“But don’t you need to be, like,‘in the markets’already?” Jackie wriggles her fingers, nose wrinkled with distaste; Lili stifles a smile. “Preparing for the opening bell?”
“I work in investment banking, Jackie.”
“Yes.”
James looks aghast. “What do you think I do all day?”
“I don’t know, yell into a telephone?”
“I’m not a trader.”
“As in...?”
“As in, I don’t do the opening bell, running around executing trades,yelling into telephones—nobody’s pacing the trading floor with a baseball bat.”
“That’s all beneath him,” Lili jokes, momentarily absorbed by their bickering. “Positively plebeian.”
“Careful,” James warns, pointing a finger at her. “You’ll have to join us unwashed working masses soon, and investment banks are going to salivate over you. My stepmom keeps pestering my father about finding a position for you somewhere at Goldman. Apparently the EMEA offices are trying to bring in more diverse talent with Middle Eastern backgrounds. Better to court money in the region, I suppose.”
“No, thanks,” she says hastily. “Not sure I can even fully claim that background, anyway.”
“Lili’s going to save the world,” Jackie interjects, taking a prim, satisfied sip of her tea. “She can’t go into finance, she’s going to be the next Sérgio Vieira de Mello.”
The restaurant door swings open. Amina rushes in, still on the phone.
“Khob dige, bayad beram—yes,yes, bye—” Seeing Lili, Amina immediately brightens, leaning down to quickly hug her; Lili catches Farsi, distant over the phone, before Amina pulls away, hanging up, and sitting down beside Jackie. The fragment of conversation sparks familiar feelings of shame, longing, and guilt: languages, homelands, histories, parts of the world that Amina is so much closer to, has so much more access and connection with; regional heritage that Lili doesn’t feel like she herself has any real right to claim.
“Alright, we’re all here!” Amina claps her hands together. “I’m starving.”
“How’re your parents?” James asks.
“Fine. They can’t make it for my show, but said we can use the France house this summer.” Usually, Lili would ridicule the absurd, hollow use of ostentatious wealth to appease emotional needs, but Amina looks miserable as she shrugs, trying to cover it up with feigned indifference. “Anyway, forget that—I have great news, that’s why I called breakfast: I got the show at Perrotin, in Paris!”
Lili’s heart lifts, an instant surge of warmth and pride. “Ami,what? That’s fucking incredible!”
“Jesus Christ, you genius!” Jackie exclaims, pulling her into a tight embrace.
“Say more, say everything,” Lili insists. “What’s the theme, when is it?”
Amina beams, close to bursting. “It’s a group show, obviously. It’s in the fall, all about the contemporary state of painting, explorations of the ‘return’ to the classic, once-rejected medium, all that, definitely leaning towards abstract expressionism, but it’s a big deal.”
“A fucking huge deal,” James asserts. “They might offer to represent her.”
“You already knew?” Lili accuses, turning on him.
He grins. “Of course, I did. I’m tagging along for her prep meetings with the gallery in Paris soon. Every up-and-coming artist needs their groupies.”
“And you’re coming, too,” Amina announces to Lili, grabbing her hands across the table. “France trip! Summer in Europe!”
Lili huffs a laugh. “Excuse me?”
“You deserve a break. Come on the trip with us.”
She gives another uneasy laugh. “Ami, I love you, but I can’t just jet off to Europe.”
“Yes, you can! It’s only three weeks, we leave early August. We’re doing Paris, then down to the South of France.”
Her gut tightens; the discomfort of shame and insecurity. “What about Jackie, why aren’t you asking her?” Deflect, divert.
