Love seats? Taking up selling space. I’m not putting up with this. Fine. Then they’ll just have to give me a larger department. I’m not giving up without getting something in return.”

  Dana smiled. If Ira Neimark, the executive vice president and general merchandise manager of B. Altman, together with his hand-picked vice president and fashion director, Dawn Mello—Helen’s boss—were looking for ways to bring young people into the store, maybe the teen makeup department wasn’t a lost cause after all.

  Helen came flying out the office, brushing past Dana by mere inches as she talked to herself under her breath. “B. Altman will be out of business before Biba. It’s all totally absurd.” She took no notice of the young events coordinator.

  Dana moved forward and stood in the doorway. “You wanted to see me?” she asked.

  “Yes, Dana. Come in.”

  Bea Savino was a tiny but feisty Italian woman with snow white hair, a chain-smoker with a no-nonsense approach to life and business. Bea had married five years ago, at the age of forty, and had no children, but she felt compelled to give her adopted young staff reality therapy every chance she could, believing they were too influenced by the soft dress-for-success career articles in fashion magazines. With Dana, Bea’s mantra was “Toughen up, for God’s sake!” When Dana had been passed over for an assignment and complained to her boss, Bea merely said, “It’s the squeaky wheel that gets the grease, kiddo. I didn’t even know you were interested. Carol was in here every day, begging. Speak up, Dana.”

  Bea lit a cigarette, exhaled a plume of smoke, and laughed. “I think poor Helen is headed for a stroke. I saw you standing outside, so I know you heard our exchange. Ah well. She’ll get over it. She’s a tough old broad, God love her.” Bea shuffled some papers around her desk before finding the folder she was looking for. Her office was not a model of perfection and order, as were Helen’s and Dana’s.

  Dana cringed at the term “broad.” The expression seemed out of place on the sacrosanct fifth floor, but she merely took a deep breath and remembered that Bea didn’t mince words. She decided to pitch her idea despite Helen’s warning.

  “Bea, since Mr. Neimark and Ms. Mello are interested in the youth market, why can’t we go one step further than the Shop for Pappagallo and add a teen makeup section too? As I told Helen, Biba is pulling in a million customers a week.”

  Bea leaned back in her chair and took another puff of her cigarette.

  “You always tell me to speak up,” Dana said, her voice rising slightly as she shrugged her shoulders. “So . . . ?”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Bea conceded as she surveyed her cluttered desk, “but it’s not going to happen, at least not now. One step at a time. Let Helen adjust to the intrusion of Pappagallo first. It’s too much at once.”

  “But—”

  “Go whine to Bob. I know you two are thick as thieves. I asked you here to discuss something else.”

  Bob Campbell was the store’s vice president and general manager. He was Dana’s unofficial mentor, a fact that often irritated Bea to no end. It was she, not Bob, who was the young woman’s immediate boss.

  Dana clasped her hands behind her back, squeezing her right fist in frustration. Was she supposed to toughen up and be vocal or remain silent? Bea’s mixed messages could be infuriating. Dana was advocating the same teen strategy that the general merchandise manager and fashion director of the store apparently believed in, and she couldn’t help but think that she was being penalized for her youth. Or maybe it was because Helen might pitch a fit. Either way, Andrew had been right: Bea was a moveable feast.

  “Bob has chosen the winner for this year’s teen contest. You’ll announce the results next week at the Sugar Plum Ball. It’s a favor for a friend of Mr. Campbell. His friend’s daughter, Kim Sullivan, will be this year’s winner.” Bea sighed deeply and crushed her cigarette in a large glass ashtray on her desk. “Have a good weekend, Dana,” Bea said, summarily dismissing the figure standing before her.

  Dana was speechless. The contest involved getting the best and brightest teens to write essays, make brief speeches, and model clothes, and they were down to the five finalists. She’d run the contest for three years, but the idea that the contest was rigged this year—and by Bob Campbell of all people—left Dana dazed and temporarily unable to move. The Sugar Plum Ball was the annual December benefit for the Children’s Aid Society. The idea of committing fraud was bad enough, but she would also have to disappoint the girls who would be competing in good faith. Did such a prestigious charity event have to be marred by dishonesty?

  Bea looked up, glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Is anything the matter, Dana? You look positively pale.”

  “No. Everything’s fine.”

  Everything was most decidedly not fine. Dana had the ear of Bob Campbell, and she would use her access to the general manager to express how odious the idea seemed. One way or another, she’d find a way to avoid making the contest into a sham.

