Fashionistas (19 page)

M
y promotion comes with a change in venue and Jane gives me Eleanor’s old office. Recently turned into a storeroom out of spite, the space is filled with old issues, which maintenance has stacked neatly in the corner. March, April, May, June, July, August and September of last year form towers that stand as high as the light switch and they tremble whenever I come near. Maintenance has promised to return tomorrow or the next day to remove them, but I have little faith in that actually happening. My promotion seems as sturdy as a house of cards, and the pile in the corner is only a temporary concession. The magazines are like grains of sand and they will soon settle into every crack and crevice.

Because my office is twice the size of Marguerite’s and because it should rightfully be hers, I’m feeling slightly abashed as I knock on her door.

“Vig, come in,” Marguerite says welcomingly. “Congratulations on your promotion. Senior editor—
quel magnifique.
Come, sit down and tell me all about it.”

Marguerite—or her factotum—has done a bit of redeco
rating since I was last here: The chairs now have all four legs and they don’t squeak. It’s a vast improvement. “There’s really nothing to tell.”

“Did you know something like this was in the works? How long were you at the associate level?” she asks. Her manner is pleasant, but beneath the bland smile I can see her mind working. She’s trying to figure out how my advancement will lead to her downfall. Everything Jane has done in the past two weeks has been with this in mind and I can’t blame her for being suspicious.

“Only a year,” I say, although they were twelve very long months. “I had no idea it was even possible. You usually have to wait for someone to leave.”

“Hmm, yes, that’s what I thought. I guess Jane just thought you were in particular need for a reward,” she says, as if reasoning aloud a mathematical equation. Jane’s generosity plus Vig’s promotion equals Marguerite’s undoing.

Her figures are a little off but she can’t know that. “I guess.”

“Well, whatever the reason, I’m sure you’re worthy. You strike me as a very clever girl,” she says, crossing her hands on the desk and leaning forward. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I wanted to discuss article ideas.”

“Excellent. I’m all ears.”

“I know we were talking about my doing more service items—”

“Yes, I have the list right here, but I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet,” she says, smiling apologetically.

This is not why I’m here. I can barely remember the things I’d written on that list. “Actually, I have an idea that’s very different from what we talked about. It’s not as useful as a service item, but it’s more substantial than our usual.”

Intrigued, she leans forward. “Yes?”

This is all the encouragement I need and I talk for a little while about Pieter van Kessel, explaining my idea for a se
ries of articles that follows a young talent through all the stages of success. Marguerite is receptive and thoughtful and she takes notes, as if what I’m saying actually matters. Her enthusiastic response reinforces my decision to follow up with van Kessel. I’ll follow up with him and write my article and keep my fingers crossed, but I have no illusions. A promotion means freedom and responsibility, but it gives me no control over content.
Fashionista
’s content is like the Constitution of the United States: Only an act of Congress can alter it.

“Do keep me up-to-date on that,” she says, when I’m done raving about van Kessel’s designs. “I’d love to go to his next show.”

I’m almost flushing with pleasure. I can feel the color invading my cheeks and I fight it. I can’t be this susceptible to a little attention. I just can’t. “I’ll let you know when it is.”

“Excellent. Do you have other ideas you want to talk about?” She glances at her watch. “I’m always interested in fresh, exciting ideas. Australia is a little off the beaten path but that distance gave us the freedom to do a few groundbreaking articles. Perhaps you’re familiar with the series we did on young Aussie designers?”

I have never picked up a copy of Australian Vogue in my entire life, but I compliment her on the series anyway. It’s a harmless white lie and Marguerite’s smile brightens. “Excellent. Well, why don’t we run through some of these fresh and interesting ideas now and the rest you can submit in outline form.”

I can barely think for the deluge of thoughts that flood my head.
Fashionista
is an anomaly in the magazine world. Usually a publication is dependent on a constant influx of fresh and interesting ideas. We’ve managed to skirt this tricky issue by erasing fresh and interesting completely from our pages. From month to month the only thing that changes are the names, and the real challenge for our editors is finding the most current celebrities to grace our pages. The painful
truth is that the guy who reads the nominees for the Academy Awards is doing my job, only he’s doing it better.

