by Tia Williams
“Am I stupid? Don’t give me a disclaimer. I won’t judge you. Everybody’s gotta do what they gotta do.” Billie disentangled herself from him, stood up, and slid behind him. She wrapped her legs around him and held him to her breasts. “I want to know,” she whispered. “I want to learn your stuff. Tell me. Tell me.”
He did. He got up to when he met Tammy without a hitch.
“…and I, uh, was just, like, fucked up, and all woozy cuz I was bleeding…I don’t know. I was trippin’. I don’t really remember all of it. The gist of it is, I met a girl who helped me. Took me to the emergency room and gave me a place to stay for a minute.”
“My God.” Billie couldn’t imagine the things Jay was telling her. “That girl’s like your guardian angel. Do you still know her?”
He paused. Tammy. How could Jay explain to Billie what he and Tammy were to each other, in a way she could understand? Billie was different than them…she’d had a different kind of life. He didn’t want to scare her away. He didn’t want to lose her, it was too good.
And he’d already told Tammy that he didn’t know her.
So he left it blank. He told Billie he’d lost track of her, and he continued his story.
After, they were quiet for a long time.
“It’s what’s mine, that’s all,” he said, finally.
“I know,” she said, refusing to let herself cry. She pretended her heart wasn’t breaking for the boy he once was. Billie squeezed her eyes shut and vowed to make his every breath worth it.
* * *
• • •
The next morning at Du Jour, Paige Merchant held a department meeting in her office. She was just back from Capri, more beige than ever. To showcase her tan, she wore an orange Hermés sarong (which clung desperately to her bony hips) and naked gold stilettos. Her beyond-blond hair was tied back in a fuchsia and orange–swirled Pucci scarf. She wore smoky eyeshadow, pale lipstick, and an assortment of baubly cocktail rings. She looked very South of France, circa 1968. All she needed was a caftan and a cigarette holder.
Billie, Sandy, and Mary sat on the plush, winter-white couch that faced her desk. Sandy nervously fingered the fringe on the leopard-print scarf draped over the seat. At their feet was a bag containing beauty products that would hit stores in the spring. The department was wrapping up its “ideas meeting” for the February issue, which forecasted spring trends. Usually, women’s magazines cover spring trends in March, but true fashion addicts looked to Du Jour’s coverage in February.
“…and there’s a lavender lip moment,” said Sandy, who was very intimidated by Paige. “It’s kind of an Easter Egg situation? Very flirty and soft?” “Moment” and “situation” were industry-speak for what was happening at that very second. This could mean anything from a trend to dinner. She pulled out six lipsticks and lined them up on Paige’s product-cluttered desk.
Paige considered the lipsticks. “Walk me through how one can wear lavender lipstick without looking very, very cold.”
“Ooooh. I see what you mean. I…”
“No, no, no, wait a minute. Let’s learn something here. I don’t care how many companies are making a product. I don’t care if Chanel tells us it’s the freaking cure for cancer. If it gives me hypothermia, it ain’t happening. ’Kay, Pony?”
Billie shook her head. Paige could be very evil.
“I totally see your point,” continued Sandy, even redder than normal. “Well, there’s another lip moment happening. The major companies all have a red lip stain in their spring collections. This isn’t a true Marilyn red, but a sheer wash of red. Like you’ve been licking a lollipop.” Sandy replaced the lavender lipsticks with a group of red ones.
“See, now this I like. I’m gelling with the lollipop visual. This could be a very sexy Lolita moment. Sandypants, I need you to do a closet search. Round up products that have kind of a preschool quality, but that also make you want to roll around in honey and screw.”
Sandy looked puzzled. Billie gave her a “don’t worry about it” look. She’d help her. It was scary, but at this point she could read Paige’s mind. The idea approved, Mary grabbed the lipsticks and quickly jotted down the names of each one for the record.
“Thanks, ’Pants. Next?” Paige had trouble calling people by their real names. Mary was either Mare Bear or Mary Unbirthday, depending upon her mood. Billie had started out as Billie Putty, but over the years had become Putt-Putt. When Paige was preoccupied, everyone was Chicken, Pony, or Flower. Expressing annoyance at these infantile nicknames was out of the question.
“You’ll love this, Paige. I think we’re finally over glitter. At least, I sincerely hope we’re over glitter.” Billie arranged about a dozen Crayola-colored shadows on the desk. “Behold, the rainbow coalition. The new eye for spring is graphic, graphic, graphic. It’s not about the natural look, it’s not about shimmer or translucence. It’s just, like, fuck-you color. Straight, no chaser.”
Paige surveyed the yellow, blue, red, and green shadows on her desk, as a slow smile crept across her face. “This is rocking my world, Putt-Putt. This is rocking my world.”
“They’re like eighties pop art colors, right?” said Billie. “Don’t you want to just eat them?”
“I love it,” declared Paige. “Mare Bear, are you getting all this? Are you writing these shadow names correctly? Be a maniac about this—last month we ran a Lancôme blush credit as Pretty I Think, which obviously should’ve been Pretty In Pink. Um, that was on you, Chicken.”
Mary nodded and continued taking notes. Billie knew she was thinking “I fucking didn’t go to Radcliffe for this shit.”
Paige continued. “I love it! I’m seeing the shadows smashed across a white brick wall. Sort of a graffiti situation.”
“Exactly, exactly. Which brings me to Fashion Week.” Billie launched into her article idea. She believed in knowing her audience, so she replaced the “can you believe them” tone she and her friends had used at brunch with a distant, sociological one. It worked.
“And the ethnic borrowing is happening everywhere, not just on the runway,” continued Billie. “Have you seen Christina Aguilera’s ‘Make It Hurt’ video? Red extensions a mile long. In fact, the same woman who did the hair at Sam C. also did Christina’s. Anyway, black girls have been wearing colored weaves for a million years. I think it’ll be very, um, journalistic of us to shed some light on where these trends originated.”
“That’s such a cute idea!” said Mary. Paige looked at her sharply, as if to say, When you’ve mastered spelling, then you may have an opinion.
Sandy said nothing. She was happy to have scored with the lip stains, and was now keeping a low profile.
Paige smiled warmly at Billie. “I’m so obsessed with you today! This will be our opener for February, and it’s sure to get a coverline. I’d say, four pages? Three thousand words? Pony, I really want you to get Margaret Mead on this one.” Paige scanned her Visionaire calendar. “You’ve got five weeks. That’s more than enough time for you to club that story to death and drag it back to the cave. Yes?”
“Of course!” Billie was beaming.
“Okay, chickens. Meeting’s adjourned. Mama needs to smoke.” Paige dismissed her subjects. “Putt-erama, can we have a moment?”
Mary hurried to her desk to sob on the phone with her boyfriend. Sandy headed for the beauty closet to find makeup that suggested kiddie porn. Billie stayed behind, and Paige closed the door, which she hardly ever did.
“Alone, at last. Sometimes I think those girls have been lobotomized,” she said, collapsing into her chair. She lit a cigarette with a Swarovski crystal–studded Versace lighter and grinned saucily at Billie. In a Marlene Dietrich voice she purred, “Ve haff to stop meeting like zis.”
“You’re making me nervous.”
“Whyyy, Flower? I have good news for you.”
/> “You do?” Billie couldn’t imagine her world getting any better.
“Indeed. Last night I had drinks with Fannie.” Fannie Merrick was the legendary editor in chief. Paige and Fannie loathed each other, so the drinks date came as a shock to Billie.
Paige must have read the surprise on Billie’s face. “Not pleasure, dear, business. British Du Jour’s current beauty and fashion director is quitting to complete her coffee-table book. It’s on British beauty, which God knows is an oxymoron. Anyway, they’re looking to us for a replacement.” Paige paused and took a dramatic drag from her cigarette holder.
Billie’s jaw dropped in shock. “Don’t tell me you’re going to British Du Jour! That’s incredible, Paige!”
“Please! I am thirty-eight years old,” said Paige, who was forty-six. “I can’t bring anything new to this job.”
“But you’re the best.”
