by Abby Stern
“You will be there, right?” she asks rhetorically. She looks at me with pleading eyes like she’s one of the African orphans I can save for just one dollar a day. “I can’t have a party without you. You’re my best friend in the entire state of California. You and Ethan can even sneak off and naughty snog in one of the spare bedrooms.” She winks again and I chuckle. “But you have to be there no matter what. Please. Promise me.” It’s impossible to say no to Holiday, even when you want to. Something about her eyes and the way she stares at you is hypnotic. She’d make a killing as a snake charmer in India, although I’m sure she’d replace the basket with a Birkin bag. I’d probably knock over a liquor store if she asked. I turn Bella on and flash her signature smile.
“Of course I’ll be there.”
Three
You’d think that the most popular celebrity gossip magazine would have trendy, contemporary offices, but they are as bland and as corporate as an insurance office. Except for the framed covers of The Life’s biggest-selling issues, it would never cross your mind that the e-mails leaving the cubicles contained the inside news on celebrities, glamour, fashion, and gossip.
Despite the antiquated décor of its offices, The Life holds incredible history for me.
When I was eight, The Life became my bible and escape. While my sister, Robin, conveniently likes to forget that she had a past as colorful as ROYGBIV, I remember it vividly. My coach refusing to put me in the soccer game after I arrived late because my parents were canvassing the neighborhood looking for my teenage sister. Not being able to go to the mall because my parents were in the midst of their weekly room check to see if Robin had hidden any alcohol.
I will never forget the evening I was amusing myself in the living room when another argument between my parents and Robin broke out.
“Ella, go to your room,” my father commanded. Whenever he raised his voice in the slightest, even if it wasn’t directed at me, it was sobering. He was a loving, doting father even though he was strict and had no problem enforcing the severest of punishments if the rules were broken.
“But I want to watch TV.”
“You can watch TV later,” he said sternly. I saw there wasn’t an ounce of amusement and he was losing his patience, but I didn’t want to miss out on something I wanted to do because of Robin again.
“But the shows I want to watch won’t be on later,” I whined.
“Ella, I’m going to count to three.” His facial expression didn’t break but I remained in front of the television. “One. Two. Th—” My mother stepped in and bailed me out.
“Here, sweetie, go to your room and read this.” She gave her newest copy of The Life to me. She hadn’t even opened it, so I knew this was a gesture of significance. The Life was my mother’s property and no one was allowed to touch it unless she’d read it cover to cover and asked permission. This never bothered me because as a child I didn’t have any interest in celebrities that weren’t Muppets, but that day I took the magazine and retreated to my room.
I don’t know what I was expecting, if anything at all, but as soon as I flipped the cover open, I was mesmerized. I’d never seen an unauthorized photo of a celebrity before. Sure, I’d seen pictures from red carpets and press events but seeing a paparazzi shot of Talk Show Host Turned Media Mogul minus the makeup leaving her workout was new. I turned page after page looking at photos and reading about the secret lives of celebrities. On one page an actress would be photographed looking like royalty with a step-by-step guide on how to duplicate her look, and on the next page, a photo of her sobbing at an LA café with the mascara that had been carefully applied per the previous instructions running down her face after a fight with her boyfriend. I was so engrossed in the magazine that I forgot there was an argument occurring in the other room. I hung on every word I was reading and grabbed a book of construction paper and a black crayon to write down the names of every restaurant, salon, and mechanic mentioned in The Life. I continued creating these lists, which eventually became my personal guide to Los Angeles, even though I wouldn’t end up there for another decade and three-quarters of the information inside my makeshift celebrity Filofax would be irrelevant.
“I’m sorry we had to send you to your room, sweetie,” my mother said as she gradually slid my door open. “We had to have an adult discussion with your sister. Do you understand?” I nodded my head. “Good.” She noticed that the immaculate copy of her magazine was now wrinkled and bent but she didn’t seem upset. “Did you like The Life?”
“Uh-huh!”
“I like it, too. It can be nice to escape into someone else’s world every once in a while. It’s also a good reminder that no matter how something looks on the outside, there’s usually something completely different going on beneath the surface.” She joined me in bed and put her arm around me and nestled me next to her. I looked up at her, sniffing her Ralph Lauren–spritzed neck until she pointed to an article about Teen Reality Star Turned Lifestyle Guru and her tips for a successful game night. “Have you read this one yet?”
“No.”
“How about we read it together?”
From then on reading The Life together became the ritual we bonded over. It had everything. Fairy tales, villains, tragedies, and glamour. She skipped or censored articles that were too mature for me, but I guess you could say she taught me about life through The Life. Reading that magazine together certainly did more to deter me from drugs than the D.A.R.E. school assembly.
* * *
“Ella Warren. I’m here for the meeting,” I tell the receptionist. She’s cold and obviously disinterested in who I am and my reason for being here.
“It’s in the conference room,” she says without even looking up from her computer.
