Diary of a Working Girl (3 page)

16

D a n i e l l a B r o d s k y

depressed because the women I interview have the most amazing wardrobes, and, to make matters worse, I have to actually go and walk through their closets, which are the size of my apartment, while they whine about needing more space to squeeze in all of their Alaïa originals, Jimmy Choos, and Manolo Blahniks. But then, I rationalize, I have my health! I am so lucky! I live in the best city in the world! Somehow, that never works.

I try to concentrate on my health and the benefits of my geo-graphical location and remember that I promised myself today would be the day I rejoin the living as an active member of society.

But as I reach and unlock my door, ready to venture out to interview Lisa McLellon, I instead begin to amuse myself with what
Inside Edition
might say when Lane Silverman, relationship columnist, is sighted home alone on a Saturday night: “Before you consider taking any advice from a relationship expert, you may want to peer through the windows of five hundred and fifty-five West Thirteenth Street, where Lane Silverman, scribe responsible for

‘Want Love? Go Get It!’ was seen this Saturday boiling ramen noo-dles and trying—in futility—to master a Britney Spears dance rou-tine, singing into a round brush in front of her mirror—
alone
.

Story at eight.”

“Ouch!” I scream, partially in hopes that someone (maybe the cute guy down the hall) might come scoop me up from the heap I am now lying in, after tripping right over my Sunday
Times
.

Couldn’t I once look forward to tripping over a paper with my story on the cover? Couldn’t some kind neighbor have removed the paper so the world wouldn’t know I hadn’t even opened my door yesterday? I feel the physical presence of the head-shaking and deep sighs this evidence of my gross self-pity no doubt produced from passersby all morning. The hall smells of people with places 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 17

D i a r y o f a Wo r k i n g G i r l 17

to go and people to see and I want them all to know that I am now, as they say, leaving the building.

“Ouch!” I scream once more, a bit louder, to make sure they all hear.

When nobody comes and my leg is starting to get tingly, I leave the paper, totally ignoring the fact that along with a reminder of my piteous weekend the broadsheet also serves as a symbol of failure. Just last week I wondered for twenty minutes whether or not to hit the “send” button to a thus-far response-impaired editor from the
Times
; yet again I was pitching some trend that will go in and out of style and be mentioned in every other publication without the likelihood of even a form rejection letter seeing the inte-rior of my mailbox. My peach-scented trail now comes in handy to cover any residuals of mortification the episode may produce.

The woman I am scheduled to interview is one of the most successful freelance magazine writers in New York. She contributes to all the big glossies,
Vogue, Bazaar, Elle, Glamour
. I met her at a press event for a new line of cosmetics, Lovely!, and she is very nice. We bonded while laughing over, and attempting to score, a second mi-croscopic (editor-friendly!) portion of rosemary chicken served at the lunch.

When I arrive at her Upper West Side apartment, I am awestruck. It is mammoth. I get the urge to skip around like a little kid in a museum. That’s how big it is. I could definitely fit my apartment in here four, no, five times. Maybe six. As a matter-of-fact, they could probably reassemble the entire Natural History Museum dinosaur collection right in her living room. There are all sorts of antique furnishings from the fifties and sixties, like a chrome desk and a real Eames chair. I could write such beautiful words in here! The words would just flow from me, as I sat in my 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 18

18

D a n i e l l a B r o d s k y

fur-trimmed negligee, sipping cognac from a crystal glass and admiring the wainscoting.

“So do you want to see it?” she asks.

“See what?” I am so astounded I don’t even remember why I’m here. Oh. The interview. Right. Her closet. “Sure. Let’s get right to it!”

“So, what’s this magazine again?
Her Life?
I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it before.” As she turns toward the staircase, the amethyst golf ball on her finger temporarily blinds me.

“Actually it’s called
For Her
,” I say, blinking away the big violet blob that won’t seem to disappear from view. Defending the magazine, and, well, my pride, which is shrinking faster than an over-stock of Marc Jacobs army jackets at a Barneys warehouse sale, I go on with the spiel I have all but memorized by now. “It’s actually a really fantastic magazine. It’s very new, which is why you are probably not familiar with it, but it has the most fabulous photography, and every time I read it, it just gets better and better. It’s really going to be very successful.”

