Fashionistas (13 page)

J
ane’s editing style is thorough and compact and consists of passing around your article to other editors to get their feedback. She distributes the raw copy after she’s torn it apart with her red pen and her soul-destroying fragments (stupid idea, dumb phrasing, pointless and useless) and the other editors cannot help but see your humiliation. They can’t help but see it, and rather than buoy your self-confidence with a polite word or two, they second Jane’s comments with exclamation points and heartfelt yesses. By the time you get the story back, you feel like a zebra whose eviscerated carcass has been picked over by vultures.

Since Jane’s assistant doesn’t do anything other than assist her, I wasn’t assigned an article until my first week as an assistant editor. This was something I’d been waiting for for two years, and my enthusiasm did not dim when I learned that it was just one of those hairdo stories, the sort that provides step-by-step directions on how to copy Nicole Kidman’s Oscar look. My enthusiasm remained high and I painstakingly translated the stylist’s instructions for
Fashionista
’s au
dience (“Apply quarter-size dollop of Bumble and Bumble Prep to palm and smooth over hair”). The piece was streamlined (no articles) and never once strayed from the point (all Nicole’s hair, all the time) but still Jane found much to criticize. She didn’t like a single thing about it, and when I finally managed to breathe some life into my deflated ego and type up a second version, she flattened me again, this time with her complete indifference (“And why are you wasting my time with this?”).

In the end, the Nicole hair piece went to print in its original form. When the fact-checkers sent over the edited version to the stylist, he had so many problems with it that he called me up personally. He rang me up himself to discuss it and we ran through every line. It turned out that the things Jane deemed pointless and useless (“Twist ends and tuck them under”) were vital bits of information, without which the hairstyle wouldn’t work. The small sense of satisfaction I felt was short-lived. With the next article already on my docket (actual Mother’s Day recipes from actual celebrity mothers), it was open season again on Vig.

What I didn’t know then was that it is always open season on Vig. Although Jane can’t be bothered to read most of the copy we publish, she takes a special interest in mine. Whenever she’s frustrated or at loose ends, she calls up a story I’m working on and tears it to shreds. She’s like a bored five-year-old with a butterfly’s wings in her grasp. With one fierce tug, she grounds me.

C
ircumstance and his own intractability force me to blackmail Keller.

“This is my first time,” I say, as if apologizing for the lack of resolution in my manner, “so bear with me. And please let me know if I’m not doing it right.”

This isn’t how I meant to gain his compliance. I had a speech all prepared in my head—in times of crisis, all citizens must do their share to alleviate tyranny—that I delivered with the right amount of patriotic fervor. I could practically hear the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” humming in the background.

Alex Keller was unmoved. “Sorry,” he said with a regretful shake of his head. His disappointment seemed genuine. “I can’t help you out. I’d like to but Jane McNeill is my greatest ally in the help-Alex-become-an-architect scheme. A new editor in chief might actually want me to show my face at staff meetings or call me into her office at the last minute. With one more year of school left, I can’t run that risk. Jane’s indifferent editing style really works for me.”

“But it makes for an awful magazine,” I protested.

He watched as Quik bared his teeth at a frisky Chihuahua who wants to play. The indolent chocolate Lab wasn’t having any of that. “The public doesn’t think so. Sales are up.”

This is true. “All right. But it makes for an awful work environment.”

“Then don’t go into the office,” he said, as if the help-Alex-become-an-architect scheme is something anyone with a little willpower could implement, like an exercise routine. I’m amazed the whole thing hasn’t come toppling down on his head before now.

“You know that’s not an option,” I said impatiently, my voice rising. The woman next to me, who was doing the
Times
crossword while her Chihuahua harassed Quik, looked at me with a puzzled expression. I shrugged.

“Then get a new job. How long have you been there?” he asked.

“Five years,” I mumbled, suddenly feeling as though I’d been there four-and-a-half years too long.

“Well, then,” he said, as if this answer explains everything, “I don’t think a new editor in chief is the change you’re looking for. Jane is the system. Either you work within it or you get out. That’s the choice you have.”

That was what I believed until a third option presented itself. “You owe me. I changed your sister’s life,” I announced almost peevishly. This is precisely the sort of stupid thing you say when you’re being thwarted, and it made Keller laugh.

He laughed with such exuberance and genuine humor that Quik actually got up and dragged his lazy carcass over to investigate.

It was in the wake of this humiliation that I settled on blackmail.

