Rumaan Alam - Rich and Pretty

Lauren falls into the chair. If there’s a ladylike way to sit down, she’s not mastered it. “How are you?”

Sarah puts the phone into the bag on the banquette beside her. “I’m good! I’m actually superhungry.”

“Me too. It’s the fall. Hibernating season.”

“God, this is the last thing I need, I’m supposed to put on a dress that you can be damn sure is going to be sleeveless. I can just see myself, arms wiggling in the breeze.”

Lauren makes a sort of tsk sound in response, to register that she’s heard and that she disapproves. “You look great,” she says, but so close on the heels of what Sarah’s said it doesn’t sound sincere.

A pained smile. “How are you?” Sarah asks.

“I’m good, actually. Today was a good day.” As Lauren says it, she marvels at it: She can’t believe it’s true.

Sarah looks surprised. “Do tell.”

“You don’t need to look so shocked,” she says. “Am I such a downer? I have good days.”

“I’m just happy for you,” Sarah says. “Anything noteworthy or just generally a not bad day?”

That afternoon, the remnants of the expensive prechopped salad bar salad (spinach, chickpeas, broccoli, tuna, carrot, sunflower seeds, balsamic vinegar, $11.95) still on her desk, Mary-Beth had toddled over, which is how Lauren now thinks of her gait, and paused there behind her chair for a moment laden with meaning. “Lauren,” she’d said.

This was not of itself worth note — she was her boss, of course they talked — but there was something in it, her pronunciation, some suggestion, some clue. “Do you have a second?”

This too: the implication that they needed to speak privately. Lauren had followed Mary-Beth to her office, worrying about the tuna salad on her breath like someone out of a commercial for gum, or an unimaginative television show. Mary-Beth even asked Lauren to close the door, or anyway, nodded toward it meaningfully.

The short of it: a promotion, and a significant one, the shedding of the epithet associate, a standing invitation to pitch projects, an expectation that there would be travel, and meals out, and even occasional reimbursements for such. The imprint is quite firmly in the black, it seems. Dallie will be leaving; the organization, lean though it is, will be reorganized; and Lauren will find herself, suddenly, quite near the top of the structure. And more — further changes coming, something unspoken but suggested, Miranda taking on a different role, one in the parent company, quite literally kicked upstairs, to the hushed, glass-walled thirty-sixth floor, where all the very most important meetings in the building take place. Mary-Beth had always liked Lauren, told her so, just like that, acknowledging that this change is big, unlikely, amorphous, a gift, a reward, for being good, for being liked. Mary-Beth even mentions the celebrity chef, the quarrelsome Cuban. They’ve been keeping tabs on Lauren, it seems.

Lauren shrugs. “A good day, is all. I don’t know. There’s this chance that I’m going to get some new responsibilities. Which I think is good. I mean, more work, but more interesting work.”

“You mean they’re finally realizing that you’re incredibly overqualified for your job,” Sarah says. “Thank fucking God. Congratulations. A raise?”

Once, years ago, when they were roommates in the city, unable to stop herself, Lauren had peered into one of the fat envelopes from Prudential that arrived for Sarah monthly. The sum — the only sum she was able to divine, amid all those numbers and charts — was astonishing. “A raise,” she says, but doesn’t say what she wants to, which is that Sarah would consider the sum in question inconsequential. “A decent one.” It’s not much to speak of, really, but it’s hers.

They order drinks: a martini, both of them; it seems retro, and celebratory, and somehow funny, and when they’re delivered, precariously, the liquid spilling out over the lips of the unwieldy glasses, Sarah takes a sip, as if for strength, then raises the glass. “Huzzah,” she says.

“Thanks,” Lauren says. She sips her drink. “Editor. No associate.”

“Not assistant?”

“Editor,” she says.

“Fucking great,” Sarah says. “I knew it.” She pauses. “By the way, I just should say it, so whatever, but if you’ve been mad at me since the last time we hung out, I’m sorry.”

Lauren has never known how to deal with a compliment and she’s never known how to deal with an apology. It seems better, in both instances, to change the subject. “I’m not. No, I was just. . You know.”

“I didn’t mean to keep talking about Gabe,” Sarah says.

“I was in a bad mood,” Lauren says. It’s funny because now, hearing Sarah mention Gabe’s name, she feels nothing, not even a glimmer of recognition. They could be discussing anything at all. Maybe she had been in a bad mood.

“It’s a sensitive subject. I get it. You should have just told me to shut up, you idiot.” And now: back to normal.

“Please, like anyone ever in your entire life has ever told you to shut up, and like you would.” Lauren knows she loves this, the compliment disguised as an insult that Sarah is strong-willed, that Sarah will have her say. “How’s Dan?” Lauren often forgets to ask about him. The giant ring, though, reminds her.

“He’s good. He’s the same. He’s busy, he’s working a lot lately, like more than usual, but it’s good, like the good overworked, not the bad kind. How are your folks?”

“My folks? Um. They’re fine. It was my mom’s birthday two weeks ago. I got her a cookbook, one that we don’t even publish, which is so lame but my father insisted it was what she wanted. I don’t know if I believe him. Are you going on a honeymoon?”

“We talked about it. It’s hard for Dan to get a lot of time off. But everyone is like, oh you have to go on a honeymoon and so on.” She shrugs her shoulders.

“You’re probably going to want like. . a vacation from your parents, right?” Lauren knows the intricacies of that family’s life well enough to be able to tease.

“Dan’s got to go to L.A. at some point for work; I thought maybe I could tag along on that and we could schedule a real honeymoon later. Like Africa maybe? Africa. That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”

“L.A., God that is so weird, I was just thinking about when we went out there after school, do you remember that?”

“Do I remember that, of course I remember that, what am I, brain damaged? Holly and Christina and that tiny little house.”

“You just wanted me to see Greg again, right? That was the ulterior motive.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit, you’re the worst liar. Wait.” Lauren has an epiphany, a small one, if there’s a word for that. “This is just like that Gabe thing. From our last dinner.”

“I don’t know, I loved you guys together. And it’s not like there was so much awesome stuff going on for us here at that point in our lives.”

“The same stuff’s still going on though,” Lauren says, “all these years later.”

“That’s not true.” Sarah looks wounded by this.

The waiter returns, they order more drinks. Sarah asks for a salad and some fish. Lauren asks for a salad and some ravioli.

Sarah clears her throat. “Okay, maybe that was my secret agenda.”

“God, you are obsessed with me having a boyfriend.”

“Gabe was great. That’s all.” The final word.

“But, like, Greg?” Lauren laughs. “I mean, what was I supposed to do — marry him? They even have the same name. Gabe, Greg. God, what’s wrong with me?” Sarah has only ever had Dan. Maybe she fundamentally doesn’t understand that it’s possible to have a boyfriend you don’t mean to marry, to fuck a guy and not have it mean forever.