“Well, that is great. It must be nice to work for such a cute little magazine like that.” She didn’t mean that as badly as it came out. I know she didn’t, because as I said, she is very nice. She is just looking for something nice to say about it, but there isn’t really that much that’s nice to say about it. She’s trying.

We’re walking through her bedroom, which is right out of the pages of
Elle Décor
. Really, it is—January 2001 issue—and I am admiring the caramel-colored suede pillows and the modular end tables, when I turn to see it. It is breathtaking. And I don’t mean that in a figurative way. I mean, when I reach the entryway of her closet, I literally cannot breathe.

And, apparently, I am turning blue, because Lisa says, “Honey, are you turning blue?”

21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 19

D i a r y o f a Wo r k i n g G i r l 19

I try to get the word “No” out, but, instead, a throaty, dry sound comes from deep down somewhere, and I am incapable of coming out with anything else.

“Sevilla, can you fetch me a glass of water for Ms. Lane, please?”

she screams down the stairs to the kitchen, where her housekeeper has been polishing silver statues since I arrived. I never think to polish my silver statues, but, of course, mine are from Target. And they aren’t actually silver. And the one time I did accidentally spray a bit of Windex on the one “silver” bookend I have, I actually rubbed off some of the “silver.”

Sevilla, that’s pronounced Sa-vee-ya, appears so fast—holding an elegant cylindrical glass, probably from ABC Carpet and Home, filled to the rim with water—that I think she may have gone through a time warp to get here. I take a big sip, as Lisa looks at me with her head cocked and a sweet smile on her face, which seems to say, “I’ve been there.” And, I swear to God, even the water tastes better here than mine does, and it’s ever so faintly infused with peach, like my bath gel, I note, quickly find the coincidence interesting and then as quickly realize it may not actually be that interesting. And, before I know it, I am back to breathing like a normal person. But, thinking about what has just happened, I feel less like a normal person than I ever have in my life.

“Are you alright now?” Lisa asks.

“I’m fine,” I say, standing up and brushing myself off. “Thank you.”

“I remember the first time I had to write an article about some rich woman’s wardrobe. I was so nervous that I tore the sleeve off of Polly Mellen’s bouclé Chanel suit. Right at the shoulder.” She shakes her head, and with the wisdom and security of success says,

“Don’t worry about it at all.”

And, with that, I feel more at ease. Lisa McLellon was once like 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 20

20

D a n i e l l a B r o d s k y

me. And now, she has all this. My jealousy gives way to faith. I can do this, too, I find myself thinking. I just know I can.

The interview goes very well. I ask all the right questions. That means my questions got her engaged and speaking in an animated tone about all sorts of topics you could never have planned to ask.

Lisa is very impressed with my fashion knowledge. At a football field’s distance, I can spot an Alaïa sheath, a Gucci blazer. I know the year each was made. She takes me lovingly through the contents of her closet, which is fitted with a moving rack system, pointing out a Chloe blouse she is eternally devoted to, because she got her first
Vogue
assignment when she was wearing it, a Prada blossom-printed A-line dress she wore the first time she went to Paris for the fashion shows, and tons of other pieces that, together, really weave together the history of her fascinating life. At this moment, I love my job. I could just stand here all day and hear stories about Kate Moss and André Leon Talley and parties at Le Cirque.

And the best thing about Lisa is that she doesn’t ever forget for a second where she came from. Lisa worked her way all the way up from an assistant to the assistant of the assistant editor at
Vanity Fair
, fetching coffees and undergarments for her superiors. And look where she is now.

Three hours later, I really don’t want to leave. So when we are through with her closet and all of the “sportif,” “dress,” “vixen,”

and “everyday” shoes are back in their pristine Lucite boxes—a mosaic of Swarovski crystals, buckskin, crocodile, and satin—and all of the garments are resting for their next outing on satin hang-ers, I am delighted when she asks, “Do you have a few minutes to drink a cappuccino with me? The weather is so nice, and I would love to sit on the veranda for a bit.”

