by Tia Williams
On Valentine’s Day, Jenna decided to surprise him at his Brooklyn apartment with a homemade cake. But he didn’t answer the door—a tiny, furious chick with a chic pixie-cut did. It was Marcus’ real girlfriend. His fiancée, a twenty-four-year old Mademoiselle editorial assistant named Darcy Vale.
She grabbed the cake and slammed it in Jenna’s face. Hard. Not only was Jenna knocked out, she had an icing-smeared cut on her lip that required three stitches.
Both women were soon-to-be powerful in media (and powerful black women in media), so their social circles intersected a thousand different ways. The two were at the same parties, fashion shows, and weddings. There was no avoiding her as they ascended in the industry, and Darcy tortured Jenna every chance she could.
“So, how was your first week?” asked Darcy, striding into her office, with Jenna following behind.
“It’s been fun,” said Jenna, fussing with her hair again. The curls, like everything else about her, were new. In Virginia, she’d been too Xanax-zonked to deal with relaxers, so she let her natural hair happen. “Thanks again for the opportunity.”
“It wasn’t a favor. I’m a businesswoman and, the truth is, I need you. StyleZine has some of the sharpest fashion brains in the industry, but they’re kids. They’re lacking connections, real access. I needed an experienced OG editor to attract flashy advertisers and media attention. Darling’s Fashion Director? The good-cop judge on ABC’s cheesiest hit, America’s Modeling Competition? You’re perfect.” She tousled her honey-highlighted Halle spikes. “Though I don’t know why I trust you after you stole that Harper’s Bazaar position from me, fifteen years ago.”
“I didn’t steal it,” Jenna said, patiently. “You got fired and I got hired.”
“You’d been campaigning for the position for months. But it’s all good. Forever ago, right?” Darcy smiled, slightly menacingly. “Where are you living now? Certainly not the West Village townhouse; I read somewhere that Brian’s still there.”
Jenna flinched when she heard his name. “I moved to a one-bedroom on Reade.”
“Reade in Tribeca? Those rents are astronomical; Brian must’ve hooked it up for you. You can’t afford it on your salary. God, I’m so tickled to have gotten an establishment editor basically for free.”
She’ll never let me forget that I was desperate enough to accept a humiliating pay cut. Anything for a second chance.
“No, Reade in Brooklyn,” Jenna said, trying to temper her irritation. “It’s an up-and-coming neighborhood.”
“Charming.” Darcy crinkled her adorable nose. “So, how was Virginia?”
She pasted a cheery smile. “Cathartic. I loved taking the time to unplug.”
“Ha! That’s what every out-of-work editor says when she’s spending the day doing Kegels and obsessively updating her LinkedIn profile.”
Jenna ignored this, returning to her rehearsed spiel. “Also, the style theory class I taught at the community college really gave me a fresh insight to…”
“Whatever. Just know I was sympathetic to your situation,” Darcy interrupted. “You’re better off without Brian. All that jet-setting without you. Those rumors! You can’t trust a self-made millionaire. Their dicks are too hard for the lifestyle. Next time, get a man with family inheritance.” She winked. “The money’s less sexy to them.”
Jenna stared at her for a beat, too shocked at her audacity to speak.
“Darcy, I respect you. And I’m thrilled to be here. But I’d appreciate it if you stop mentioning my ex-fiancée.”
Darcy raised her eyebrows. “You’ve gotten feisty in your old age. I like it.”
“Not feisty. Direct.”
“Okay.” She eyed her old rival. “Let’s get something straight. I won’t forget how you dropped every ounce of professionalism and skipped town over personal drama. You have an eight-month contract—I expect you to triple StyleZine’s readership in that time. Fail, and you’re fired. Because if you fuck me, you know I’ll fuck you harder.”
Jenna looked at her, galled. This was a girl who, at a Def Jam assistant’s house party in 1997, made besties with a famed video vixen—and then convinced the vixen’s rapper boyfriend to pay her rent for a year. A woman who, in 2003, purposely dated a photographer who’d snapped nude pics of her Seventeen publisher, and then secretly sold copies to the gossip blogs—resulting in her boss’ dismissal and Darcy’s promotion to her spot. A shark who, after predicting in 2007 that magazines were doomed, lured tycoon businessman Louis Belladonna away from his wife, pillaged his bank account to launch Belladonna Media, transformed two style blogs into an eight-website beauty and fashion conglomerate…and then divorced him.
