Younger (2 page)

Chapter 1

April 14, 2011

The Ivy should have been a giveaway. Anna had been a friend and colleague of Richard Myerson’s long enough to know that despite the Gucci loafers and Armani suits, Richard remained a Midwestern boy at heart who saved relentlessly showbizzy places like The Ivy for some kind of occasion. He didn’t care that power-lunching was “out” in this year’s Hollywood or that The Ivy wasn’t what it used to be. “Neither am I, hon,” he’d said once when she pointed that out.

She pulled up out front, confident that she looked pulled together in all the right ways. The line of her caramel-and-honey-streaked bob was straight as a knife edge; her makeup was gauzy yet defined. Her clothes epitomized the three Cs: casual, chic, and costly—a cream cashmere Saks Fifth Avenue twinset, stretch Stella McCartney khakis, an old Marc Jacobs bag that could pass as beloved rather than a secondhand “steal” at $750, and the always-in-style SoCal accessory, a pair of Tod’s buff suede driving loafers. So what if their nubby rubber “pimple” soles hurt her feet? In Southern California, wearing $450 mocs was as close to pinning hundred-dollar bills to your shirtfront and calling it a tie as you could get. As a longtime maître d’ friend once told her, “They look at the shoes, the watch, and the bag. Then they decide where to seat you.” Her watch was a Tag Heuer, a splurge a few years back when she’d signed a big account. She looked good. No, she looked
great
. A self-employed image maker in LA had to.

Anna’s cream Mercedes CLS looked perfectly in place, too, as she stepped out of it by the valet stand. It was leased, of course, but that was how you got more car than you could otherwise afford.

She scanned the other vehicles awaiting parking—the valets drove them just around the corner, yet no one would dream of parking their own car here—but Richard’s red Jaguar convertible was nowhere to be seen, nor was the man himself.

Anna was seated on the terrace, halfway through a glass of Vernaccia, when he bustled in. “Ah, good, my favorite table.” He leaned to peck her cheek. “And my favorite girl. Sorry I’m late. One of those days. And the traffic? Don’t ask.”

“So, my favorite client, is this a business lunch or—”

He raised a hand. “First, we eat. I’m feeling like—”

“Crabcakes, then the chopped salad?” she asked.

“Am I such a creature of habit?” Behind his rimless glasses, pale gray tinted lenses today to match his gray linen suit, his eyes crinkled. “I suppose I am. And a gimlet to drink, I think. Now . . .” He craned around, shaved head gleaming as he scoped out the terrace as though seeking a waiter. “Anyone more glamorous than us here? Oh, look, isn’t that Angelina trying to pretend she’s hiding beneath that big hat?”

Even though much of their conversation, of their
lives
, revolved around working together and the business of marketing and its publicity and advertising offspring, Anna and Richard always had plenty of other things to talk about, so it was only when the plates had been cleared away and they’d ordered espresso that a silence descended as he seemed to search for the right words. “Oh, no, Richard! Please don’t tell me Clive didn’t like the scripts for the radio spots.”

“No, no, the whole campaign is fine. You’ve done a fantastic job.”

She sighed in relief and leaned back. She’d worked relentlessly on the Madame X “rejuvenating makeup” campaign. She’d been so consumed she hadn’t even considered that anyone might change their mind about her ideas, certainly not just weeks before the launch. But Richard’s obvious discomfort unnerved her.

“So why do I feel your next word will be
but
?”

“It’s Clive,” he said abruptly, his voice and face tight. “I’m sorry, Anna, but—”

“Don’t tell me I’m losing the account. Please don’t. You have that look . . . But that’s not possible!”

“You know if it were my decision—”

She blinked rapidly, fixing her gaze on the tablecloth as the waiter set down their cups. She wasn’t about to cry on the terrace of The Ivy. Nor would she make it easier for Richard. Even if it weren’t his fault, firing someone wasn’t supposed to be easy.

“When mergers happen, things get shuffled,” he said finally. “If Coscom were still just Coscom, you’d have work for life. But with Barton Pharmaceuticals’ acquisition, it’s a whole different kettle of fish.”

“I appreciate that. But—”

He held up his hand. “When you deal with Barton, it’s not like dealing with other health and beauty companies, not even the biggest. This isn’t Estée Lauder or Max Factor.” He shook his head. “It’s Big Pharma—BarPharm—sweetie. Probably worth billions. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why they wanted a fifty-million-dollar cosmetics company in the first place.”

“Coscom’s not just another cosmetics company, Richard. We made it a leader, you and I. We built Gawjus into a top retail brand: it
owns
the eighteen-to-twenty-nine-year-old demographic. Just like Madame X will end up owning the fifty-plus.” Her voice quavered. “I did good work.”

“And I’m the first person to say that. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the best PR and image consultant in the business.”

Anna broke the awkward pause. “So?”

“Clive Madden.” He sighed. “I fought for you. I promise I did. But he’s determined to bring in a young, hungry agency and pay them half of what you’ve been getting.”

“Why didn’t he ask if I might be willing to work for less? Why not give me a chance to keep the business?”

“I suppose guys like Clive Madden are ruthless. That’s why they’re flown in from the UK to run a company after a merger. And he says you’re out.”

“That’s it? ‘Thanks for the success, we’re looking for a newer model, buh-bye’?”

“Your contract says four months’ notice. Madden wants you on board for the New York launch; then you can go, so you’ll work a month and get a three-month payoff. That’s the best I could do. God, Anna, I’m so sorry. I really am.”