“Well, I was thinking we could do an investigative piece on who the trendsetters really are,” I say slowly. This is something that has been knocking about in my head, but I haven’t fleshed it out yet. “We usually approach trends from the top, showing famous actresses in the latest style, but I think we should explore the flip side—the kids in the thrift stores who are the actual innovators,” I say, before giving a short lecture on the theory of trends (early adopters, late adopters and mass consumption). This was not my intention and I’m sure Marguerite has heard it all before, but I can’t help myself. The experience of having someone listen is too novel.

G
avin Marshall is like Belgium in the late teens. He’s the site of other people’s conflicts.

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” says Jane, as she flaps her napkin in the face of the artist’s publicist, Anita Smithers. “We can’t have the opening party there. It’s much too small a space. Where are the celebrities going to stand? Gavin, do you understand my concerns?”

“The Karpfinger is showing his work. We have to have it there, don’t we, darling?” Anita says, taking the thin white hand of her client in a display of solidarity that is completely one-sided. Anita is a physically imposing woman. Her bones are large and she stands over six feet tall. If you saw her in a deserted alley after dark, you’d run the other way fast.

Gavin says nothing. He’s a slight man, both in his physical appearance and the force of his presence. He seems content to stare into his gazpacho and pretend he’s alone at the table. I have seen him glance around him a few times, as if planning his escape, but for the moment he’s behaving admirably and staying put.

“Why can’t we have it somewhere more grand, like the Guggenheim?” Jane asks, stabbing her lettuce with a fork. She’s no longer trying to hide her agitation.

When we met the artist and his publicist in the bar of the Sea Grill restaurant, Jane and Anita disliked each other on sight and began snapping at each other almost instantly. I’m not surprised. They are almost the same person with their silk scarves and wraparound sunglasses.

“Because it’s a gallery showing and must be shown in a gallery.” She squeezes her client’s hand in encouragement. “Gavin, be a dear and explain the rather simple concept to her.”

Jane takes Gavin’s other hand. It’s his own fault. No one told him to put down the soup spoon and leave himself vulnerable. “I’m very sorry that I’m the only one at this table who thinks you deserve to be in a museum.”

Gavin’s work is already in several museums around the world, but Jane doesn’t know that. She’s like one of those seminar moderators you see at a place like the Museum of Television and Radio. The only things she knows about her guest are on the index cards her assistant wrote up.

Anita tells Gavin to list for Jane the museums that already display his work, but when he remains silent, she obligingly rattles it off for him. And there’s no reason she shouldn’t. Announcing his accomplishments to the world is what she’s paid to do.

“We will have the opening party in the Karpfinger Gallery and that’s that,” Anita says, tugging Gavin by the arm. She wants him to back her up with a grandstanding gesture. She wants him to storm out of the Sea Grill in an angry huff. “If you don’t like it, then there’s nothing more to discuss.”

Jane doesn’t want to be here. She’s not used to dealing with people who behave as badly as she, and she doesn’t know how to handle it. If it didn’t mean besting Marguerite at her own game, she’d charge out of here on a cloud of Tresor. “I’d like to indulge in the luxury of throwing a tantrum like you, but Gavin’s work is too important. I must overcome my personal
feelings for the sake of art. Some of us are capable of making sacrifices.”

Anita’s upper lip curls in disgust. She’s been making sacrifices for art for more than half her life and doesn’t need this philistine taking the high moral ground with her. “We’re having the party at the Karpfinger.”

Jane’s control over her temper is slipping, and she’s a hair-breadth away from walking out despite her spite.

“Jane, why don’t you pick the place for the after-party,” I suggest.

“The after-party?” Anita asks.

“I know just the place—Mehanata 416 B.C.” Jane says, naming a rundown Bulgarian restaurant that supermodels flock to. After-parties are some of Jane’s favorite things. They are usually more exclusive than the main event and you often catch celebrities on the rebound. “We’ll get the back room. We’ll need a D.J. Vig, sort that out.” She turns to Gavin. “You’ll be the guest of honor, of course. You’re going to need a proper wardrobe,” she says, examining his beat-up jeans and worn T-shirt. “You’ll go shopping with me. I know all the right people.”

I intervene before Jane can pull his arm off. She has already terrified him. He’s staring at his hand in hers as if it’s an alien life form. He is prepared to sacrifice the extremity to save himself. “Hey, isn’t that Damien Hirst over there? And he’s waving at you,” I say, pointing vaguely in the direction of some potted plants in the corner.