“Perhaps, but I’m tapped out. Done. And Mars Bar just finished finalizing the contract on our Tuscan villa.” Mars Bar, or Mario Luis Bergamotto, was an international financier/model fucker, and Paige’s fiancé. He would be her fourth husband. “I give this beauty shit two more years, and then I plan to pack it up and become Lee Radziwill.”
“Well, who else could possibly do that job?” Me, thought Billie.
“You.”
“What? Are you kidding? I’m too young…and London, that’s a whole new thing…”
“Oh, save the whole ‘who me?’ bit. You’re amazing. You know it, and so does everyone else. Now you don’t have to look over your shoulder when you tell Annie in research to consider you the department head. You can scream it from the hilltops!” Paige giggled naughtily.
Goddamn, thought Billie—this bitch hears everything. “But, Paige, I’m only twenty-six. I mean, did Fannie think this was a good idea?”
“Fannie thought it was a great idea. Since when has any of Du Jour’s publications done the traditional thing? It’s not official, though. Truth be told, the powers that be are concerned about your age, too. For the next couple of months, you’re going to be watched very closely. Think of it as an audition. I would even suggest meeting with the old bag to tell her how honored you are just to be nominated.”
“Oh my God.”
“Exactly. So this whole ethnic moment that you’re doing? It better blow everyone’s minds. Knock this story out and get a huge coverline, Chicken.”
“Oh my God.”
“By the way,” said Paige, “is that Pretty I Think blush, or have you finally gotten laid?”
Jay.
* * *
• • •
Crosstown at Crawford & Collier, Renee was entering her acquisitions meeting with the air of Scarlett throwing the Yankees off Tara. Renee was all about going into battle. She wore a fitted gray BCBG pantsuit and her shaggy bob sleekly tucked behind her ears. She was Not Fucking Around.
At the meeting were her superiors, the “grown-ups,” who decided if a manuscript was worth buying. Presiding over the meeting was the publisher, Jim Davidson, who at forty was both surprisingly young and surprisingly handsome for a man in his position. He was a womanizer who enjoyed embarrassing his female employees with off-color remarks too vague to be reprimanded in court. A brilliant man, he knew not to take even a step in that direction with Renee.
Also in attendance were Sue Snyderman, Lynn Cohen, the executive VP, and Gabbie Cairns-Whyte, the managing editor (she figured out the finances for each book). Gabbie’s assistant, Jenny, was dutifully pouring coffee and taking notes.
The night before, Renee had given the grown-ups each a copy of Nutz & Boltz as well as photocopies of the Village Voice and New York magazine articles. Having done their homework, everyone was prepared to assess Renee’s newest find.
“Before we discuss the manuscript,” started Jim, “I’d just like to thank you ladies for wrapping up the spring catalogue copy in record time. You never fail to impress me with your dedication and perseverance. I’m so proud of my team.” The “ladies” nodded their thanks. It was 9 A.M. and everyone was tired.
“So, Renee, talk to us about Jay Lane,” said Jim.
Renee cleared her throat. “Simply put, the man is brilliant. As you all know, I saw his show last Friday night and was blown away. I was delighted to see that he was just as impressive—if not more so—on paper. His style is searing and urgent, but unforced. It’s vital cultural commentary, but at the same time it’s just really enjoyable storytelling.”
“You know, I have to agree,” said Sue, who always had Renee’s back. “I found his words delightful and haunting. Very important voice.”
“What’s your take, Lynn?” Jim asked, as he undressed the matronly lesbian with his eyes.
“I’m on the same page as Renee and Sue,” she said, taking a sip of the cheap coffee and ignoring Jim’s lecherous looks. “I really, really enjoyed this. His works are quite appealing in a voyeuristic way.”
“Not my cup of tea,” said Gabbie. “I don’t know, I was just underwhelmed. Did he really say something new about the ghetto, or did I miss something?”
“Well, the ghetto is the ghetto is the ghetto,” replied Renee, a tad testily. “It’s been the same forever. What’s new is in the telling. To me, this recalled some of the great Harlem Renaissance essays: Langston and Hurston and the like. They were talking about jook joints, and gin, and rent parties. And pain and loss. None of those topics are new, but they’re slices of culture.”
