So what’s next for Bea and Asher? With two kids and two booming careers, the private couple says they love their life exactly the way it is. With such a great life to live, who could blame them?
Life with Asher in Brooklyn just fit; it felt right to Bea the way you sometimes pull on a great pair of jeans and intuitively know they’re going to button. She loved their ramshackle apartment in a Park Slope brownstone, loved Saturday mornings at street fairs with the kids and Saturday nights cooking at home, loved her wild and motley coworkers at Teen Vogue, loved weekly Sunday dim sum with Asher’s parents, loved long weekends in L.A. drinking wine with Marin and Alison, loved falling asleep with her head on Asher’s chest, loved waking up to his truly horrible morning breath.
She did not love winter. But you couldn’t have everything in life—it wouldn’t be fair.
This particular day was a perfect New York spring—lovely and cool with a soft breeze that made the whole city smell like fresh-cut flowers. Bea had been running around to meetings all day (the samples had just come in for her collaboration with Alison, and everyone was freaking out about the changes that still needed making). Her feet were killing her and she would have murdered ten men for an iced latte, but she needed to get to the Vogue offices at CondéNast, because she had angled for months for this appointment, and she absolutely could not be late.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry!” She rushed into the lobby, where Asher, Gwen, and Linus were waiting—Linus looked positively smashing in a long, structured kimono, which he’d paired with chunky brogues.
“You look amazing,” Bea said, pulling him into a hug. “You’re going to be the best-dressed person at Vogue.”
“Are you sure? I changed my outfit so many times.” He wrung his hands nervously.
Bea could tell from the way Asher tilted his head that the phrase “many times” was not an exaggeration.
“Hi,” she said, kissing Asher quickly and leading the group to the elevators. “Your day okay?”
“Better now,” he said with a smile.
“Dad, I hate to say it, but you’ve become a sap,” Gwen observed.
“Come on, Gwen,” Bea teased. “He’s been a secret sap all along.”
Once they arrived at Vogue, a colleague of Bea’s met them at reception for the main event: a tour of the fabled Vogue closet. Linus had been begging for a visit ever since Bea started her job, and after many months of finagling, it was finally happening. He was absolutely beside himself as they toured the rooms of slacks and ball gowns, raincoats and rompers. Bea was pretty impressed herself—it wasn’t every day you got to share a room with couture from the annals of fashion history.
The tour ended with the fabulous accessories closet, which was filled with scarves, belts, shoes galore, and even a couple of capes. Bea’s colleague told Linus it was okay for him to try some things on, and Bea thought he might actually pass out right there.
“I think he’s having the best day of his life.” Bea linked her arm through Asher’s.
“Maybe he’s not the only one,” Asher said, his lips twitching in a cryptic little smile.
“You’re enjoying this that much?” Bea laughed. “Do you have a shoe fetish you haven’t told me about?”
“Now that you mention it, I’ve been thinking you could use a new accessory. I have a pretty specific idea in mind.”
“Oh yeah?” Bea stammered. “Are you picturing, like, some sunglasses? Or a hat?”
“No,” Asher said as he dropped to one knee. He took a black velvet box from his jacket pocket, and as he opened it, Bea saw a glimmer of rose gold and opals through her tears. “I was thinking more like a ring.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Emma Caruso, thank you for reading a proposal on a train and fighting like hell for three years to make it into a book. Thank you for your sharp instincts and tireless commitment, for pushing me at every turn to make this novel better—and for wrestling my laptop away when I was hell-bent on making it worse. If I aspire to be the literary Ashley I. (after all, this book was my first), then you are the Rhode Island Jared I’ve dreamed of my whole life. And the single-space editorial letters were our Paradise. And Caitlin McKenna was Chris Harrison. Emma, I’m sorry to say this, but I don’t see any way around it: We did the damn thing. Thank you forever.
Morgan Matson, thank you for being the first person to tell me I should write a book, for your inexhaustible reservoirs of guidance, and for your miraculous/infuriating ability to solve the toughest story problems in twenty seconds flat. (Seriously, how do you do that?? Whatever, let’s go to Vegas and watch a Marvel movie.)
Julia Cox and Ali Schouten, thank you for the hundreds of pages of manuscripts you’ve read and the thousands of glasses of wine we’ve shared. Thank you to Jenna Lowenstein, Sharon Greene, Amanda Litman, Sonia Kharkar, and Sneha Koorse for reading various drafts and giving invaluable feedback, to Meg Vázquez for your insight on all things visual (and my fabulous author photo!), and to Megan Lubin and Shareeza Bhola for being my personal PR gurus.