The two women are surprised and loosen their grips. Gavin breaks free and stands up. “I must say hello. I don’t want to be rude.” His manner is apologetic, but there’s a relieved look in his eyes.

“You’ll work everything out between you?” I don’t want to leave Jane and Anita alone, but I have no choice. If Gavin backs out, then the plan doesn’t work.

When we’re on Fifth Avenue and away from prying eyes, he turns to me. “I’m starving. Want to get something to eat?”

“All right,” I say, shocked that he hasn’t run away. I would. I’d flee in the opposite direction as fast I could. “What do you want?”

“Not gazpacho.”

“There’s a sandwich and salad place up the street.”

“Sounds good. Lead the way.”

“You seem surprisingly normal,” I say.

“I don’t know how else to handle Anita except ignore her,” he explains in his posh accent. “She’s really easy to take when you’re catatonic.”

“Why do you put up with her?”

Gavin shrugs. Now that we’re away from his publicist, his features are more relaxed. His wide blue eyes no longer eat up his face. “My agent swears by her and I swear by my agent. She’s good at what she does.”

I consider saying the same about Jane but common sense prevails. He wouldn’t believe me anyway, so I change the subject. “We’re very excited about the prospect of working with you.”

“You are?” he asks, his tone faintly skeptical.

Jane has done more damage than I realized. “Don’t judge
Fashionista
by our editor in chief. She’s more a figurehead than anything else.”

We arrive at Lou’s Café and I hold the door open for him. It’s a tiny restaurant with only seven tables, but thanks to the lateness of the hour—somehow it’s already two-thirty—we have no trouble getting a booth. The hosts sits us by the window, where sunlight is pouring in. Despite the air-conditioning, I’m warm.

“I judge
Fashionista
by
Fashionista,
” he says, taking a menu from the waiter. “It’s a very silly magazine.”

I’m about to give a boilerplate speech about our importance in the cultural marketplace, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I fall back on the truth. “Yes, I know. But we’re trying to make it more substantial. That’s where you come in.”

“Really?”

“
Fashionista
can’t suddenly be a magazine about something. Our readers would revolt. Your work provides us with the opportunity to cover something vital and important in the art world while at the same time giving readers what they want—celebrities and high-fashion designs. You’ll make us look good,” I explain.

He considers this for a moment. “Are you sure you won’t just make me look ridiculous?”

“This is what will happen,” I say, outlining the process for him with the intent of putting him at ease. “We’ll send over a photographer and a journalist to your studio in London. The photographer will complain about poor lighting for ten hours while our journalist treats you to lunch and asks simple questions about your work: Where do you get your ideas from? Who are your influences? Then we’ll get a few words from the designers who are used in your pieces—honored to be part of a such a fine exhibition, reminds me of myself when I was just starting out. Finally, we’ll track down a few art experts who will praise and defend your controversial work—art must go forward or it must go away, the risks of eternal damnation are great, but the rewards of art are greater.” I shift in my seat, trying to hide from the sun. “Nothing to fear. It’ll be two thousand words that you’ve seen before.”

“That’s it?” Like someone reading a contract, he’s trying to find the small print. But there is no small print.

“That’s it.”

“You promise?”

“I’m a senior editor. I can’t promise anything to anyone,” I say honestly, “but I don’t see what else they can do other than work the celebrity angle. Do any famous people own your artwork?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, then there’s no reason to worry about that. There’s no reason to worry about anything,” I assure him. “We’ll devote eight lovely pages to your work and all you have to do
is have your picture taken in front of the
Fashionista
backdrop. Do you think you can handle that?”

Gavin Marshall nods and picks up a menu. He’s tired of talking about business. “What do you recommend?”

“The mandarin chicken salad is delicious,” I say.

When the waiter finally comes over, we both order chicken salad. We eat our salads and drink lemonade and discuss his ideas behind Gilding the Lily.

Gavin’s good company, and I try to relax as I listen to him explain how his work is a comment on the spiritually bereft religion of high fashion. I try to unwind, but I can’t squelch a niggling feeling that his concerns are more than justified. I have spoken the truth—I don’t see what else they can do—but my imagination isn’t infinite. Just because I haven’t thought of it doesn’t mean Dot or Jane or Lydia won’t. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy.