Джули Салливан - Friends and Strangers

Wouldn’t it be perfect if they hired her? Elisabeth wrote. She wants to be in New York, they’re opening up in New York. Feels meant to be. But, and I realize this is a tall order, I feel like they would have to reach out to her…

Mimi said she would see what she could do.

On Monday, Mimi followed up to say her friend had contacted the London gallery, and they remembered Sam and would add her to their interview list now that they knew she was headed for New York.

When Sam arrived to work the following Thursday, she did not stop to say hello or greet the baby. Instead, she said, “The craziest thing just happened. I got an email from Matilda Grey.”

Elisabeth felt giddy.

“Who’s that again?” she asked.

“It’s not a person, it’s a gallery. Well, it’s a person too, of course. I applied to their London location. I think I told you? They couldn’t hire me, but this email says the gallerist there remembered me and they’re opening a space in Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn? Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I wonder if it’s near our old neighborhood.”

“They want me to go down there and interview to be Matilda’s assistant.”

“What! That’s fabulous,” Elisabeth said. “You must have made an impression.”

“I guess I did,” Sam said, and she looked amazed.

“Don’t be so surprised. They’d be lucky to have you.”

“They want me to come for an interview tomorrow, in Brooklyn. I know I’m supposed to work.”

“Of course you have to go. The only question is what are you going to wear?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said. “And I don’t know what to say to Clive. Is it bad not to tell him yet? To wait and see what happens?”

“I might not be the best person to ask about withholding important information from your partner at the moment,” Elisabeth said.

“I want this job,” Sam said. “Have you ever been shocked by your own reaction to something? Like maybe you don’t know yourself at all?”

Elisabeth thought of the moment Andrew came in and said she wasn’t pregnant.

“Why don’t you just see what happens?” she said.

Sam nodded. “I might not even get it.”

She sounded both hopeful and fearful that this could be the case.

19 Sam

GIL WAS UPSTAIRS NAPPING when Sam got the call.

She and Elisabeth were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea, making plans for the party. Outside, rain pelted the windows.

Elisabeth had given a few chapters of her new book to her editor and agent and was awaiting feedback.

“This is my favorite part of the writing process,” she said. “The part where I get to do nothing for several days without feeling guilty about it.”

She went for a run that morning, before the weather turned. She ate a nice lunch out somewhere, alone.

“I can’t wait to read the book once it’s done,” Sam said.

“Oh, Sam, you’re the best,” Elisabeth said.

“Really. I’ve read both your books now. They’re so good. I think the second one is my favorite.”

Elisabeth’s face lit up. “Sam!” she said. “You always say the perfect thing.”

The afternoon itself felt perfect, like so many things did now that the end was near. Lately, Sam attended classes with a sense of sappy gratitude, for getting to be part of a group of smart women, debating the meaning of literature and art. When in her life would she ever do that again? She inhaled deeply when she studied in the library stacks, wanting to memorize the smell of the books. She got into bed for her afternoon nap each day, knowing Isabella was in class, and that no one else would disturb her, because she had written ZZZZZ on the whiteboard that hung on the door, and her friends knew what that meant.

Things that had irritated her all year now made her smile. The sight of Isabella slicing oranges on her nightstand for sangria; the sound of Rosa next door playing the same Prince song on repeat for an hour; the fact that she could just appear in the dining hall at six and a warm meal would be waiting.

The campus was at its best in springtime. After a winter spent crossing the quad with their heads down, wrapped in heavy coats as they hurried past the frozen pond, the students took their time now. They stopped to chat, or to take pictures of the pink cherry blossoms that lined Paradise Road, or to have a picnic on the green, green grass behind College Hall.

The seniors were extra emotional. Somebody on their platform cried every night lately, about one thing or another.

Sam looked around Elisabeth’s kitchen. This too would soon be over. She had loved their time together. Things had felt a bit strange after George told her about Elisabeth’s family money, but that feeling had mostly faded now. After Elisabeth confessed what she’d done with the embryos, Sam spent a few days fixated on the deception. But she had to put that away. It didn’t match the Elisabeth she knew. Maybe everyone had parts of themselves like that.

It was her new habit to get up at six each morning and go to the art building to work on the painting. Elisabeth had said not to worry if she needed to finish over the summer, but Sam intended to present it to her at the party. In part, so that she might get paid before moving to London. And in part because she wanted the painting on display at the party, both things representing their unique bond, the blurred lines between their lives. She wanted the portrait to be the best thing she’d ever created. She wanted to make Elisabeth proud. Sam sketched the figures out seven times before adding color.

This morning, she had entered the art building, which was usually empty at that hour, and bumped straight into one of her professors, Christopher Gillis. He looked like he’d just woken up, stumbling out of his office barefoot, in sweatpants, steel-gray hair pointing in every direction. She wondered if he had a girl in there.

He knew Elisabeth somehow. Sam didn’t know their exact connection, but Elisabeth told her once how they had discussed her talent at a party.

Sam was weighing whether to mention the sighting when Elisabeth glanced up from her to-do list and said, “I can’t believe Gil will be a year old in three weeks. And you’ll be a college graduate.”

She looked wistful, before turning back to the list and saying, “Does your family like shrimp?”

Elisabeth was going all out, even though Sam told her there was no need. Three cases of champagne had been purchased and now sat at the top of the basement stairs, ready to be ferried to the yard at the appointed hour. Elisabeth had ordered a balloon archway, twelve feet tall, the kind you saw at a prom or at the finish line of a 10K. A three-piece bluegrass band would play songs for both kids and adults. There would be cater-waiters serving endless hors d’oeuvres, and two cakes—one for Sam, and one for Gil.

Sam had yet to tell her mother.

“My family loves shrimp,” she said.

Sam wondered about Elisabeth’s family. She had said they were estranged, she had told Sam that terrible story about her father, but then they came and visited at Christmas. She hadn’t mentioned them since.

There was no hint of them coming for Gil’s birthday as far as Sam could tell.

Sam’s cell phone rang. She looked down at the screen.

“It’s a 718!” she said, immediately regretting her enthusiasm, in case the news was bad. How awful would it be for Elisabeth to have to console her, to feel compelled to say something reassuring, like the gallery didn’t deserve her anyway.

“Answer it!” Elisabeth said.

Sam did.

“Sam?” said the voice at the other end of the line. “It’s Natasha from Matilda Grey. Do you have a minute?”