I look both ways, as I have never been to the conference room before, and she finally points to the left. Once I’m in the conference room I’m met by blank stares from eight other girls I’ve never seen before. No one says hello or even makes an attempt to exchange pleasantries.
After sitting there for what seems like half an hour, Maggie arrives, and she isn’t alone. Behind her is a statuesque woman in her fifties. She looks like an aging Laura Petrie. Her jeans are tapered, her ballet flats are scuff-free, her white button-down shirt is crisp, and her gray hair is swept into a perfect low ponytail.
“Good afternoon, everyone, I appreciate you all coming,” Maggie begins. I try to catch her eye, but Maggie is all business today. She reminds me of the clipped Maggie I met that first night with Ethan, before we bonded. Strange. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Maggie Kalaf, West Coast news editor, and for those of you who don’t know the woman next to me, shame on you, but this is Victoria. The Life’s new editor in chief, Victoria—”
“Victoria Davis!” I blurt out.
Victoria glances in my direction and doesn’t smile but raises an eyebrow, impressed that I know who she is. The other girls roll their eyes at me, annoyed that I interrupted. I’m sorry but how could I not know who Victoria Davis is? The Victoria Davis is going to be my boss. I’d read her name on the masthead of The Life every time my mom and I opened the magazine together. She was the magazine’s first editor in chief and made The Life the institution it became. Victoria has a reputation for being ruthless and doing anything to get a story. To me, she’s as famous and talented as any celebrity that’s ever been splashed across its pages. She left about ten years ago after she’d made it the inimitable, number-one celebrity news magazine to helm the new fashion magazine Haute. While successful, she never managed to ascend to the level of success she had in the world of celebrity journalism. But she’s back!
“I’m sure you’re all wondering why you’ve been asked here today.” Victoria has the world’s worst smoker’s voice, a detail I hadn’t included in my childhood fantasies. “The announcement will be made next week that The Life has been sold to Patriot Media and Publishing. They’ve brought me on to do a complete overhaul of the magazine and Web site.” I can a
lmost hear the other girls’ heartbeats quickening in unison. “For the past two years The Life’s numbers for both the book and online have been stagnant. As of now, that is unacceptable,” she says, looking pointedly down her nose at us. “If the numbers aren’t increasing, it’s the same as a decline.”
There’s no foreplay with Victoria; not a trace of warmth in her voice. “I made The Life synonymous with Hollywood and celebrities and I am going to restore the intrigue and allure that this magazine was originally famous for. To do that, we need the best celebrity gossip out there.” She takes a beat for emphasis. “Not only are we competing with other celebrity news outlets but we are also up against everyone with one of these.” She scoops my iPhone off the table and holds it up as if she were a DEA agent showing us a kilo of cocaine in 1981 Miami. “Now, everyone is taking photos and even videos of celebrities and posting sightings and incidents on social media. The public has inadvertently become a group of reporters and therefore our competition.” She sets my phone back down and looks at me.
“Because the circulation and Web site traffic hasn’t increased in recent years, there’s no other choice than to cut the budget for freelancers. I will only be able to keep four of you.”
Four? I count everyone again. There are nine of us! As the news sinks in, the tension in the room rises, and soon we’re eyeing each other up and down as if we’re tributes in The Hunger Games.
“All of you ladies are good reporters. Unfortunately, good isn’t good enough.” She clears her throat and glares at Maggie. “This is a fun job but you need to remember that it is a job and if you want to keep it, you will need to step up and find me the juiciest, most exclusive gossip you can. I need to up the magazine circulation by 15 percent in the next three months. That means half a million hits a day.”
She circles the table and looks each one of us up and down before stepping in front of me. “To determine who will stay and who will be let go, I’m implementing a points-based system. Maggie.” Maggie takes her cue and quietly passes a piece of paper to each of us. She stops as she completes her lap around the table and briefly makes eye contact with me before bringing her glance back to her feet. “The first four people to reach one hundred points will keep their jobs. The other five will be let go. If you don’t earn a minimum of ten points a week, you will automatically be fired. Please review the point sheet, carefully.”
The Life freelance scoring scheme
Cover story: 20 points
Story on inset of cover: 10 points
Feature story in magazine: 8 points
Engagement announcement: 5 points
Marriage announcement: 5 points
Pregnancy announcement: 5 points
Birth announcement: 5 points
Rehab announcement: 2 points
Dotcom article with 20,000+ views or shares: 2 points
Dotcom article with 50,000+ views or shares: 5 points
Dotcom article with 100,000+ views or shares: 10 points
Exclusive: 10 points in magazine, 5 points online
“Using this rubric, I will be sending out a weekly update that shows where all of you stand. In two weeks, I will be making the first cut and dropping the person with the lowest score. We will continue this process until only four of you are left.”
Everyone looks panicked and I wonder if my panic is as obvious.
“Prove to me how much you want this job,” Victoria snaps. “Take initiative. Show me how far you will go to remain a part of this legacy. Maggie will wrap up.” She looks around once more and then turns toward the door without fielding any questions. The room is left in stunned silence.