“This is a first for me, too,” he says now, my extortion attempt only amusing him further. “But we’re both reasonably intelligent people. I’m sure we’ll figure out the procedure sooner or later.”

Gangster movies have not prepared me for this reaction. He is supposed to straighten his shoulders and draw his eyebrows together in righteous anger and insist that he’ll never give in to a scoundrel like me seconds before giving in. “You help us bring down Jane and I won’t say a word about your double life.” I’m only bluffing. Regardless of how this works out, I won’t say a word about his double life. However, he doesn’t need to know that. “Either way you play it, things are going to change. Now, there’s no guaranteeing that a new editor in chief will require your presence more than Jane does. However, if I tell Human Resources about your scheme, they will fire you.
That
is guaranteed.”

Keller nods. “And what do I have to do?”

“Just add an event to the list of parties you plan to cover in future issues.”

“Yes, but what are the details? What event, what month?”

“November. It’s an opening party for an exhibit called Gilding the Lily. The artist’s name is Gavin Marshall. And you might want to throw in a few A-list celebrities to convince Jane that it’s a really huge event. I’ll take care of the rest,” I say, an awful feeling of guilt cluttering my nerves. It’s tougher to be a hardened blackmailer than I thought.

“That’s it? Just put Marshall on the November party schedule?” he asks, as if outlining the terms of a contract. “And in exchange you won’t tell anyone about my double life? That’s all I have to do?”

Although I feel awful about extracting a promise under duress, I say, “That’s all you have to do.”

“All right. And what’s to stop me from telling Jane about your devious plan to orchestrate her downfall?” he says, turning the tables on me.

My heart drops in its cavity as I realize I’ve given too much away. There is nothing to stop him. There is nothing at all to stop him from telling Jane and getting me fired. With our destructions mutually assured, I look at him across the bargaining table. I’m contemplating all possible futures and
wondering which one would suit me best. Getting fired from a job I can’t seem to quit isn’t a tragedy. I smile recklessly. An itchy finger doesn’t belong on the activation button of an A-bomb.

“Never mind then,” I say, deciding in the end to step away from global thermal nuclear war. There is no point in antagonizing him further; Keller isn’t the key player we thought he was. He’s so infrequently in the office and so rarely does his job that the plan could go forward without his help and without his knowledge. We just needed to get Delia on board. Delia would no doubt welcome the opportunity to move up the editorial ladder without Jane’s prejudices holding her steady on the bottom rung.

“Never mind?” he asks suspiciously.

“Never mind. You’ve effectively outmaneuvered me, so never mind.” I smile to let him know there are no hard feelings. “It was always a long shot anyway.”

Keller pats Quik on the head and sits beside me silently for a while. The woman with the Chihuahua stands up and calls, “Here, Cookie. Mummy wants to leave.” But Cookie isn’t ready to leave. Although her owner may have finished the Saturday crossword puzzle, Cookie isn’t done with her game and continues to chase an overly groomed black poodle around the perimeter of the dog run. With a frustrated sigh, the woman puts down the newspaper and scurries after her dog. Keller and I watch, neither one of us trying particularly hard to hide our amusement.

“I’ll do it,” says Keller, when the woman has Cookie by the leash again.

I’m so involved with the scene that I assume I’ve misheard him. “What?”

“I said I’ll do it.”

“Why?” I’m not prepared now for total capitulation. When I introduced the subject a half hour ago I thought it was a very real possibility but after the blackmail and the counterblackmail, I abandoned hope.

Keller smiles. “Three reasons. One—it can’t work. Two— I’ve had a good run. Three—Delia deserves better.”

“You don’t know the whole plan,” I say, feeling oddly defensive. You shouldn’t insult things you don’t understand.

“I have a pretty good idea,” he says, “but that wasn’t the real deciding factor. The only way I’ve been able to rationalize having Delia do my job for the last couple of years was believing that I was just keeping the seat warm for her. A new editor in chief might give her the promotion she deserves.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“I know.”

I look at him, startled. “You know?”

“You’re transparent, Vig. You give everything away with your face.”

This is something I’ve never been told before and I don’t quite believe that I’m transparent. I’m capable of great subterfuge and guile. But since he has agreed to help, I don’t press the point.