  Feeling manipulated, Dana turned and left Bea’s office. Her normally fair complexion was red with anger, and her breath came in quick, short bursts. She marched down to the Writing and Rest Room for Women, a beautifully carpeted room with chairs upholstered in blue velvet. The mahogany walls and soft lighting made this one of the most elaborate rest areas in any store, and Dana sometimes came here because of the quiet and repose it offered. Today the room was, not surprisingly, filled with shoppers taking a moment to compose themselves. She hurried to her office in the General Offices section of the fifth floor, retrieved her purse, and tried to calm down.

  Regaining her composure proved impossible, however. She took a deep breath and decided that she would have no peace for the rest of the day until she spoke with Bob Campbell. Bea must have been mistaken. Bob would never rig the yearly teen contest.

  Dana got up from her desk, hoping to get a few minutes with the general manager. She walked back to the executive suite, ready to make her case.

  Chapter Two

  Brett McGarry walked confidently into the offices of Davis, Konen and Wright on the thirty-seventh floor of 80 Broad Street. The address was in the heart of New York’s financial district, a suitable home for the powerhouse corporate law firm where Brett hoped to soon make partner. The imposing limestone edifice of the Art Deco building, with its many tie
rs of set-back facades, was near Battery Park, the Staten Island Ferry, the New York Stock Exchange, and other famous landmarks in lower Manhattan. Brett felt at ease in the financial district, and whenever he entered the area, he felt a spring in his step. This was where he belonged, and when it was time to have a drink with colleagues, he could walk to Fraunces Tavern, the Georgian-style building on nearby Pearl Street where General George Washington had bid the officers of the Continental Army a fond farewell at a dinner in his honor. On any given evening, one could find newsworthy faces at the tavern, and for Brett, scotch neat went down that much easier when at Fraunces.

  He turned the corner of one of the quiet corridors of the firm, hitting his stride. He had every reason to believe he was on the fast track to partnership, so the light snow and gray skies outside hadn’t dampened his spirit. On the contrary, he felt invigorated by the cold air, with gray skies matching the venerable gray buildings on Wall Street.

  It was Friday morning, and the offices were almost deserted on this day after Thanksgiving. He intended to pick up some files that he’d need the following day for a meeting with a client and then return to his home in Murray Hill. He could easily have gotten the folders on Saturday morning, but Brett loved being in his element. He’d therefore brought his beloved New York Times, as well as honey buns from Mary Elizabeth’s tea room—the combination was a ritual he was not going to forfeit on any day—in order to breathe in the odor of the corporate offices and take in their ambience. He would soon be a more integral part of the firm, and it gave him pleasure to walk through the halls and reflect on his accomplishments.

  At thirty, Brett was in decent shape, working out at least twice a week at the New York Athletic Club, although lately he’d doubled his workouts in order to keep excess pounds off and tone his muscles a bit more. At six feet tall, he felt that he had a commanding presence in the court room. Square shoulders, dark brown eyes, a powerful voice—he thought that he was not only a great lawyer, but looked the part as well. When it came to possible partnership status in this old-line firm, image mattered, and no one had understood the power of image better than his wife. Dana’s preference for fine tailored clothing and English fabrics served Brett well on a daily basis. Even as a first-year associate, he’d exhibited the understated, successful look of a senior partner.

  He was, therefore, always conscious of his appearance, and he frequently glanced sideways when passing a mirrored surface to make sure every hair was in place and that his tie had the perfect four-in-hand knot. Today, however, he was dressed casually in tan cords and a gray Shetland crewneck sweater. His brown hair was parted perfectly, and he couldn’t resist a quick look to his right as he passed an antique mirror hanging in the hallway that led to his office.

  “Good morning, Brett,” came a female voice from behind a secretary’s desk in the center of an office suite occupied by the firm’s litigators.

  Startled, Brett jerked his head forward. He had expected to find only the cleaning staff shuffling through the hallowed offices on this Friday morning. The voice belonged to Janice Conlon, the firm’s new junior litigator. Brett stopped in his tracks and surveyed the five-foot-ten leggy blond dressed in tight jeans and an even tighter turtleneck covered by a brown distressed suede jacket. Long straight hair splashed across her shoulders, and her deep blue eyes gazed at Brett above high angular cheekbones.

  “Good morning, Janice,” he said, recovering quickly from his vain sideways glance. “What brings you in this morning? I would expect you to be out Christmas shopping today.”

  “Shopping? My salary barely covers the rent, so my family and friends aren’t expecting gifts,” Janice replied glibly. “Besides, I can’t stand the crowds. Say, what’s all the fuss with these display windows?”

  Brett smiled at the question, common to residents who were not native to the city or not yet attuned to the sights and sounds of its many concrete arteries. “They’re a big New York attraction. Department stores spend the whole year working on them. They’re mini productions, complete with set designers.” Brett tilted his head while extending the thumb of his left hand, motioning to the city below that was now in full holiday mode. “You should get in the spirit of the season and take a look.”

