Free Insiders by Olivia Goldsmith

and Jennifer took it,imagining it must be some religious tract. Only a saint, a sadist, or a cult member would voluntarily work here with this stink and noise. She stepped into the cell. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ the big woman said, and for some reason that was the thing that filled Jennifer’s eyes to almost overflowing. She turned her head away. God, she certainly hoped not!
    She looked over at the stained mattress and paper sheets. It was only last night – in her own home – that she’d slept in a bed made with Pratesi sheets.
    Jen crouched down in the corner of the observation cell and closed her eyes. The light still beat on her eyelids but she tried to transcend to another consciousness. She could stand anything for twenty-four hours, she told herself. She thought of the nights of endless study at college and business school. She’d pulled plenty of all-nighters at Hudson, Van Schaank & Michaels, too, when she was more tired than this. So she’d pull one more now. Maybe her last. All she had to do was concentrate. But on what? Concentrating on her situation was unbearable, and without her cell phone, she couldn’t check on deals, her portfolio, or her apartment. Then she thought of it: She’d spend the night concentrating on her closet and every garment in it.
    Jennifer didn’t have a lot of clothes; when the interior designer had discussed the bedroom Jennifer insisted that she didn’t want a built-in closet, just the antique armoire. ‘But it’s only twenty-seven inches of hanger space,’ he’d protested. She’d shrugged.
    Now she sat in the corner like a child ordered to take a time out. She remembered what she’d said: ‘Twenty-seven inches ought to be more than enough for any woman.’ And it was. She’d always longed not for quantity but quality. Now she had it, hanging in her armoire back at home. Asidefrom the one she had foolishly worn today and doubted she’d ever see again, she had three other Armani suits – one black twill, one black and brown tweed and one dark brown heavy silk. Each one had been well over two thousand dollars, but she’d bought them as an investment, and every time she slipped into one she felt like a million bucks. Next she thought of the two Yamaguchi suits that made the Armanis seem cheap in comparison. She’d considered one for more than a month before she’d bought it, hoping it wouldn’t be sold. That was the black one with an asymmetrical jacket; a lapel and a hem were higher on one side than the other. Jennifer couldn’t wear it for a meeting that included middle managers or conservative CEOs, but it went over big with high-tech and advertising types. The other, even more costly Yamaguchi was in a neutral gray-beige miracle fiber that she could fold into her purse if she had to and it would unpack as if it had been pressed by Sister Mary Margaret herself.
    Jennifer sighed. Thinking was difficult sitting on the cold concrete floor. She began a mental inventory of her drawers. When she was home she wore cashmere sweats that she’d bought at TSE. They’d been very expensive, but nothing was softer against the skin – except perhaps silk. She had a tall lingerie chest, and when she wanted to spend money foolishly she indulged herself in La Perla lace bras and matching underpants or silk wisps from any one of a dozen French and Italian stores on Madison Avenue. She moved her fingers against the tough fabric of her jumpsuit and almost shuddered. Her underwear made her feel special and secretly feminine, and she thought Tom, her fiancé, enjoyed wondering what she was wearing under the sophisticated suit when he saw her at work. Like any good girl,Jennifer washed her panties out by hand at night – she never threw them in the machine on the delicate cycle because they were too fine for that kind of treatment.
    Jen’s knees and ankles and butt hurt,