by Tia Williams
The Perfect Find
Tia Williams
Houston, Texas * Washington, D.C. * Raleigh/Durham, NC
The Perfect Find © 2016 by Tia Williams
Brown Girls Books, LLC
www.BrownGirlsBooks.com
ISBN:978-1-944359-10-2 (Digital)
978-1-944359-11-9 (Print)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means including electronic, mechanical or photocopying or stored in a retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages to be included in a review.
First Brown Girls Books LLC trade printing
Manufactured and Printed in the United States of America
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It is reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped” book.
Praise for The Perfect Find
“The Perfect Find is a fun romp through the world of new media fashion reporting. Tia Williams writes with juicy, behind-the-scenes details that let us know she’s been there and survived. Mixed with a generous dash of rivalry, love—both lost and crazy—it is a yummy cocktail. Cheers!”
—Virginia DeBerry and Donna Grant, authors of Tryin’ to Sleep in the Bed You Made
“Girl, grab that tropical flight deal, pack the swimsuit you slay in, and immediately dive into Tia Williams’s yummy The Perfect Find. The story of 40-year-old former It girl Jenna Jones stumbling upon that giddy kind of passion will have you longing for someone to sext—even if you haven’t sexted since 2008. Equal parts heartwarming and electrifying, when you really get into The Perfect Find, make sure you have a fan ready.”
—Helena Andrews-Dyer, columnist and author of Bitch is the New Black
“Tia’s witty humor and sharp writing make this story completely irresistible.”
—Mimi Jean Pamfiloff, New York Times bestselling author of Fugly
“A page-turner that’s epically witty, juicy and irresistible. What a perfect, fresh take on the high stakes that come when we fall, pick ourselves back up, and step unsurely into the future. It doesn’t get more real than this.”
—Denene Millner, New York Times bestselling co-author of Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man, and The Vow
“A saucy, cutting-edge love story amidst the backdrop of the New York City fashion world, with delicious dialogue that rang in my ears and screamed ‘real deal.’ Refreshing and engaging with a cast of characters that stayed with me long after the last page had been turned.”
—Sadeqa Johnson, author of Second House From the Corner
“The Perfect Find is just that. This funny, fashion-filled, and fiercely provocative read is absolutely fabulous for the grown and sexy woman.”
—Niobia Bryant, National Bestselling Author of The Pleasure Trap
“The Perfect Find is a perfect must read. It doesn’t matter if your 20 or 40 it goes across the board for women who try to find career and love in this lifetime.”
—Kimberly Kaye, Music Director, Wfkx
What Others Are Saying…
THE ACCIDENTAL DIVA
“A randy new read.”—Cosmopolitan
“Could not be more perfect for the beach.”—Lucky
“Former Elle beauty editor Tia Williams scores big with this debut novel.”—Marie Claire
“Williams [has a] gift for sexy prose and an insider ear. A sharp new talent.”—Publishers Weekly
IT CHICKS and IT CHICKS: SIXTEEN CANDLES
“Williams, who has an ear for the way teens speak, has created a hip series filled with heart and sass.”—Essence
“Over-the-top, fun, lively!”—Children’s Book Reviews
“Revolutionizing literature for young girls.”—Uptown
TIA WILLIAMS
“Known for her smart, funny, tell-it-like-it-is writing.” – The Huffington Post
“Part of an elite group of beauty mavens.”—Allure
“Tia really knows her glitz and gloss.”—Refinery 29
“If Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw had more melanin and a Dominican blowout, she’d be Tia Williams.”—Heart and Soul
Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Acknowledgements
I couldn’t have written word the first without the love and support of the Williamses, Gantts, and Shareefs. Endless thanks to Tricia, Renae, Abby, and Lori for refusing to let me give up when the road got rocky—and to Charlotte, for the web series brainstorm. To my agent, Brettne Bloom, I bow down to your dedication and uncanny literary instincts. You helped me breathe such big, juicy life into Jenna’s story! And to my editor/homegirl Cherise Fisher—there’d be zero book if it weren’t for your passion, patience, and therapy sessions (#allhats). I’m here because of you. Period. ReShonda, Victoria and the Brown Girls team, bless you for making my dream a reality. Dawn, you’re a P.R. goddess. And Lina Lina Bobina, my darling little girl, you are my greatest inspiration. You’re not allowed to read this until you’re twenty-five.
S.—thank you for lending a major character your middle name. And for everything, really. You live in every line.
CHAPTER 1
www.stylezine.com
Just Jenna: Style Secrets from our Intrepid Glambassador!
Q: “I’ve had a series of terrible BFs, but I just met this awesome guy and I hella-heart him. The issue? I’m six-foot-one and he’s 5’10.” When I’m in stilettos he looks like Kevin Hart and I feel like Lurch. Are kitten heels the worst?”—@LongTallSally1981
A: Yes, sugar, kitten heels are the worst. Only appropriate if you’re Michelle Obama or Carla Bruni, you’re a smidge taller than your president husband, and you absolutely cannot dwarf him in front of the world. The Obama-Bruni Clause. Excuse me while I have this notarized…
Here’s the thing. You seem charmed by the new man. Focus on the thrill of new love. It hardly ever comes in the package we envisioned. Instead of hiding an imagined flaw, enhance it. He knows you’re tall and loves it. You should love it, too. Rock the most obscene heel you have and watch him gaze up at you like he’s just aching to climb your mountain. I’d suggest Guiseppe Zanotti’s Grommet Ankle-Buckle Heel. It’s so S&M fierce. Like something out of the Red Room. Raowr.
Jenna Jones clicked the “publish” button, sat back in her new chair at her new desk at StyleZine.com—and grinned. She whipped her compact out of her makeup bag and freshened her lip gloss. It was the Friday of her first week on the job, and she was due in her boss’s office in five minutes. As she fluffed up her Flashdance-style curls, she felt relieved. Her stomach might’ve been in knots, but at least she looked perky.
She crossed the bare-bones, industrial loft space filled with cubicles. One wall was tiger-striped, the floor was made of steel, and the onl
y decorations were a few banana yellow chaise lounges and an oversized print of Marc Jacobs in drag. Jenna’s look that day was “Cerebral Charlie’s Angel” (since elementary school, she had a near-OCD level need to name every outfit in her orbit): a vintage Seventies denim wrap skirt, an oxford rolled up at the sleeves, and sky-high cork stilettos. Getting dressed that morning, she almost felt confident—like the woman she used to be, before her life fell apart. Before she fled to her childhood home in rural Virginia.
She was trying her hardest to fit in at StyleZine, an online fashion mag devoted to street style, but Jenna missed the print world, where she felt safe. She ached for her glitzy life at Darling magazine, where she worked as the fashion director for ages until her quasi-nervous breakdown. She mourned the loss of her healthy clothing allowance, massive photo shoot budgets, and the pony skin rug in her office (God, that rug was so good). Sexy Cosmo girls, icy Vogue bitches, fiercely toned Self chicks—it was all she knew.
But that world, with its Columbia School of Journalism degree-wielding socialites and high-glam aesthetic was old school and barely breathing. To be a fashion expert these days, all you had to do was decide you were one. Any wily twenty-year-old with a covetable look, a WordPress account and enough followers could be a powerful style insider. They’d displaced major editors from the front row at Gucci!
She arrived at her boss’s office and Terry, an associate editor, hurried over to intercept her.
“Jenna, I was supposed to tell you that Darcy’s gonna be late. It’s a thousand percent my bad,” Terry said. She was the eyes and ears of the office; a cheerful gossip who made it her business to know everyone’s business, and who always said exactly what she was thinking, blithely and with no filter. The combination made her a social magnet, and the person to have as an ally. Jenna needed a friend in the office, but so far, everyone regarded her with a polite, slightly patronizing wariness.
She was determined to befriend that girl, if it killed her.
“No problem,” said Jenna. Terry was wearing a backless cherry red bodysuit, purple throwback Reebok high-tops and black lipstick. The part of her strawberry blonde hair that wasn’t shaved was scraped up into a tight topknot. Jenna mentally labeled the outfit “Athleisure Lolita.”
“Your bodysuit is gorge,” Jenna continued. “Kenzo? I’ve always been a fan of Kenzo.”
Stop being so gushy, Jenna thought. Twenty-something fashion girls can smell fear. I should know; I once was one.
“Yeah. Kenzo’s cute, but way too expensive.” Terry was multi-tasking, scrolling through her phone while chatting. “I mean, whatever, it’s a leotard. But they gave it to me for free. All I had to do was IG a selfie in it for #OOTD. You know how that whole thing goes.”
“Absolutely,” said Jenna. She did not know how that whole thing went, and had never heard of #OOTD.
“Speaking of #OOTD, did you take a pic of your outfit today? You should. It’s a totally new look for a StyleZine staffer. You’re giving ‘established grownup realness.’ You’re so pulled-together.” Terry said this with the slightest hint of condescension. It was not lost on Jenna that in an office of artfully mismatched millennials doing a punky-funky-urban thing, she stuck out as slightly too…sophisticated. “Carolina Herrera?”
“Good eye!” Her outfit wasn’t Carolina Herrera. It wasn’t even Old Navy. But before Terry asked any more questions, she decided to change the subject. “I meant to tell you that your Instagram is truly breathtaking.”
Jenna had done her new-job research, scrolling through the Insta-accounts of all of StyleZine’s editors, each of whom had a zillion followers.
“Seriously? Thanks.”
“You have this one shot in a furry white vest, and oh!” Jenna clutched her heart. “With your white-blonde hair and the animal print leggings? It reminded me of an Alaskan cover shoot I did with Karolina Kurkova in 2000. There were artificial igloos and white tigers. So dazzling! You’re twins.”
“Never heard of her.”
“Karolina? She was a Czech supermodel.”
“Ohhh yeah, I sort of remember that Eastern Bloc era. Way back in, like, second grade when I used to cut up mom’s fashion magazines to make collages. All the models were like slumped and pale, and looked mad bummed.” She giggled. “Chernobyl chic.”
“Chernobyl chic, so funny,” said Jenna. Her mom’s magazines?
Second grade?