J
ane’s office is like a pizza parlor. The walls are covered with snapshots of celebrities who have wandered in off the street. Everywhere you look it’s Jane and Brad, Jane and Meryl, Jane and Julia. With her arm draped around some famous person’s shoulder and her lips smiling in that “we’re buddies” way, she looks just like Famous Ray, only without the tomato-paste-splattered white apron.

These photos are vaguely unsettling and whenever I enter her office, I avert my gaze. I always keep my eyes fixed on the view outside, on the lights of Radio City Music Hall and away from the pulsating naked ambition that adorns the walls. Jane is like one of those changelings on soap operas who shows up on some special night claiming to be the illegitimate daughter of the wealthy land baron. She’s an ambitious climber. She wants to be one of the beautiful people. She wants to see and be seen. She wants Page Six to document her every move. She wants to turn her head away from rabid paparazzi.

“What, what, what!” she spurts angrily, when I step inside.

It’s not yet eleven-thirty, but Jane’s temper is already frayed. Her morning was kicked off with a telephone call from Marguerite, who just wanted to let her know that the private Cessna that was flying her in from Bangor was running a little bit behind schedule. Prince Rainier of Monaco had an important business meeting in D.C. and needed to be dropped off first. Marguerite, who could do nothing but bow her head in the presence of royalty, promised to be in the office no later than noon. This is not the sort of news that kicks off a good morning for Jane. It robs her of the smug satisfaction she had been feeling all weekend and enrages her. There is nothing she hates more than having her plans to thwart thwarted.

“What, what, what!” she says again, determined to take her ire out on anyone who has the misfortune to walk through her door.

“I have coverlines for the November issue,” I explain, although she knows exactly why I’m here. Jane never sees anyone unless their purpose is stated, vetted and okayed.

“All right, all right. Bring them here.” She is waving her pen in the air like some sort of maniacal sketch artist.

I tighten my grasp on the manila folder and approach her desk. My palms are a little sweaty and my heart is beating abnormally fast. This is it. With Jane on the warpath because of Marguerite’s Maine sojourn, there can be no better moment to strike.

I’m holding several folders, as if I’ve just come from one meeting and am about to go to another. I lay all of them down on her desk and open the top one. “Here they are,” I say, my voice stiff. I’m not worried that Jane will notice anything. Her powers of observation are limited to herself. I cough and try again. “It’s this page. Right here.”

Jane picks up the sheet of paper. She will make a great show of reading it and carefully considering each coverline but none of this will make an impression. None of this will penetrate her indifferent skull and in a week or two I will be
called into her office and taken to task for not showing her coverlines. It’s a stupid routine, one that I won’t miss when Marguerite is in charge.

After grunting a few times, she nods her head dismissively. I pick up my stack of folders but I don’t get a proper grasp on them all and the contents of the bottom folder spill all over Jane’s desk.

Jane scoffs in annoyance. “What a clumsy mess you are,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” I say, gathering up the papers. I leave the memo for Marguerite for last. It’s right beneath Jane’s nose and sooner or later her eyes will connect with her nemesis’s name. I move slowly to give her more time.

“What’s this?” she asks, finally taking the bait.

“It’s just a memo.”

“Don’t be stupid. I can see it’s a memo from the way it says memo in large black letters across the top.” She puts on her glasses and scans it quickly. “What’s the Gilding the Lily exhibit?”

“Uh, nothing,” I say evasively. “Just something Marguerite asked me to look into.”

Jane nods and purses her lips. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why did she ask you to look into it?”

“You’ll have to ask her,” I say, hoping that she will do nothing of the sort.

“I’m asking you. Why is Marguerite looking into this exhibition?”

“I don’t know. She
might
have said something about it being the sort of thing that
Fashionista
should support,” I say hesitantly. “She thinks our name needs to be out there more.”

“She does?”

“Yes, I believe she said that wherever a celebrity stands posing for shots, our name should be there behind them.”

“Really?”

“She said it would boost sales and impress the publisher.”

“So, she’s trying to impress the publisher, is she?” Jane asks, almost under her breath.

“I don’t know,” I say, watching her carefully. I can see her mind turning and I know exactly what she’s thinking. After five years, she’s almost an open book.

“That’s all, Vig. Shoo,” she says, dismissing me. When I don’t leave, she gives me a cross look. “What, what, what!”

“The memo.” I hold out my hand.

For a moment she looks as if she won’t give it back. “Stupid distraction,” she says, balling up the memo, tossing it into her trash can and ostensibly returning to the pile of work in front of her.

I leave the office. Phase two complete.