“Jesus! He’s going to make me work the launch?” Her laughter burned like acid in her throat. “Not too cold-blooded, is he? What do I say to the editors? ‘Try our fabulous new cosmetic line for older women. Sadly, I’ve been judged past it myself, so I’m out the door’?”

“You’re not past it. Don’t be silly. Look, Pierre Barton himself is coming over from London for the launch. Maybe you can dazzle the chief, get some other work out of all this.”

“Does he know I’m being shoved out?”

“Pierre Barton probably doesn’t know who either of us is. He’s the head of a pharmaceutical company who for whatever reason wants to be in cosmetics, too. Why he’s bothering to show for a makeup launch is beyond me. Maybe he thinks the beauty sector is some kind of glamorous whirl.”

“And I get to be on hand to pamper his ego. Why not?” She shrugged. “Maybe he’ll present me with me a lifetime supply of whatever knockoff of Xanax he churns out . . .” Anna stopped to collect herself. “Ignore me, Richard. I don’t mean to drench myself—and you—in self-pity, but I just can’t help it.”

“Hey, kiddo, you’re a survivor.” He reached across, squeezed her hand, and then made the “bill, please” gesture in the direction of the waiter. Anna knew the serious talk was over. When Richard called her “kiddo,” it signalled he was back in the foppish forties dandy mode he wore like a boutonniere. “And it’s not as though you don’t have other clients.”

Richard didn’t know how much Coscom had taken over her client list. Nor was she going to tell him. No reason to make him feel worse.

“Things will be all right,” he told her outside as they waited for their cars. “You’re a fighter. You’re going to land on your feet.”

“Maybe.” She forced an upbeat lilt. “But I’m fifty-seven years old. I’ve got more than a few years on these newbies hungry for accounts . . . all these Stacies and Dacies and Tracies. It’s scary.”

“Look at you: You don’t even look
forty
-seven. You’re the sharpest advertising and PR pro in health and beauty. And you are, always, the ultimate in cool and a pleasure to be with. You’re the best!”

“Aw, Richard, you’re my guy.” Her smile this time was genuine. “And I know this, too, shall pass. We’ll talk strategy next week, ’kay?”

“It’s a date. You’ll knock ’em dead, Anna.”

“And thanks for lunch, darling. Seriously.” She held her smile as his car arrived and he slid behind the wheel. But as soon as he’d driven off, she let the tears come. She couldn’t have stopped them if she’d wanted. And she didn’t give a damn if Angelina saw.

How could Richard have let this happen,
she asked herself as she headed toward Laurel Canyon. They’d been close friends since meeting soon after she’d arrived in California. They’d grown together through Coscom. And now?

By the time she’d emerged on the San Fernando Valley side of the canyon, she’d admitted to herself that anyone would have done what Richard had. Being her friend didn’t necessitate an “If she goes, I go” meltdown, certainly not at a time when companies were folding faster than bad bluffers at a high-stakes poker game and anyone with a job went to bed thankful.

She should have spoken to Richard about going in-house before the acquisition, when the economy was better. But she hadn’t. The Coscom founders—now living in opulent retirement in Palm Springs—were difficult, so she had been thrilled with the company acquisition and the arrival of the seemingly equable Clive Madden.

She clicked her garage door open and pulled in. Just being home in Studio City, in her part of town—the less glamorous, more down-to-earth part of town—would soothe her. She loved the single-story 1930s bungalow she bought fifteen years ago when first starting to earn decent money. With a big office for herself and a smaller one for an assistant in the back, it was her ideal home. Anna moved in and never looked back. Until she started losing clients.

All of them.
It was silly lying to Richard, but she feared even he might feel differently about her if he knew the truth. This was Los Angeles. Everyone loved a winner, and she was looking like less of one by the moment.

In the light-filled kitchen with its black vinyl diner booth and black-and-white checked linoleum, she poured herself a glass of pinot grigio, then she moved to the living room, slouching back on the overstuffed couch and staring at the peg-and-groove pine floorboards. She felt numb. And it wasn’t just shock. It was fear.
Her
car.
Her
house. Like hell. The Mercedes lease was up in just months; the car belonged to the dealership. She’d been trying to decide whether to buy it, paying it off over four years, or to lease a more expensive model.
Yeah, right,
she thought, raking her fingers through her long bangs and pushing the hair off her face. Forget the car; she’d be lucky to find a way to keep the house.

Anna had refinanced whenever the rates tumbled; even so, she had precious little equity in it because she saw refis as a way of giving herself bonuses. Her dwindling bank account wouldn’t buy her much time if she didn’t get clients. All that hard work—was she going to end up with nothing but a closetful of pricey clothes and some travel photos?

What she needed to do was get word out quickly and quietly that she was “accepting new clients,” agencyspeak for “desperate for work.” She made her way back to her office to check her email. Her Filofax lay open on the desk. It was one of the accessories that the digital natives had relegated to the 1980s dustbin, but she loved her fat black calfskin Filofax, with appointments scrawled in ink, just as she loved flipping through her old gray steel Rolodex to find phone numbers.

Among the emails, Anna found a much-needed reminder from her college friend Allie that they were meeting Jan for dinner at the Daily Grill at eight. Damn. She took her glass to the kitchen, then curled up on her bed for a brief nap. A nap and a hot shower—that would make her feel more like facing friends. Or so she hoped.