A Special Place for Women, Laura Hankin [brene brown rising strong .txt] 📗

the skills it lacked, and I didn’t want to have to see it on nights and weekends.

“I’ve been wanting to meet you,” Margot said to Raf, staring up at him through her long eyelashes. She didn’t look at me—her world was filled with brighter things. “I haven’t eaten pork since I learned that pigs are smarter than dogs, and I’ve bragged about it to everyone, probably quite annoyingly. So you can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you. Do you promise?”

“I . . .” Raf blinked as she raised one of her thick, perfect eyebrows at him. “Sure, I promise.”

She leaned in. “I just broke my rules for you, and it was worth it.”

“Thank you . . .” Raf said, hesitating in the space where her name should have gone.

She laughed, delighted by his naïveté. How fun, that he didn’t know who she was, didn’t realize that her mere presence at his opening could change his life.

“Oh, I’m Margot,” she said to Raf, holding out her hand to shake his. Then she clocked that his hand was occupied, still pressed on my arm in its familiar way. And suddenly I mattered, at least a little, as a curiosity or maybe as competition. She fixed me in her gaze, a pleasant, faraway smile on her lips as the thoughts passed through her head: Was Raf dating this ordinary lump? What had I done to be worthy of his attention?

I stuck my hand out. “Jillian Beckley.” My voice came out very loud, like a car honk. Sexy.

“Jillian Beckley,” she repeated, and the way the name rolled around in her mouth made it seem special somehow. “Lovely to meet you.”

She didn’t know it, but we’d crossed paths before.

•   •   •

It’d happened about a year ago, thanks to my editor, Miles. Ever since I’d stepped back at the news website—Quill—to take care of my mom, Miles had been assigning me fluff pieces that I could do on my own time to justify keeping me on staff. Though Miles was an intellectual powerhouse destined for bigger things and he could’ve gotten away with being a dick, he really looked out for his writers. Then, last September, he’d texted me:

Beckley. You said your mom loves that mayoral candidate Nicole Woo-Martin, right? Nicole had knocked on our door one day, canvassing while I was out doing errands. I hadn’t even heard of her before that, but my mother had gushed about their conversation nonstop since. Miles kept typing. I’ve got two press passes for a gala where she’s giving the main speech. Want to come with? You can recount it all to your mom afterward and make her week.

I accepted immediately. Miles was so kind.

I’d assumed that the gala—for an organization encouraging more women to run for office—would be a typical nonprofit fund-raiser, filled with staid Upper East Side matrons, some nice hors d’oeuvres. But it was far more glamorous than that.

A beautiful woman floated past us, so close to me that her dress swished against my skin. I recognized her from Page Six, and nudged Miles. “Holy shit, Margot Wilding’s here? We’re in the presence of royalty. Hope she doesn’t realize we’re peasants.”

“We might be worse than peasants,” he said as we found our table. “We’re journalists. Did you see that interview where the reporter asked her about Nevertheless?” He pulled my chair out for me, speaking in a low, wry tone, a crooked smile flashing across his face. “I thought for a moment there that Margot might have her shot for her impertinence.”

“What’s Nevertheless?” I asked.

“Ah,” he said. He leaned forward and his voice got even softer. “Supposedly it’s a very secretive, very exclusive club for the elite millennial women of New York.” As his breath tickled my ear, I shivered.

I’ve neglected to mention that, in addition to being so kind, Miles was also so dreamy. I’d noticed it in an abstract way before, but as we sat next to each other in our formalwear, the abstract became very real.

He went on. “Word is that they’re the influencers. Not the Instagram kind, who get paid to write about how much they adore certain brands. The real influencers: the puppeteers who pull all of our strings, whether we know it or not.”

“Ah yes, my kind of people,” I said, and he laughed. “Can’t wait to receive an invitation.”

We were interrupted by a petite, red-haired woman at the microphone. “Hello, I’m Caroline Thompson,” she said in a high-pitched voice, “and I’m the founder of Women Who Lead.” She basked in the ensuing applause for a moment. “Now, it is the pleasure of my life to introduce the woman who I feel confident will be our next mayor, Nicole Woo-Martin!”

Nicole jogged onto the stage. She was a forty-one-year-old public defender from Brooklyn with no polish, no political pedigree, and no chance of winning against the establishment candidate. But as she waved to us, her fierce, unexpected charisma on full display, suddenly we were no longer at a fund-raiser. We were at a rock concert. “Hello!” she shouted, and the energy in the room turned electric.

As Nicole began to speak about why female leadership was so important, Miles and I grinned at each other. I snuck a glance around the room. Everyone leaned forward, as if Nicole were a magnet pulling us all in. Some of the women watching had tears in their eyes. Only one other person was looking at the audience instead of the speaker: Margot Wilding. Her lips curled into a strange, secretive smile.

As Nicole wrapped up her speech and the thunderous applause began, my phone vibrated with a text from my mother. How is it???? she’d written, the text accompanied by roughly a million emojis. (She’d gotten very into emojis.)

I showed it to Miles. “I think someone is excited that I’m here.”

He smiled wide. “I’m glad.” He nodded to where Nicole was shaking hands and posing for pictures as the applause continued. “I know we’re supposed to try to remain neutral, but she’s incredible, isn’t she?”

“She is. Thank you so much