“I would love to,” I say. When we have both lit cigarettes and Sevilla appears, again in seconds flat, with our steaming cappucci-21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 21

D i a r y o f a Wo r k i n g G i r l 21

nos, I realize that I really need to ask some practical advice of Lisa.

You don’t get opportunities like this every day. So, I venture, “Lisa, would you mind if I asked you a professional question?”

“Sure, shoot.”

She is really so sweet, and that gives me hope that there are many good people in this world, and then I feel bad again for having envied her wardrobe. I try to push that away, but when I realize this is not going to happen, I accept that I can be both jealous and thankful at the same time. So, I continue, “Well, I always read your articles, they are all so great, by the way, and, I have to ask, where do you get your ideas?”

A yellow bird alights on the iron scrollwork separating us from Fifth Avenue. Lisa takes no notice, and I think feathered friends stopping over for a visit must be an everyday sort of thing in this world as she takes a long, silent sip, her pinky pointing out gracefully, and says, “A lot of people ask me that question. And I always say that all you really have to do is keep your eyes and ears open.

The ideas are all around you. And then, what you have to do is ask questions about those things. For instance, I just broke the heel of my favorite pair of Manolos, and I was literally jetting off to Spain that evening. And so I had to get them fixed, because they go with that—”

“Alaïa dress,” I finish her sentence. I just can’t help myself.

“Yes, that’s the one.” She flashes her extremely white teeth here.

“And I’m sure you can tell why I needed to pack that dress. So, I researched the best place to go for same-day repairs, and then asked about what types of things they can fix and which ones they can’t, and so on. And then I pitched a story about that. They used it in
Vogue
.”

“I see. Okay. So, I just have to really think about every single thing that is going on around me. Real-life stuff.” I am thinking 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 22

22

D a n i e l l a B r o d s k y

this is horrible, common-sense sort of advice that will not help me in the least, nor anyone else who hasn’t the connections that Lisa does, and I don’t feel so bad about the wardrobe-envy anymore.

Don’t I do this already? Hadn’t I just pitched a story about hair color after I got my color done? And hadn’t it been rejected? “That is great advice. Thanks so much,” I offer anyway, since she is such a great connection and she has been so nice. I can’t very well say,

“Thanks for nothing.”

To maintain my sanity, I again reiterate to myself that her success with this strategy, and my failure with it, has to do with connections—both wealth and lack of, respectively. She has them, and I don’t. That’s my problem. It can really be the only answer. This last discourse leaves me feeling hopeless and almost entirely wipes out the ray of hope that had been with me during my stay here.

“Just keep your eyes open for the signs,” Lisa reminds me as Sevilla begins her pedicure with a hot soak right there on the veranda. She picks up the
Times
, by way of ending the meeting—and again, this isn’t rude, this is just Lisa—and after a second, lifts her head to the sun and says as I turn to go, “That is what takes time, my dear, knowing what to look for.”

Back at my apartment, I unlock the door, and scoop up the
Times
with my two spare fingers and it seems amazing that both Lisa McLellon and myself have possession of something as commonplace as the same newspaper. My balancing act with the paper works fine until it is not working fine, which is to say until the
Times
falls to the floor, sections spilling out all over. “Shit,” I say, resuming my solo hallway act of curses and exclamations. Again, this does nothing to rouse cute neighbors or even not-so-cute neighbors.

Once inside my apartment, I turn all of my current negativity toward the printed pages. But, still whirling from Lisa’s wardrobe, I 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 23

D i a r y o f a Wo r k i n g G i r l 23

am operating in a heightened state of discovery and taking note of each and every detail with the sort of wonder an infant would encounter with, say, a torn scrap of gift wrap. Taking a quick look at the Sunday Styles section, I glance through the topics, already clucking my tongue at my stupidity for not having thought of the various stories and the paper’s stupidity for having chosen topics so close in nature to those I sent in, only about entirely different products under entirely different pretenses. After about ten minutes of this, I pile the rest of the useless sections on top. The last is the Business section. I have never opened this section in my life. I don’t think I would like anyone who reads this section. What is even inside of it?