I’m indebted to the many writers who’ve influenced my thinking on fat acceptance, including Your Fat Friend, Roxane Gay, Michael Hobbes (whose article “Everything You Know About Obesity Is Wrong” should be required reading for every human), Michelle V. Scott, and Lindy West. I’m grateful to Samantha Puc, Tracy Russo, and Sabrina Hersi Issa for helping me think through changes to earlier versions of this novel to make Bea more inclusive and relatable for women of all sizes, and to Jenna Lowenstein, Jess Morales Rocketto, Amanda Litman, and Danielle Kantor for the endlessly wonderful text threads about life in (and fashion for!) plus-size bodies.
If Marin gives Bea any good advice in this book, it’s because Sonia Kharkar, Megan Lubin, and Meg Vázquez gave it to me first. I’m sorry for plagiarizing you so rampantly; it’s your own fault for being so fucking smart. Thank you. I love you.
Thank you to my family: Dad and Dede, who always believe in me (and who generously put me up in a problematic cabin when I flipped out that I ABSOLUTELY COULD NOT FINISH THIS DRAFT); Rebecca, Rob, Zoe, and Jessica, who drag me into nature against my will and make me happier than any other humans on the planet; Jill (and Liz and Rich), who graciously hosted me for dozens of writing retreats by the lake; my grandmother Bobby Stayman, whose indomitable spirit has inspired me all my life; Florence, who taught me colors, kindness, and French; Liz, Norah, and especially Arlene, who made me a reader, and then a writer.
I’ve been lucky to have some truly amazing teachers, and I want to mention a few of them here: Thank you to Dolores Antoine, Marcia Greenwald, Gail Ciecierski, Dennis Murray, Tom Manos, Shana Stein, Brad Riddell, Ted Braun, Janet Scott Batchler, Aaron Rahsaan Thomas, Michael Saltzman, Steven Bochco, Trey Callaway, and particularly Connie Congdon, who taught me how to listen, and how not to be afraid.
Thank you to Whitney Frick for steering the ship so peerlessly, to Sarah Horgan for our gorgeous cover, and to everyone at Random House who worked so hard to get us across the finish line: Jess Bonet, Melissa Sanford, Avideh Bashirrad, Cindy Berman, Maria Braeckel, Susan Corcoran, Barbara Fillon, Rachelle Mandik, Jen Valero, Sasha Sadikot, and the incredible RH sales force, whose enthusiasm made my heart grow about fifty sizes. Thanks also to Fiona Davis for helping us launch this book with a bang.
Thank you to Corey Ackerman and Katy McCaffrey for championing me and my writing, and to Helen Land for showing me how much better my life could get (then helping me through the door). Thank you to Trish Welte, Erin Kamler, Rachel LaBruyere, Tia Subramanian, and Taylor Salditch. As some artists thank God at the Grammys, so now would I like to thank Hillary Rodham Clinton. Thank you for inspiring the HFA family every day to do all the good we can.
Okay. Last one.
Thank you, Julia Masnik. Thanks for signing me off a makeup blog. Thank you for Sondra. Thank you for giving me a reason to keep going in 2016 when I couldn’t get out of bed, then for gently pointing out that while writing three pages might feel like a big accomplishment,
it was not enough to sell a book. Thank you for knowing immediately that this idea was the one. Thank you for being my favorite snob, for ebbing my panic one jillion times per annum, for bringing Lisa Vanderpump levels of elegant real talk into my life on the daily. And that one time, when I was in a genuine crisis and you stayed on the phone with me until I was better, and I thanked you for being a really good agent? Thank you for reminding me that you are also, in point of fact, my friend. Champagne wishes and all the rest of it. We’re here because of you.
Kate Stayman-London is a novelist, screenwriter, and political strategist. She served as lead digital writer for Hillary Rodham Clinton’s 2016 presidential campaign and has written for notable figures ranging from President Obama and Malala Yousafzai to Anna Wintour and Cher. When not writing or traveling, Kate can be found obsessively ranking Taylor Swift songs, laughing loudly with friends over really good bottles of wine, and, of course, watching reality TV. She lives in Los Angeles.
katestaymanlondon.com
Twitter: @_ksl
Instagram: @__ksl
One To Watch Page 37
