by Judith Gould
“What about you? Aren’t you coming?”
Anouk shook her head.
The car was equipped with a built-in bar, ice chest, and television set, and she was comfortably ensconced in all that roomy luxury. She had the latest issue of French Vogue, a cellular telephone, even a few books. Why leave all the comforts of home?
“No, darling, you two go on ahead,” she said. “Empty rooms are your specialties, are they not?” She jingled the keys.
Lydia snatched them. “Oh, all right. Come on, Boo Boo.” She started wobbling cautiously across the drive in her white lizard sling backs, and the heels immediately sank deep into the sand.
“What on earth could have possessed us to wear good clothes for this outing?” Boo Boo grumbled.
“I don’t know, but I sure wish I’d worn flats. Or sneakers. Or better yet,” Lydia said with violent distaste, and shuddered, “engineer boots.”
Chapter 49
“Of course, Ms. Robinson. Ms. Shawcross said you would be joining her for lunch,” the headwaiter said with a slight bow. “She is already at her regular table. If you will follow me, please ...”
“Thank you.” Edwina followed him through the marble Grill Room of the Four Seasons, that lunchtime club of New York’s publishing bigwigs, where clout was measured not merely by the table one occupied, but by the table one occupied each and every day.
But this clubby exclusivity held true only in the Grill Room, not the larger dining room with its pool, and only during lunchtime. At dinner, the one-hundred-and-ninety-seat restaurant on East Fifty-second Street, which had been designed by Philip Johnson and Mies van der Rohe, and which featured originals by Picasso, Rauschenberg, and Miro in its austere museumlike setting, became just another expensive restaurant catering to anyone properly dressed.
Liza Shawcross remained seated as Edwina approached. Then she smiled and offered an outstretched hand. “So we meet at last,” she said. “Have a seat and please call me Liza.”
Edwina shook her hand and sat. Liza made it sound as if she’d been dying to meet her—a result of the WWD article, no doubt. “In that case,” Edwina said, “call me Eds. All my friends do.”
“Eds it is. Would you like a cocktail? I got here early and have already ordered mine.”
Edwina looked at Liza’s champagne glass. She noticed that there was no ice bucket beside the table, no bottle of vintage champagne wrapped in a napkin.
Liza laughed and held the glass up. “Faux champagne,” she said, eyeing its sparkly pale golden liquid. “Enough apple juice to give it color, and the rest is sparkling water. If I drank anything alcoholic for lunch, I wouldn’t be good for anything the rest of the day. I’m afraid alcohol goes straight to my head.”
Edwina looked at her with respect. “I’ll have the same. I know precisely what you mean.”
Liza smiled. “Bring two more of these,” she instructed the hovering waiter. “And one menu.”
“Yes, Ms. Shawcross.”
“I know this menu like the back of my hand,” Liza told Edwina. “Thank God they offer a few items of spa cuisine. If I didn’t constantly diet, I would blow up like a balloon.”
They made small talk until the drinks and menu came. Liza lifted her glass in a toast. “To success,” she said to Edwina.
“I’ll drink to that,” Edwina said.
They both sipped. Edwina perused the menu. “I’ll skip an appetizer,” she told the solicitous waiter, “and just have the braised fillet of monkfish with papaya and scallions.” She handed her menu over.
“And I’ll have the broiled lobster, as usual,” Liza said, “with arugula on the side. No dressing, no butter, just lemon for both.”
“Very well, Ms. Shawcross. I’ll make certain the lemon’s wrapped in cheesecloth.” The waiter gave a slight bow and disappeared.
Liza folded her hands on the tablecloth and eyed Edwina speculatively. “Word around town has it you’re the rising fashion star.”
Edwina shrugged. “I’m coming up with a line of clothing, yes,” she said noncommittally. “But as for fashion star . . .” She laughed. “I wouldn’t go half so far as to say that.”
“You needn’t sound so humble, you know. Word has it you’re very good.”
Edwina was silent for a moment. “We’ll see when the collection is unveiled, won’t we?”
A busboy came with a basket of rolls and bread. “Not for me,” Liza said. “Too many carbos.” She looked at Edwina questioningly.
