Lipstick Jungle

She leaned her head back against the seat. And now, I will probably never have good sex again, she thought. Should she feel sorry for herself? Probably. And maybe she would, someday. But right now, she didn’t feel sorry. Sex . . . Oh, so what! she thought impatiently. Big fucking deal. She wasn’t a man, ruled by his dick. She was a woman, and she was free . . . Her phone jingled.

“with wendy. r-u at of-is?” read the text message from Victory.

Nico smiled. “in 2 min,” she texted back.

“hve bubbly. wll meet u in 20.”

* * *

WENDY’S MOVIE WAS A hit, they said. It was indisputable. You could always tell by the reaction of the audience, and premiere audiences in New York City were the most blasé in the world. But they had clapped and cheered at the end, all the way through the credits. And then, at the party afterward at the Maritime Hotel, everyone had been in a good mood, like they were actually happy to be there. And that was another sign that the movie was going to be a hit. If it was going to be a flop, people went to the party for ten minutes and then cleared out, Wendy said. She’d been in that situation enough times too.

They were all sitting in Nico’s office, giddy with excitement at Wendy’s big success. “It’s just about staying in the game,” Victory said. “They always want to push you out if they can.” She passed the bottle of Dom Perignon to Nico, who poured the champagne into three crystal tumblers. It was only the best for the CEOs of Splatch-Verner, she thought wryly. “They try, but they can’t,” she said.

“Damn right about that too,” Wendy said, holding up her glass.

“And Selden was so well-behaved. I loved the way he stood near you at the party, and got you drinks, and let you talk to everyone without being insecure and having to stick his snout in,” Victory said. She walked to a glass door and slid it open. “Oh Nico,” she exclaimed, breathlessly. “Your terrace.”

“I know,” Nico said. She felt a little embarrassed about the terrace—in fact, she felt a little embarrassed about her office in general. It was huge, with a built-in bar along one wall, a legacy from Mike, which she had decided to keep. And it had its own terrace. A little sliver of heaven on the thirty-second floor that overlooked Central Park and the fancy buildings on Fifth Avenue, and the sharp buildings that rose up out of midtown like a mighty woods. There were eight offices in the Splatch-Verner building with terraces, and she was the only woman who had one.

Victory stepped out, followed by Wendy. Nico paused at the door, and seeing her friends in a hazy halo of snow, suddenly realized she was happy. This happiness swooped over her like an exultant bird. It caught in her throat and broke free in a gasp of surprise.

Wendy raised her glass. “To us,” she said, and peering over the view into the midtown skyscrapers, added, “You know what they say. It’s a jungle out there.”

“No, girls,” Nico said, walking forward. She opened her arms, as if to encompass the city in her embrace. “It’s a Lipstick Jungle.”