Terry’s phone buzzed, and she looked down at it and groaned. “Ugh, it’s Kevin, fuck my life. He’s so obvious, with his black nail polish and generic polysexuality. Dude, you’re a former high school lacrosse player from Myrtle Beach; you’re not dangerous. Whatevs, I’m breaking up with him after the Watch the Throne concert.”
Jenna cleared her throat and tried another angle. “So, I was really impressed with the quality of your photos. They look professional.”
“I’m the queen of filters,” said Terry. “What’s your Instagram?”
“I don’t have one. I mean, not yet.”
Terry’s jaw dropped. “It’s 2012! You’re not on the ‘Gram?
That’s completely dysfunctional.”
“Actually, I’m just a terrible photographer.” The truth? During Jenna’s tear-stained sabbatical, she’d rejected technology and fully missed the social media revolution. “I’ve never even taken a selfie!”
“Well, it’s an art. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
“Question. If someone else takes the pic for you, is it called a ‘self-helpie?’ You know, because you got help?’”
As soon as the attempt at a joke left her mouth, she knew how dumb she sounded.
“Umm…no,” said Terry slowly, like she was talking to a child.
“Of course, I know,” tittered Jenna. “Duh.”
Why was her personality coming off so weird in this place? All week, she’d been wearing her past like armor, praying that no one could sense that she was an expensive-looking fake. Even her outfit was fake—which, for someone who was supposed to be an arbiter of style, was unthinkable. Carolina Herrera? Please.
I am a forty-year-old woman in a $4.99 shirt from Wet Seal because I sold all my designer clothes to move back here, and I have exactly enough in my account to cover this month’s rent, and right now I’d consider American Eagle an extravagance. I’m a former glamour girl hoping that no one notices the vague stain on my skirt—a stain I don’t even know the origins of, since I got it at a stoop sale in my new ‘hood, a sketched-out Brooklyn block where I share real estate with a KFC and beauty salon called Snip It Real Good. I am a grown woman wearing 1974-era heels I stole from my mother’s closet.
Terry shot Jenna a pitying look, then whispered, “Just so I’m clear… you were kidding about the self-helpie thing, right?”
“Dumb joke.”
“Dude! You’re, like, awkward squared!” She said this brightly, without a trace of meanness. “It’s always weird being the new girl. Just relax.”
“Thank you,” said Jenna, smiling weakly. “I haven’t had coffee yet. I should never attempt to be funny before noon.”
Terry lowered her voice. “Are you nervous because you’re working for Darcy? Don’t be. I mean, we’re all terrified of her, but you’re, like, contemporaries, so she’ll probably go easy on you.”
Darcy was the CEO of Belladonna Media, the digital media company that owned StyleZine and eight other successful women’s online magazines. She was widely known to be an unrepentant bitch.
“She’s so frightening,” continued Terry, in a low whisper. “She banned me from work for a week last month, no pay, because I had some bad sushi at Chuko and my face broke out. She said my skin was making her gag.”
“That’s Darcy,” said Jenna, rolling her eyes. “But I’m not scared of her. I’ve known her since we were editorial assistants. When I look at her, I see a twenty-five-year-old dressed like the frontwoman of a ska/hip hop fusion band.”
“I was so much flyer than Gwen Stefani,” said a withering, ras
py voice behind Jenna.
Terry’s face blanched. Jenna turned around and saw Darcy, standing with her hands on her hips.
“Hey, Darcy!” said Jenna.
“Well, if it isn’t the patron saint of wanna-be fashionistas from flyover states,” said the elfin CEO. She clocked in at only five feet, but her presence was massive. With her enormous, always-appraising (and never quite impressed) hazel-brown eyes, perfect miniature body, and smoky voice that always sounded like she just woke up, she was one of those mesmerizing women that men couldn’t get enough of without understanding why.
She focused her attention on Terry. “We need to talk, lover. Your post on the blonde in the Giambattista Valli ethnic print swing blouse? Incredible style, but she looks like Mayor Bloomberg. No ugly girls. We need our readers lusting to look like these broads, or else we lose traffic, advertisers, and our jobs. Wake up!” She clapped in her face, twice. “Mitchell’s such a clued-in photo editor, what was he thinking? That husky queen needs to spend less time photographing himself in front of gelato shops,” this was a reference to his fledgling food blog, “and focus on the job that pays his goddamned bills. Fucking gelato. That’s why he’s built like a 9 volt Duracell battery.”
“I…I’m sorry, Darcy, I’ll delete the post.”
“Damned right. Leave us.”
Terry scrambled away, and Darcy shot Jenna an exasperated look. “Children.”
Jenna fake-smiled and nodded, almost blown away by that diatribe—but not really. She was used to Darcy’s acerbic persona. Actually, given her history with the CEO, it was bizarre that they were even in the same room and on speaking terms, let alone working together.
It had all started with a man. When Jenna was twenty-three she dated an Arista Records exec named Marcus. For a small town girl new to the big city, dating a guy that was a major industry player was magical! For months, she ignored the fact that Marcus’ phone rang at weird times, and that he was only available at the most random hours (dinner at either 5 or 11?). But he was a great kisser and he knew Method Man personally, so she was super-into him.