Edwina shook her head. “I’ll pass too.”
Imperiously Liza waved the bread and rolls away. “The best way to avoid temptation,” she said, “is not to have it around in the first place.”
Edwina nodded in agreement and took another sip of her drink.
“Were you surprised that I moved up our lunch date?” Liza asked.
“Yes and no,” Edwina said truthfully. “What I haven’t been able to figure out is why.”
“You’re a comer,” Liza said. “Of course, on Seventh Avenue there are just as many goers.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Designers appear and disappear all the time.”
“Fashion’s a fickle mistress,” Edwina agreed, nodding. “So is the public’s taste.”
Liza met her gaze directly. “But good marketing isn’t,” she said shrewdly. “Nor is a commonsense approach to the business.”
Edwina raised her eyebrows. “You seem to be very well-informed.”
“Keeping informed is part of my job. As you know, there are few real secrets on Seventh Avenue. I know who’s sleeping with whom, who’s keeping a mistress or two, who indulges in cocaine. I also pride myself on knowing whose star is on the rise and whose is on the wane.” She watched Edwina’s face carefully. “And my gut feeling is that you’re going to make it.” She reached for her glass, slowly swirled the liquid around in it. The bubbles danced to the surface and frothed there. “Don’t take this personally, but I’ve checked you out.”
Edwina wasn’t surprised. “Ditto on my part. I had my staff call around to find out more about you.”
Liza wasn’t surprised either. “That’s why I think you’re going to make it. You don’t leave much to chance.”
“Obviously,” Edwina said dryly, “neither do you. Word has it you’re already jockeying for Anna Wintour’s job over at Vogue. And you’ve just come to Chic! from England a little over a year ago!”
Now it was Liza’s voice that was dry. “Which only proves what I just got through saying: there don’t seem to be many secrets in this business.”
“I’ll say.” Edwina smiled. “So. Why did you push up our luncheon?”
Liza smiled. “I wanted to meet you face-to-face and run a proposition by you. You see, I think we can help each other.”
Edwina looked surprised. “Perhaps you can help me, but what makes you think I’m in any position to help you?”
“You certainly don’t beat around the bush. Good. Neither do I. Let me put all my cards on the table, and then you can lay yours down, if you choose. It’s no secret that Chic! is currently the number two fashion magazine in this country.” Liza paused, and something hard glinted deep in her eyes. “I intend to make it number one.”
“But why do that if you’re after the Vogue job?”
“Simple.” Liza allowed herself a modest smile. “Publishing is a lot like television. Mr. X makes Network A the number-one-rated network. Then Network B comes along and hires him away from Network A to make them number one. And then, when he succeeds, Network C, in turn, hires him to get them into first place too.”
“And along the way, Mr. X’s power, along with his salary, skyrockets,” Edwina said slowly, “and then, when he’s got no place else to go, he’s back at Network A, pulling down five to ten times the salary he got there to begin with.”
Liza smiled. “And gets more and more powerful with every hop, skip, and jump.” She paused. “Now, I know for a fact that you know where the big money in fashion is and that you’re out to grab a chunk
of that mass-market pie.”
“You have been doing your homework.”
“Knowledge is power.” Liza fell silent as the waiter approached with the food. When he was assured that everything was to their satisfaction and left, Edwina cut a paper-thin slice of papaya. She looked across the table at Liza. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why am I so important to you and Chic!?”
“You’ll be doing heavy-duty advertising,” Liza said, squeezing lemon juice onto her lobster. “Firms like Esprit, Liz Claiborne, and Georges Marciano spend hundreds of thousands of dollars a month on advertising. You’ll have to too, and quite a bit of that is going to filter down to Chic!.”
“Since when does an editor-in-chief concern herself with mundane matters such as advertising? You have a whole department to take care of that.”
“We do.” Liza took a minuscule bite of lobster. “But ads alone do not clothes sell.” She gave Edwina a significant look. “It’s all about exposure and press coverage. Of course, it helps if the clothes sell themselves.”