“But right now, when the country’s enjoying such prosperity, does anybody want to read about drunks and junkies?” asked Gabbie. “No, seriously. We’ve got a nation full of twenty-one-year-old dotcom millionaires. That’s where it’s at right now. Quick money, the fast track, technology. It’s my feeling that these stories are very, um, antiquated. Kind of a bummer, even.”
“I totally disagree,” said Sue.
“They just didn’t send me,” said Gabbie, shrugging.
“I don’t know. I thought it was very refreshing to hear from such an articulate young African-American,” countered Lynn. Renee was furious. Articulate? Why was it always so surprising when a black person can speak English? She bit her tongue, but her tongue won.
“Jay Lane’s uniqueness doesn’t lie in his being articulate. I’m articulate. Jim’s articulate. It’s not about that. When Frank McCourt wrote Angela’s Ashes, no one said, ‘Wow, this former shanty Irish street urchin is really articulate.’” Renee masked her irritation with a smiley, uncombative tone. “Jay’s uniqueness lies in his talent.”
“Renee, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“No, don’t worry about it. I know what you meant.” Renee grinned to herself. They hated feeling culturally insensitive. Hated it.
Jim spoke up. He didn’t like tension among his ladies. “My feeling is that this guy is going to be a contender. I dig him, I really do. He’s a smart, good-looking kid. He already has in-person presence—he’s going to be a cinch to market. But obviously, I wouldn’t place him top-list. I see him as mid-list.”
“Mid-list?” Gabbie was skeptical. “How much do you think it’ll sell?”
“A good ten thousand, at least. Figure in the sales at shows and readings. And surely foreign sales will be a force. Cities like London, Berlin, and Amsterdam are eating up urban New York talent. Look at what happened with spoken word.”
“I think it’s important to continue pursuing literary projects. Our list is so overwhelmingly commercial,” said Renee. “There is an audience for this kind of book. Look at how well Just Columbus’s book is doing.”
“Oh, Jim, I agree,” said Sue. She downed her second cup of coffee, and her silver bangles—a gift to her from Philip Roth—clinked melodically. “It’s been my experience over the many, many, many years”—everyone chuckled politely at the legend’s reference to her tenure—“that it’
s wise to have smaller writers on your list; you never know where that voice’ll go. Anyway, we make the big books so we can afford the teensy ones. I have full faith in Renee’s opinion—look at her track record.”
“Thanks, Sue,” Renee said, with a smile. Then it was business as usual. “Bottom line is, if we don’t get Jay, some other house will. And then I’ll be impossible to live with.”
Jim tapped his fingernails against his perfect teeth. Gabbie looked skeptical. Sue smiled at her star pupil. Lynn swished her coffee around in the paper cup, fuming and embarrassed. Renee held her breath. Jenny pretended to take notes while writing the eighth chapter of her novel.
Jim spoke up. “I’d say it’s a go. Good job, Renee.” He directed his gaze at Gabbie. “Let’s talk about money, honey.”
* * *
• • •
Jay was at home, outraged. Tammy had been ignoring his calls for two days. He’d just tried her salon, and one of her stylists, a surly bitch named Sabina, said she was too busy to talk. Finished, he left her a message on her home phone.
“Tammy. I’m sorry for what I said to you about your crib. It was fucked up, and I didn’t mean it. Period. I didn’t mean it. Everything that’s mine is yours. Ain’t nothing I wouldn’t do for you, and you know it. You’re my family, and your crib was a gift. What I don’t know is what got you so heated. We was just talking. If I disrespected you in any way, you gotta tell me. If not, you know I ain’t the nigga to stress. It’s on you now, I ain’t callin’ again. Love you.”
Frustrated, he hung up and fell back on his mattress, his one piece of furniture, besides the reams of paper he used as a night-stand. He liked to keep things minimal. What had he done to her? He went over their conversation again. He’d just been telling his best friend about his girl. Tammy couldn’t possibly have picked up that he was being shady about who she was. No, it wasn’t that…she hadn’t even asked her name. Why’d she sounded all funny? She acted kind of like a jealous girlfriend, which was insane. They weren’t like that, and they’d never been. Besides, Tammy had been going with Punk Ass Pete for two years.
