“Sabine is so great,” Judith said, trying to conceal her disappointment.
“Uh-huh.” Casey knew Judith was feeling unwanted. She hated this about women friendships. Someone always felt left out.
In Judith’s ten years as a weekend manager, Sabine had never once asked her to eat in her office. They had a perfectly friendly and collegial relationship, but it didn’t go further than that. Sabine had her favorites—the prize ponies, in a way—fast, intelligent, stylish, and brilliant at sales. Young. They were always young. Judith rubbed her arms as though she were cold.
“Tomorrow? Please?” Casey asked. “I’ll bring a salad, too.” She looked up, wondering if she had any vegetables in the house. “Or a can of tuna. I think I have peanut butter. Maybe canned corn. I think I have some of that.” She laughed at herself.
“I know, I’ll ask Daisy to make you a salad, too,” offered Judith. She’d take the high road. Her mother used to say that whenever someone hurt her feelings: “Take the high road, Buttons. Always take the high road. Can’t go wrong with that.”
Casey glanced at Judith, feeling bad about being unable to include her in the lunch. If she only knew how ambivalent Casey felt about these meals, tucked away in the boss’s office. Recently, someone had written in a stall in the staff cafeteria bathroom, “So what do Queenie and Principessa do in that office together anyway?” When informed of this development, Sabine had laughed and asked, “Oh, am I queenlike?”
However, Sabine’s office was in many ways an ideal sanctuary from the noisy cafeteria and the crowded main floor teeming with holiday shoppers. To get there, you had to walk through a stark white hallway lit with halogen lights that led to a reception area where Sabine’s assistant, Melissa, was perched on an uncomfortable steel chair; then you’d finally reach a pair of maple doors that hinted at the seamless wood paneling of her fifteen-hundred-square-foot office. As in her apartment living room, on each side of the office, she displayed enormous floral arrangements—her essential luxuries, she termed them. Near the flowers were a pair of abstract paintings with green and yellow swooshes made by impossibly large paintbrushes. All the furniture in the room was upholstered in cream-colored wool mohair. Sabine said the fabric cost four hundred dollars a yard. Therefore, only clear drinks were served in Sabine’s office. The office was broadcasting the occupant’s unimpeachable sense of aesthetic; the visitor had to bow to it. The story went that Lagerfeld had once walked into her office, surveyed it with his careful eye, sat in a slipper chair, his back straight, and pronounced it “very good.”
Sabine was on the phone with a manufacturer in Hong Kong. She waved Casey in and quietly tapped her thumb and fingers together to mimic a person who talked too much. Silently, Casey set the conference table where they normally sat for lunch with their water bottles and identical chicken sandwiches on whole-wheat bread. She pulled open one of the maple-wood panels to reveal a wall-size mirror. Casey adjusted her hat, tucking her long black hair behind her ears. For the store, she dressed differently than she did for her office job. For one thing, she wore hats to the store—the styles were fairly conservative and flattering （nothing too weird, since that would frighten the customers）， but she chose hat body colors and trimmings that were a touch surprising to be visually pleasurable. On her weekend subway rides to and from work, she stood out a little, but she didn’t mind; it was a relief from her Monday through Friday dress. From the corner of the mirror, Sabine was studying Casey’s reflection.
As soon as Sabine got off her call, she lit another cigarette. She smoked two packs a day （a pack more than Casey）， and whenever Casey popped by her office, they shared a smoke. Several years back, they had tried to quit together, but it had been unbearable for everyone. Isaac threw up his hands, rationalizing that his wife was more lovable with her cigarettes and two evening cocktails. She had no real vices, he said, shrugging. Her French designer friends viewed Sabine’s attempts to quit smoking as a puritanical Americanism that she should resist. A life without pleasure blocked creativity, they argued. To make their point, a few of them sent her cases of Gauloises or Gitanes Blondes.
“Is that a new hat?” Sabine asked.
“New being a relative term. Not really,” Casey replied.
“Oh?” Sabine dragged deeply. “How much?”
“It’s not from here.”
“I know that,” Sabine said. She reviewed every purchase order from each department. Her perfect recall of the store inventory shocked the buyers who initially placed the orders.