“So I gave up AIDS,” she said, her eyes darting back and forth. “And now I’m into hunger.”
Jillian felt that she had to say something. “I teach,” she said. The Armacosts’ move had, providentially, coincided with a shortage of school teachers in New York. With her credentials from Florida and glowing recommendations from her former superiors, Jillian had been welcomed into the New York City school system. It was the one thing in her life that seemed normal, even if some of her pupils had names like Ahmed, Jesus, and Ang. Kids were kids and Jillian just loved being with them.
This admission elicited a faint flare of interest from Jillian’s companion. “You teach? Where abouts? At NYU? Columb a? Or do you commute up to Yale in New Haven?”
Jillian smiled. “No, not quite anything as grand as that. I teach second grade.”
The woman smiled, too… “I’m sorry,” she said, “I thought you just said you taught second grade.”
Jillian nodded. “I did. I teach second grade over at—”
But the socialite was looking over Jillian’s shoulder again. She gave a little smile and wave to someone in the middle distance. “Ambrose,” she squealed. “You look great, darling.” She flashed a smile at Jillian. “Marvelous talking to you, dear,” she said quickly. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”
But before Jillian could even open her mouth to give her assent, the woman scooted away.
Jillian was not offended, not in the slightest. She was relieved at being left alone. She located Spencer in the crowd and mouthed the words “help me” at him. He immediately broke from the little knot of feral yuppies and started toward his wife, but before he could reach her he was grabbed by a very distinguished-looking man who was carrying a cigar so thick it looked like section of bicycle inner tube. As the man led him away, all Spencer could do was shoot his wife a look that plainly said “What can I do?”
Jillian scanned the crowd and for one terrifying moment she locked eyes with her former companion and it looked as if she was going to have to go over and be introduced to the man known as Ambrose who did not look all that great, Jillian thought. But she dodged that bullet when a woman closer in age to her sidled up to her, drink in hand. She was smiling, plainly reading the social fear on Jillian’s face.
“Don’t worry about her,’.’ said the younger woman. “The total lack of body fat has rendered her something rather less than human. I would doubt if she’s had her period for over three years. Which, I guess, is a blessing for the gene pool. Wouldn’t you say?”
Jillian smiled and tried to think of something clever to say in reply. Nothing came.
“I’m Shelley McLaren,” the young woman said.
“I’m Jillian Armacost.”
“I know,” she said with a little smile. “I Saw you when you came in with your husband.”
Suddenly Jillian understood. “McLaren,” she said. “Your husband must be—”
“Jackson McLaren.” She tossed her head in the direction of the man with the big cigar who had snagged Spencer. They had been joined by two more rich-looking men. They also had cigars. Spencer did not have a cigar and he did not want one.
Shelley laughed. “They all had cigars… but Jackson had the biggest cigar of all,” she said, pretending to be wistful, as if recalling some far-off days of yore.
She then stopped a passing waiter and grabbed two flutes filled with champagne. She handed one of the glasses to Jillian and they clinked glasses.
Jillian felt she had to make conversation. “This is an amazing building,” she said.
“It will be when it’s finished, but don’t let it fool you,” she said with a wink. “It’s made entirely of processed cheese.” Shelley McLaren sipped her champagne. “I can’t tell you how excited Jackson was to get your husband on his board of directors. Apparently there was a real little bidding war for brave Spencer Armacost. Jackson won of course. Because Jackson always gets what Jackson wants.”
She looked away from her husband and surveyed the vast space they were standing in and then looked over at Jillian, indicating the giant room with her chin.
“Seems pretty strange to you, I’ll bet,” said Shelley McLaren sympathetically.
Jillian nodded. “How ever did you guess?” she said laughing. “Does it show that much?”
“Don’t worry,” Shelley McLaren said warmly. “It happens to everyone. And a room like this. … it’s supposed to make you feel the way you do.”
“What way is that?” Jillian asked.
Shelley waved her hand vaguely at the high ceiling and the marble columns. “Qh, you know,” she said. “It’s all designed to make you feel insignificant. No woman would ever have built a place like this. Why do men always confuse size with power.” She sighed, as if contemplating the follies of the male species and then took a drink from her champagne glass. “So tell me, have you made any friends in the city yet? It can be difficult, I know…”
Jillian shook her head and smiled ruefully. “No… not really. Of course, I’ve made some friends at work, but I don’t know them well. It’s only been a couple of weeks… But there’s Spencer, of course. I guess we’re best friends.”
Shelley’s eyebrows shot up toward the vaulted ceiling—this rich, sophisticated woman looked genuinely surprised by Jillian’s startling admission.
“Spencer is your husband and your friend,” Shelley exclaimed. “If I were you, I wouldn’t let the other wives get wind of that little fact. If they do, they’ll be sure to haul you up on charges. Friendship and marriage aren’t supposed to mix in this class stratum. But I guess you can be forgiven for not knowing that yet. But believe me, in time, you’ll learn all the rules about that sort of thing.”
For the first time since she had arrived in New York City, Jillian threw back her head and laughed. She laughed loud and clear and without a whit of self-consciousness. It felt good to her. And it sounded good, too. People in that vast room looked at her as she laughed, and envied her. Very few people had the privilege of laughing like that. Not in polite society anyway.
Even a slightly jaded sophisticate like Shelley McLaren was taken in by Jillian’s honest laughter. “Now that,” she said, “I like.”
“Like what?” Jillian asked, genuinely mystified. “What do you mean?”
“Your laugh.” Shelley said.
“My Laugh?” Jillian looked at Shelley McLaren as if she had lost her mind. “What does my laugh have to do with anything?”
“It’s an honest laugh,” Shelley explained. “And let me tell you, it’s been a while since I heard one like that. You weren’t laughing because you thought you were supposed to—you were laughing because you heard something you found funny.”
“Isn’t that why people laugh?” Jillian was frankly surprised by Shelley McLaren’s reaction.
“Not in this town, Shelley replied. She drained her champagne glass. “You’d be surprised at the number of phonies you are going to run into in New York, Jillian. Sometimes it can be quite scary. No one means anything they say. The check is never in the mail. The best way to follow up a lie is with another lie.”
Jillian frowned. “That’s sort of cynical, isn’t it. Do people really live that way?”
“It’s a cynical town, sweetheart,” said Shelley McLaren, sounding like a hard-bitten chick from an old movie. “But you’ll get used to it in time. Believe me. I did.”
“I don’t want to get used to it,” Jillian replied. Her voice was as honest as her laugh. “I don’t want to be so cynical about everything. Or anything, really.”