Edwina cut a morsel of monkfish, slipped a bit of papaya onto the fork, and chewed it slowly. The tender, meaty fish and the tropical fruit melted exquisitely in her mouth. Ambrosia.
Liza dropped the bombshell casually. “How would you like an outfit from your very first collection on the cover of Chic!?” She smiled and cut another piece of lobster. “Say . . . with Billie Dawn modeling it?”
Edwina tried not to gape. “I’m sorry,” she said weakly, certain she would need the Heimlich maneuver. “I don’t think I heard you right.”
“You heard me right.” Liza gestured with her fork. “You just find it hard to believe.”
“Damn right I do. While you’re at it, why don’t you ask me if I want to be twenty-one again?”
Liza smiled. “Because I only deal in the possible. Anyway, there’s more.”
“More?” Edwina stared at her.
“More.” Liza nodded definitely. “What do you say to an eight-page color spread featuring your outfits inside that very same issue? Also with Billie Dawn modeling? She is the hottest thing in town these days.”
Edwina put down her knife and fork. There was no way, absolutely no way on earth that she could eat another morsel—not after having been offered the sun, the moon, and the stars. Hell, the whole solar system was more like it! Maybe she should pinch herself.
“Eds?” Liza asked with good humor. “Are you still here?”
“Is it Christmas?” Edwina ventured. “Russian Easter? Hanukkah?” She took a swallow of her drink and her voice was hushed. “An offer like this does not come without strings.” She searched Liza’s face for confirmation.
Liza looked at her blandly. “Sometimes it does, and sometimes it doesn’t.”
“Then let’s talk turkey. What, exactly, do you want in return for playing fairy godmother?”
Liza stared intently at her. “Exclusivity.”
Edwina frowned. “You mean you want Chic! alone to show my clothes?” She shook her head. “That’s impossible, and you know it.”
“No, Eds, exclusivity for Chic! to be the first magazine to unveil the first Edwina G. collection.” Liza half-smiled. “You’re free to advertise in any and all other magazines at any time the month after Chic! does its spread. But I want to get a month’s jump—one month is all I’m asking—on covering the collection.”
Edwina took a deep breath. “Eight pages, did you say? Plus the cover?” She fanned herself with her hand. Unbelievable as it seemed, Liza Shawcross and Chic! magazine would virtually put Edwina G. firmly on the fashion map—and in one fell swoop.
“Will I have the final say on which clothes you’ll feature?”
“As long as they cover a broad spectrum and are complete outfits, yes.” Liza nodded. “However, the accessories we use are up to the art director and the stylist.”
“And can you also,” Edwina asked very, very slowly, “guarantee me the photographer of my choice?”
“I do believe,” Liza said dryly, “that you think it really is Christmas.”
“I only want the feature to be a winner.”
“All right,” Liza sighed. “Which shutterbug do you want? Helmut Newton? Skrebneski? Francesco Scavullo?”
“None of the above.” Edwina smiled.
Liza looked surprised. Edwina didn’t want the priciest and the best? Whom could she possibly want?
“Do you mind telling me what’s wrong with any of the above? I would think you’d be panting to get any one of them.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Edwina said. “They’re fabulous. All of them. But I want Alfredo Toscani.”
Liza frowned. “Any particular reason why you want him?”
“For one thing, I know he can capture the Edwina G. look. For another, I like his work. Besides, he’s almost as important as the others—and he’s a hair cheaper, to boot.” Plus, he was the closest thing to a father I ever had, she thought, but she wasn’t about to lay bare the facts of her curious childhood for Liza.
“Fine,” Liza said. “Toscani it is.”
“I’ll drink to that!”
They sat back, mutually happy with the way things had turned out.
The waiter appeared beside the table and eyed Edwina’s practically untouched plate as if it were a personal affront. One cocked eyebrow rose sky-high. “Was the lunch not to madam’s satisfaction?” he inquired.
“Madam thought it was wonderful,” Edwina assured him.
He looked at her plate sadly. “Then I may clear it away?”
She nodded. “Please.”
“Might I suggest dessert?”
“Not for me,” Edwina declined immediately.