Jenna had her number. So, there was no way in hell she’d allow Darcy to threaten her. “You’ve already made it clear that I need to deliver. I’m here to write my ‘Just Jenna’ advice column and develop a fashion web series. Let me do my job, Darcy, and we both know I’ll make this site more successful than ever.”
“I’m loving this new you,” said Darcy. “I wish you’d always been this feisty. Sparring with you would’ve been so much more satisfying.”
“Sparring?” Jenna laughed. “In ‘99, you impersonated Karl Lagerfield’s publicist and emailed me a fake itinerary for the Chanel press trip! Ten fashion editors were flown to Ibiza for the weekend, and I ended up at a sweatshop in Gowanus.”
“Which inspired your ‘ugly beauty’ Darling shoot at the Gowanus Canal with ballerinas wearing tattered Vivienne Westwood. You’re welcome.”
“Those were the good old days,” said Jenna.
“These are the good old days,” said Darcy, eyeing her Cartier tank watch. “I’m late for lunch at Brasserie.”
She stood and headed for the door, shouting directives at Jenna as she went. “I need three more Just Jenna posts by 5. And come up with ideas for your web series—the new videographer is starting on Monday. And get your social media footprint together. Our editors are digital stars; you need to be one, too. Figure it out.”
It was then that Jenna truly started to panic. Social media footprint? What did that even mean?
CHAPTER 2
Jenna had shut the world out in Virginia. It was just her, hiding out in her parents’ house in a holy flannel shirt and circa-1989 Bart Simpson boxers (“Trailer Park Hopelessness”), developing a smoking habit and binge-watching “Game of Thrones.” She’d been groggy with isolation and languishing in her childhood bedroom, which was overflowing with trash bags full of her designer clothes, handbags and shoes—artifacts from a past life. There was no waxing, no mani/pedis, no sex, and she only used the Internet to check the weather. The last thing on her mind was social media. But now, it was time to figure it out.
Jenna flipped open the laptop perched on her desk in her tiny office (as StyleZine’s Elder Stateswoman, she was awarded a former custodial closet instead of a cubicle. Thrilled to have a door, she accepted). Since the idea of wading through Twitter incinerated her brain, she pulled up Facebook. From 2010 to 2012, the site had gone from a chatty family reunion to an orgy of oversharing.
She had so many questions. GIFs—did no one think they were disturbing, like bad acid trip hallucinations? Who created those spiritual epithets written in spunky fonts over pictures of sunsets? Was there an approved list of hashtags somewhere? Pausing to photograph your pecan-encrusted French toast before eating it—was this the digital version of saying grace? Kanye, Kim, and kale—did nothing else matter? Jenna felt like she’d just rocketed from the Paleolithic era in a Delorean.
Already overwhelmed, she swiveled her chair around to stare at the wall behind her desk. She hadn’t yet decorated, save for one important thing—her beloved vintage movie poster of Nina Mae McKinney in the 1928 musical Hallelujah. Forgotten today, Nina Mae McKinney was the most beautiful black woman in Hollywood before Halle, Dorothy, or Lena ever drew a breath. Just a small-town Southern girl who was plucked out of the chorus line to star in the first black musical, ever—and then Charles
toned her way through Europe, romancing royals and drinking bathtub gin. She was Jenna’s spirit animal. The poster had hung in every office she’d ever had.
Who would she be today? thought Jenna. Probably Beyoncé, since Nina was a triple threat, too. Is Beyoncé a great actress, though? She was glorious in Dreamgirls, but she looked like she was nursing an ulcer as Etta James in Cadillac Records…
Just then, her iPhone vibrated on top of her desk. Swiveling around, she grabbed it—and when she saw who it was, all breath left her body.
Brian Stein. Her former Jewish Adonis. Why would he be calling? What did they have to talk about?
Paralyzed, Jenna stared as the phone vibrated five times. And then, a millisecond before the call went to voice mail, she answered. “Jenna?”
“Is this Stromboli’s Pizzeria again? I didn’t order; you have the wrong number.”
“Funny.”