  “What makes you such an expert?” Janice asked. “Next you’ll be telling me that you’re a department store Santa in your spare time.”

  Brett threw his head back and laughed. “My wife works for B. Altman.”

  “Who in the world is B. Altman?” asked Janice. “Should I recognize the name?”

  “It’s a store, not a person, although Benjamin Altman was indeed the founder,” Brett answered with a smile. “It’s one of the oldest and finest department stores in the city.” He was amused at Janice’s confusion over one of the city’s more well-known landmarks.

  Janice’s curiosity had been piqued. As a litigator, her natural inclination was to ask follow-up questions in order to garner information. “Then what fine thing does your wife do for this exemplary department store? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.” The last remark had been tendered as an innocent afterthought to offset her direct, prodding manner.

  “Something with special events,” Brett said. He’d come to expect Janice’s aggressive style, which had also been duly noted by others in the firm.

  “Something? Now that’s a rather vague job description.”

  “Public relations, too,” Brett said. “I believe she’s making sure that one of B. Altman’s windows has enough snow this morning.” In reality, he wasn’t at all sure what his wife was currently doing. “I guess you could say she wears many hats.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she wears quite a few,” Janice said.

  Brett’s smile faded as he looked at Janice. Her remark had been delivered with a lack of emotion, and he wasn’t quite sure whether it was a simple observation or an outright criticism.

  “Well, it all sounds very interesting,” Janice said with a plastic smile. “As long as she’s happy inside her window.”

  Janice was quite aware that Brett took notice of her barbed remarks, and yet he never outright objected to them, a fact that made her all the more curious about his relationship with Dana. She rather enjoyed pressing for information about the happy little couple. In fact, were they truly happy, or did they live in their own little professional worlds? Was it a marriage of social convenience? Janice was an astute observer, and she knew that Brett was hyper-focused on making partner. It would be the height of irony, she thought, if the appropriate Mrs. McGarry were mere window dressing for her ambitious husband.

  Brett had already dismissed Janice’s inquiries.

  “I just need to grab some papers,” he said, walking to the other side of the reception area. He was in high spirits, and Janice’s penchant for directness was not something he dwelled on. He entered his well-appointed office, sitting behind his desk in order to select the folders he needed from the corner inbox. Janice had held the bag of honey buns while Brett found his key, and she followed him inside, placing the pastry on his desk.

  Brett always disliked it when someone had a height advantage over him. He motioned for her to be seated, offering to share his honey buns, but she remained standing.

  “Anyway, why are you here?” he asked.

  “Same as you, I suppose,” she replied. “To pick up some papers for our meeting tomorrow with Jacob Heller over at 30 Rock. I’m always prepared, aren’t I?”

  Brett leaned back in his brown leather chair, took a deep breath, and surveyed the new litigator. He had to admit that, although she was a bit rough around the edges, she was proving to be an asset to the firm. Janice Conlon was from Akron, Ohio, later transplanted to the free-spirited, liberal culture of the West Coast. Now twenty-seven, she’d earned her bachelor’s degree in California before attending the Berkeley School of Law. She’d briefly worked for the firm of Drexel and Combs, where she proved herself to be an unflappable litigator, never intimidated by older and more experienced opposing
counsel. Richard Patterson, the managing partner of Davis, Konen and Wright, had met her on a business trip to Los Angeles, where an old friend from law school had assured him that Conlon was the quintessential shark despite her youth. She could be ruthless on cross-examination, and Patterson had reasoned that Janice was young enough to be groomed for his own firm’s purposes without sacrificing her formidable skills and cool demeanor under fire. Thus far, she had taken second chair in cases handled by Brett.

  “And this must be Dana,” Janice commented, picking up a framed picture of Brett’s wife from a library table in a sitting area on the opposite side of the office. She had, of course, seen Dana’s picture before, but always during business hours. “Matching coats,” she said as she eyed Dana’s camel hair polo coat in the picture and then the one Brett had dropped on his couch. “Cute.”

  In reality, Janice didn’t think Dana was anything but bland, boring, and all too perfect, just like Dana’s spoiled little life inside her window. Little Miss Priss would probably give birth to spoiled kids—2.5, of course—and they, too, would surely wear matching camel hair polo coats one day.

  Dana’s window? More like her snow globe, Janice thought. She pictured Dana standing in a tiny glass-enclosed world, snow gently falling around her. Her world could be shaken but never broken. She was far too insulated.

  “Yes, that’s Mrs. McGarry,” Brett replied as he rubbed his palms together to clear away crumbs after finishing a honey bun.

  “Vassar?”

  “No. Cabrini. It’s a Catholic college in Radnor, Pennsylvania.”