“Not for me either,” Liza echoed. But she ordered coffee. “Cappuccino.”
“Ditto,” said Edwina. Whether you ate or not, it was only civilized to share a cup of caffeine.
Liza reached for her purse, then hesitated. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Do I mind?” Edwina asked. “Hell, Liza, after what you’re doing for me, feel free to light up an entire carton and blow it in my face!”
Chapter 50
Despite themselves, Lydia and Boo Boo were beginning to get caught up in excitement. The creative juices weren’t just flowing, they were flooding.
“You know,” Lydia said slowly after they’d spent an hour exploring the huge house from top to bottom and end to end, all the time taking notes, “from inside it’s—”
“—not all that baaaaad,” Boo Boo finished for her.
They turned to each other and stared. They stood in a sunny high-ceilinged room at the back of the house, with tall windows overlooking the surf rolling in from the Atlantic.
“Mark Hampton or Mario Buatta would be perfect to do this room,” Boo Boo said dreamily. “Can’t you just see it? All frills and warm, homey English chintz?”
“Screw Mark and screw Mario,” Lydia growled, her narrowed eyes darting around. “This room’s mine!”
Boo Boo looked taken aback. “Lydia!” she scolded.
“Don’t you ‘Lydia’ me!” Lydia started pacing briskly, her hands gesturing wildly. “I love the proportions. So magnificent ... so manorial.” She stood there, one hand on her hip, the other arm cocked. “I mean, how can you go wrong? Boo Boo! Can’t you just see it? All paneled and painted a glossy deep blue . . . with matching white marble mantels on these two facing fireplaces . . . tortoiseshell blinds behind the curtains . . . maybe one of those enormous antique brass billiard lamps hanging over a draped center table?”
Boo Boo interrupted. “If you’re putting dibs on this room—”
“I am,” Lydia snapped sharply. “It’s mine. I mean, we’re in charge, right, Boo Boo? And since we’re in charge, we’re going to get first choice, so we’re going to end up with the plums,” she gloated triumphantly. “After all, don’t we deserve that?”
Sighing, Boo Boo turned away. She squinted against the sun flashing reflections off the ocean right outside the
windows. She knew that look in Lydia’s eyes all too well. They were shining and determined, ruthlessly intractable.
“Well, I’m not quite sure it’s fair ...” she said slowly, turning back around. “I mean, we’re supposed to coordinate everyone else and match them up with the appropriate rooms—”
“All’s fair in love and war, and decorating a showhouse room is war, Boo Boo! Or do you want someone besides LZ Design LAB to come up smelling like roses? And besides ...” Lydia tossed her head. “If we have to be in charge of this horrendous project, then I say we deserve first choice for our efforts. If you ask me, that’s only fair.”
“You’re right, of course,” Boo Boo said, brightening perceptibly. “Still, it’ll cause a lot of resentment,” she mused, frowning again. “Maybe it would be best if we all drew straws—”
“Screw straws, Boo Boo! I mean, what are the choice showhouse rooms? Hmmm?”
“Besides a room like this?” Boo Boo didn’t even have to think about it. “Living rooms,” she said automatically. “Studies. Bedrooms.”
“Right. And logistically, dining rooms are too simple, no challenge at all, while children’s rooms are horridly cutesy. And what are the dogs of design?”
“Kitchens and bathrooms,” Boo Boo responded promptly.
“That’s right,” Lydia said smugly. “So do you want to draw straws and chance being stuck designing a kitchen? Or, worse yet, a bathroom? Well? Do you?”
“Since you put it that way, quite honestly, no, I do not. But if you’re going to do this room, then I’ll do . . . let me see . . .” Boo Boo frowned thoughtfully. “The library? Brrrr . . .” She shivered in disgust. “All those miles and miles of shelves. All those books. No, I rather like the idea of doing the master bedroom myself. The entire suite. But not,” she added darkly, “the his-and-her baths.”
“Good! Then we’re agreed!”
“But who gets the sitting room? And the smoking room? And the . . . Lydia! Do you have any idea of just how many rooms this house has? We must have gone through forty or fifty!”