“Hi.” She held her breath.
“Hi. I can’t believe I’m actually hearing your voice.”
“Yeah. Weird. Can I help you?”
“I assume a ‘welcome back’ is in order? I was surprised to hear that you were back in the city. I thought you would’ve called me.”
“Honestly, I didn’t think it would affect your life in any way.”
“I know we’ve been through hell, JJ, but you can’t pretend we’re not connected. We were together for twenty years. Can’t we be friends?”
“You left me.”
“No, I told you I was opposed to your vision for our future.” “You told me? I wasn’t your secretary, Brian. We were two people in a relationship!”
“You weren’t happy either.”
“I wasn’t happy because the love of my life—my first and only love, since I was a freshman at Georgetown—wasted my sexiest years, pretended he wanted to marry me, and then changed his mind about being a husband and a father. That was thrilling news for a woman with thirty-eight-year-old eggs.”
“Look, I just want us to be on good terms. Are you open to grabbing coffee? I’ll send a car to your office.”
“Brian, I wish you well. But I’m not interested in sipping lattes with you and pretending you didn’t ruin my life.”
“Fine, JJ.” He sighed. “There was another reason for my call. I…I guess I wanted you to hear this from me. I’ve been seeing someone, seriously.”
“Oh?” Jenna clutched her stomach and shut her eyes. She knew this moment would come, but she wasn’t ready. And she’d wanted to have a boyfriend first.
“You might know her. Lily. She works for Salon.”
“Lily L’Amour? You’re seeing the relationship columnist at Salon? You couldn’t find someone in a different industry? And her name isn’t Lily, by the way. It’s Celeste Wexler.”
“I know.”
“Anna must be thrilled you have a Jewish girlfriend.”
“You know my mom adores you. Won’t even look Lily in the eyes, she’s so loyal to you. The first and last time I took Lily home, she had an episode of America’s Modeling Competition playing on DVR.”
This gave Jenna a surge of ex-girlfriend satisfaction. “Well, I’m happy you’re happy.”
“You were gone. You didn’t even give us a chance to figure it out.”
“Figure what out? You threw yourself into your work, into being the famous real estate developer, the man I helped make. You hadn’t touched me in over a year.” She swallowed. “I’m still wondering who you were touching.”
“Holy Christ. I’m not dignifying that with a response.”
“You never have.” She slumped down in her chair, hit by a tidal wave of sadness. “We’d planned a whole life together. You backed out.”
“I didn’t want what you wanted. But I didn’t want to lose you.”
“And the award for most classically male declaration of selfishness goes to…”
“You imploded,” said Brian. “You sold my Warhol and my Koons on the stoop for five dollars. You fought with me in the street, accusing me of cheating with everyone from our dry cleaner’s daughter to the gay guy who installs sewage systems in my residential communities. The gay guy?”
“Well, you’d become so secretive! And you’re obsessed with fancy exfoliants. Plus, you had that man-crush on George Clooney…”
“I’m a wealthy guy who lives in suits. Clooney is the best-dressed man in the world. Damned right I have a man-crush on him.” He paused. “You left without saying goodbye. It was very difficult.”
“Difficult? Zumba is difficult!”
“I called, I emailed—and nothing. I waited for you,” he said. “But I couldn’t stay alone forever.”
“Of course not. Look, I wish you and Celeste the best. I will check Salon every month to see if she mentions your left-leaning penis in her column.” She took a deep breath. “I’m finally over you, Brian. And I just want you to be happy.”
“Thank you. Even though you just insulted my penis.” He paused. “I’ll let you go, I’m catching a flight to the country.”
He means the East Hampton house that I decorated. I art-directed our lives, and he financed it. We were sure to crumble under the weight of all that pretty.
“Just…congratulations on the job. And JJ? If Darcy Vale gives you any trouble, I’ll buy her company and sell it to OWN.”
“I can handle Darcy.”
“Hmm. I recall a younger you crying in my arms after she caked you,” said Brian, with a light chuckle. “We broke up one time, and you ended up with her fiancé. Of all the men in Manhattan.”
“Yeah, well that was a long time ago.”
“I hope you change your mind about coffee.”
“I hope you change your mind about hoping I change my mind.”