With Victoria gone, Maggie has our full attention.
“I know this new system will take some getting used to, but you guys are the best out there.” The corners of Maggie’s mouth turn down with sympathy. “I have no doubt you’re going to bring it,” she says with an awkward fist pump, mustering what little zeal she can. “I’ll continue assigning clubs but any events or parties you can get into on your own will give you a huge advantage. If you see something, say something. Or better yet, send something.” She picks up the remaining points sheets and clutches them as if they were radioactive. “If you guys have any questions feel free to e-mail me as always. Have a great day.”
Everyone shuffles out of the conference room, still looking bewildered. I let the other girls go ahead in the hopes that I’ll be able to get some insider info from Maggie.
“Hey, can we talk?”
“Sure. Follow me to my office,” she tells me. She rubs her eyes—I can tell she’s tired. “I still need to set up drinks with you and Ethan. I was texting with him the other day but I’ve basically been living at the office.” We reach her office and I take a seat across from her. Given the state of disarray her desk is in, she wasn’t exaggerating about living here. There are multiple Starbucks cups that look at least a few days old and various stacks of papers strewn about in no state of organization whatsoever. Victoria is clearly putting the pressure on her, too.
“Is Victoria serious about this points system?” I lean back in my chair. “I mean, you used to do this job. When there’s a story to report we observe the hell out of it, but you of all people know that we can’t make celebrities materialize, and even if we find them, it’s possible they might not be doing anything newsworthy.” How can I control something that’s out of my control?
“Ella, I know how good you are but Victoria doesn’t care. We’re all starting from scratch on this.” She reaches out to take my hand. “But you’ve got this, girl. You’re on the inside. You’ve got Holiday. You’re so connected. Find the stories. They’re out there. You just need to get them”—she lowers her voice—“and you need to get them first. The quicker, the better.”
Four
“Did you hook up with my brother, you whore?” Ethan’s sister, Hattie, joked when she found me in his bedroom one morning after we went barhopping together. Hattie was my roommate freshman year in college seven years ago. We were always in sync with each other—to a fault. We both based our daily actions on our horoscopes, were terrible at cleaning, and felt it was a sacrilege to turn down a cocktail. We were scared that if we continued to live together our college careers would extend way past the normal four years and we might end up in AA instead of with our BA.
Ethan was a year older than his sister, and after he graduated he moved to LA to pursue screenwriting. He and Hattie got an apartment by the beach together. Even though the commute to school was a bitch with LA traffic, she claimed she didn’t care because it was senior year and she only had class two days a week.
The first time I met Ethan was at their housewarming party.
“I’m so glad you came,” she cheered as I made my way through her entryway.
“I wouldn’t have missed it. But you do realize that it would’ve been faster for me to get to San Francisco by plane than it was to get here with traffic.” Hattie hit my arm.
“But look how beautiful it is down here.” She shoved an alcohol-filled red Solo cup in one hand and led me out to the patio by my other. I recognized Ethan by the back of his head. Hattie’s idea of décor was an abundance of family photos placed throughout our dorm room, so I was very well aware of what he looked like from multiple angles. He was standing by himself wearing a navy-blue polo shirt and jeans, leaning out over the railing.
“It’s really nice,” I told her. The apartment wasn’t exactly oceanfront and I couldn’t see much in the dark but I could hear the waves breaking, which was soothing.
“Ethan,” she called. He turned his head our way. “You have to come meet Ella!” He wandered over to us. I was immediately attracted to him. Photos did not do him justice. His brown eyes were deep and so concentrated with color that they appeared plush. He wasn’t traditionally handsome but there was something about the way his features combined that was magnetizing.
“So you’re the infamous Ella?” he marveled. He looked me up and down. Hattie’
s phone buzzed with continuous text messages.
“Ugh, excuse me. I swear it’s like I might as well have moved to Africa instead of west of Crescent Heights Boulevard! Ella, he doesn’t know anyone yet, so entertain him,” she instructed before sauntering into the living room.
“I feel like I’m meeting a celebrity,” he said, brushing his sandy brown hair behind his ears even though it was barely long enough to stay there.
“Me?” I scoffed, taking a sip from my cup to hide my smile.
“Yeah. Hattie talked about you nonstop.” He seemed nervous and he looked back toward the ocean.
“I hope the real thing isn’t a disappointment,” I said, and he turned back to me.
“I highly doubt that’s possible.” He put his hands in his front pockets and smiled at me. I was hooked. Aside from being cute, he was smart. As I later learned I could talk with him for hours. He had the most random knowledge of everything from comic books to ancient Greek democracy, and he finally explained Schrödinger’s cat in a way I could understand it. He was the first guy I felt liked me for the real me—not the best version of yourself that you pretend to be the first few times you’re getting to know someone. As the weeks drew on, my feelings intensified but I was nervous that acting on them might jeopardize my friendship with Hattie.
One night we were debating the best movies of all time and Ethan was stubbornly adhering to his opinion that no movie will ever beat Citizen Kane.
