drag herself out
of bed. She got fired because she never showed up for work. Huge
bags under her eyes. Refused to see anyone. Never answered her
phone. When I finally showed up at her apartment after months of
this, she confided that she was considering suicide."
"How awful," I murmured, still racing to keep up with the
rapid subject change.
"Yeah, it was awful. But you know what got her through? I'd
stopped at the Hermes store on the way over to her apartment,
asked for an update . . . just in case. And you know what? I was
able to tell her when I got there that she was only eighteen months
away from her Birkin. Do you believe it? Eighteen months!"
"What did she say?" I asked.
"What do you think she said? She was ecstatic! The last time
she'd checked it was going to be five years, but they'd trained a
whole new crew of craftsmen and her name was due up in a year
and a half. She got in the shower that very moment and agreed to
go to lunch with me. That was six months ago. Since then she got
her job back and has another boyfriend. Don't you see? That Birkin
gave her a reason to live! You simply cannot kill yourself when
you're that close . . . it's just not an option."
It was my turn to examine her to see if she was joking. She
was not. In fact, Elisa looked positively radiant from her retelling of
the story, as though it had inspired her to live her own life to the
fullest. I thanked her for educating me in the ways of the Birkin
and wondered what, exactly, I had gotten myself into. This was a
far cry from investment banking, and I clearly had a lot to learn.
7
It was seven-thirty in the evening on day four of my working at
Kelly & Company as a party planner. The newsstand near my
apartment had only a single copy of the New York Daily News with
Will's column by the time I headed home after work. I'd been
reading "Will of the People" nearly every week since the time I'd
learned the alphabet, but for some reason I'd never managed to
subscribe to any of the papers that ran it. Of course, I had never
broached the subject of the column's gradual shift to a soapbox for
Will's crotchety rants about every social "tragedy" that had befallen
his beloved city, but it was becoming increasingly more difficult to
keep my mouth shut.
"Bette! Great column today, if I do say so myself!" my doorman,
Seamus, howled boozily as he pulled open the door to my
building and waved a copy of the paper. "That uncle of yours hits
the nail on the head every time!"
"Is it good? I haven't read it yet," I said absently, walking and
talking quickly, the way people do when they're trying desperately
to avoid a conversation.
"Good? It's fantastic! Now there's a man who gets it! Anyone
who can poke a little fun at Hillary Clinton is a friend of mine! I
thought I was the only person in this whole city who voted for
George W., but your uncle assures me I'm not."
"Mmm. I suppose that's true." I headed toward the elevator, but
he was still going.
"Any chance he'll be coming 'round to visit you anytime soon?
Would just love to tell him in person how much—"
"I'll definitely let you know," I called as the elevator doors fi-
nally shut him out. I shook my head, remembering my uncle's one
visit to my building and the way Seamus had fallen all over himself
when he recognized Will's name. It was upsetting, to say the least,
that Seamus personified my uncle's target demographic.
Millington nearly collapsed in paroxysms of joy when I opened
the door, even more excited than usual now that I'd returned to
working all day. Poor Millington. No walk for yon tonight, I thought
as I gave her a perfunctory scratch on the head and settled down
to read Will's latest rants. She scampered off to use her Wee-Wee
Pad, realizing immediately that she wasn't leaving the apartment
today, either, and then jumped onto my chest to read with me.
Just as I was settling in with my folder of takeout menus, my
cell phone
of bed. She got fired because she never showed up for work. Huge
bags under her eyes. Refused to see anyone. Never answered her
phone. When I finally showed up at her apartment after months of
this, she confided that she was considering suicide."
"How awful," I murmured, still racing to keep up with the
rapid subject change.
"Yeah, it was awful. But you know what got her through? I'd
stopped at the Hermes store on the way over to her apartment,
asked for an update . . . just in case. And you know what? I was
able to tell her when I got there that she was only eighteen months
away from her Birkin. Do you believe it? Eighteen months!"
"What did she say?" I asked.
"What do you think she said? She was ecstatic! The last time
she'd checked it was going to be five years, but they'd trained a
whole new crew of craftsmen and her name was due up in a year
and a half. She got in the shower that very moment and agreed to
go to lunch with me. That was six months ago. Since then she got
her job back and has another boyfriend. Don't you see? That Birkin
gave her a reason to live! You simply cannot kill yourself when
you're that close . . . it's just not an option."
It was my turn to examine her to see if she was joking. She
was not. In fact, Elisa looked positively radiant from her retelling of
the story, as though it had inspired her to live her own life to the
fullest. I thanked her for educating me in the ways of the Birkin
and wondered what, exactly, I had gotten myself into. This was a
far cry from investment banking, and I clearly had a lot to learn.
7
It was seven-thirty in the evening on day four of my working at
Kelly & Company as a party planner. The newsstand near my
apartment had only a single copy of the New York Daily News with
Will's column by the time I headed home after work. I'd been
reading "Will of the People" nearly every week since the time I'd
learned the alphabet, but for some reason I'd never managed to
subscribe to any of the papers that ran it. Of course, I had never
broached the subject of the column's gradual shift to a soapbox for
Will's crotchety rants about every social "tragedy" that had befallen
his beloved city, but it was becoming increasingly more difficult to
keep my mouth shut.
"Bette! Great column today, if I do say so myself!" my doorman,
Seamus, howled boozily as he pulled open the door to my
building and waved a copy of the paper. "That uncle of yours hits
the nail on the head every time!"
"Is it good? I haven't read it yet," I said absently, walking and
talking quickly, the way people do when they're trying desperately
to avoid a conversation.
"Good? It's fantastic! Now there's a man who gets it! Anyone
who can poke a little fun at Hillary Clinton is a friend of mine! I
thought I was the only person in this whole city who voted for
George W., but your uncle assures me I'm not."
"Mmm. I suppose that's true." I headed toward the elevator, but
he was still going.
"Any chance he'll be coming 'round to visit you anytime soon?
Would just love to tell him in person how much—"
"I'll definitely let you know," I called as the elevator doors fi-
nally shut him out. I shook my head, remembering my uncle's one
visit to my building and the way Seamus had fallen all over himself
when he recognized Will's name. It was upsetting, to say the least,
that Seamus personified my uncle's target demographic.
Millington nearly collapsed in paroxysms of joy when I opened
the door, even more excited than usual now that I'd returned to
working all day. Poor Millington. No walk for yon tonight, I thought
as I gave her a perfunctory scratch on the head and settled down
to read Will's latest rants. She scampered off to use her Wee-Wee
Pad, realizing immediately that she wasn't leaving the apartment
today, either, and then jumped onto my chest to read with me.
Just as I was settling in with my folder of takeout menus, my
cell phone
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