Jenna hung up and stared into space. Since stepping into the office this morning, she’d gone from zingy excitement about her comeback, to feeling like an out-of-step dinosaur, to stomach-churning hurt. She hated that Brian could still affect her. She got up, shut her office door, and sat on top of her desk. And bawled.
“Lily L’Amour? With her silly, pedantic Carrie Bradshaw-lite column that reads like Twilight fan fiction crossed with Are You There God It’s Me Margaret? This is the woman that my fiancé is deeply in love with? He went from me to that? You guys go on without me, I’ll just be here. Dead.”
It was later that evening, and Jenna was lying on her back on an enormous, all-white bed in an all-white suite at the Highline Hotel on 20th Street. The hotel’s creative director, Elodie Franklin, was Jenna’s best friend since Georgetown—and tonight, she was throwing a book launch in the hotel’s Refectory. The fete started in fifteen minutes, and the girls were having pre-game champagne.
“If you die over Brian Stein, I’ll kill you.” Elodie was perched at the vanity, painstakingly applying a dramatic swoop of black liquid liner. She’d been raised on a hippie commune in Berkeley by a Korean mother and black father (she looked so much like a certain music mogul divorcee that she’d been known to sign autographs on Kimora’s behalf). As a kid, when anyone on the commune had an issue, they all sat in a circle, practiced their primal screams and kept it moving. She abhorred delving too deeply in emotions. Her style was to barrel straight to the point, boundary-free; whether it was during an argument or while seducing one of her many grateful conquests. A stunner, she stood at least 5’11 in her usual “Medieval Whore Meets Biker Chick” look: a gauzy maxi-dress that exposed her massive cleavage, a long braid tossed over one shoulder, and motorcycle boots.
“You’re heartless,” said Billie Burke-Lane, Jenna’s other closest friend. She was on the floor in Downward Dog. As an overscheduled wife and mother, yoga was the only thing that calmed her, even when done in the middle of a conversation.
“I’m not heartless. I adore my Chihuahuas,” said Elodie.
“You are. Jenna just found out that Brian is dating the genius who dreams up gems like, ‘10 Ways to Relate to His Penis Personality.’ Show some compassion,” said Billie.
A bu
sty cutie with a swingy, chestnut blowout, she met Jenna in the Condé Nast cafeteria in 2001, where they’d bonded over being black editors at mainstream magazines. At the time, Billie had been Du Jour’s beauty director, but when the magazine folded, she joined M. Cosmetics as V.P. of Global Communications. Of Jenna’s two friends, she was the nurturing mama bear who worshipped at the altar of openness and true love. She tried to make time for her single friends and their shenanigans—but her true focus was staying sane so she could get home to her five-year-old daughter, May, and her husband, Jay, an award-winning poet who taught Voices of the Diaspora at Fordham University.
Billie and Elodie were bound together because they both loved Jenna, but they bickered like a couple in the first third of a rom-com.
“Billie, I refuse to take you seriously while you’re upside down,” said Elodie. “Also, I’m insulted that you’re not staying for my party.”
“I’m only here to support Jenna in her time of woe. I’m jetlagged from that sales conference in Hong Kong. I don’t have the energy to celebrate a photography book devoted to dogs dressed in lingerie. I just want to go home and watch Veep in my panties.”
At the Highline Hotel, Elodie oversaw artsy-fartsy charity soirees or fashion industry events—but her real moneymakers were parties promoting pet projects for A-listers who wanted to be famous for something else. Tonight’s fete was for a Guess model-turned-photographer—and her celebrity chef husband had paid Elodie an obscene amount to make her conceptual coffee table book seem legit.
Elodie spun around her padded bench and faced Jenna.
“You’ve said Brian’s dead to you. Why do you care who he sleeps with?”
“I’m…just scandalized by his choice in women.” Her stomach was churning. “Brian has impeccable taste. He has decanters prettier than her! I felt like I had to be flawless for this man, and now he’s with a chick who looks like Chelsea Handler?”
“Honestly,” continued Elodie with a chuckle, “I can’t even see Brian with a white woman. Remember how black he was at school? I love when he tries to go all fake Trump with me. It’s like, please don’t make me tell the Wall Street Journal that you taught my dorm how to do the Roger Rabbit.”
