“You must be the new ME,” she said. Her voice was more alto that I expected and I heard just a trace of East Coast.
“I’m Maxmillia Gwenoch, Maxie,” I nodded. “And you are...?”
“I’m Carola Whitsun. I’m the senior editor for our German edition.”
“You don’t have much of a German accent. What’s your background?”
“I’m from Connecticut. I went to school at Vassar. My family came over from Austria right after the war.”
“That explains the accent. Are you fluent in German?”
“We spoke German at home and I did my master’s in European Literature at Tubingen.”
“And now you’re working with a magazine that’s been called tabloid journalism. Why? Do you like it?”
Carola paused. “I do. I wanted to be involved with something now and hot. The whole of Europe freed up when the Wall came down is moving so fast. There are people making a lot, I mean a LOT of money who are setting a new style and it’s just cool to be able to watch them.”
Her enthusiasm was catching. Someone I definitely wanted on my team. I just hoped the other senior editors were as interested and vibrant.
“Whitsun?” I asked. “That doesn’t sound much like a German name.”.
“It’s not. My folks picked it when we came. Right after the war, German names weren’t very popular even though ours was Austro-Hungarian. I was also told we were part of the Esterhazy family, from right on the Austrian border.” She laughed. “I’ve wondered about being a long-lost countess or something. That’s another reason I work for SNAP. I may be meeting my relatives!”
Jazz showed up with an armful of supplies and a large coffee. In my office I got acquainted with the various equipment while she was stashing things. A knock on the doorframe made me jump and I looked up to see several people.
Jazz turned. “Oh! It’s the executive committee!”
The door people sorted themselves out on my sofa and chairs and I saw that it was two men and two women. They were all dressed in LA business; men in designer jeans and black t-shirts, the women in short, tight skirts and four inch heels—maybe Jimmy Choos? I could see I needed to take a serious look at my wardrobe, as soon as the movers delivered it.
One of the men I’d already met took the lead. He was the Executive Editor, Chaz Sanderson, who hired me.
“I’m glad to see you, Maxie,” he raised his eyebrows. “Getting settled in?”
“Beginning. Jazz has been helpful here at the office and as soon as the movers get her I’ll be glad to get out of the hotel.”
“You found a place OK?”
“I bought a condo in Santa Monica.”
“You may not be seeing it too much. I’m planning that you’ll be on the road a lot. We ran into Carola on the way over so I know you met her. These are the other senior editors, Gordon Townsley handles the U.K., Francois Sartou is the French and Mira Jorges is Brazil.”
I knew the different editions slightly because I followed their coverage areas. The U.K. leaned heavily on sports and members of the aristocracy; Brazil was a lot of samba and visiting jet set as well as polo and soccer; French was film (including the Americans who’d moved there like Johnny Depp and the Brad Pitt ménage), and all of them filled in with the minor ranks of local aristocracy, the beautiful and the rich. These senior editors directly supervised the foreign offices and had worked their way up to the Mother Ship.
We shook hands all around, mumbled pleasantries and Chaz herded us toward the back of the room talking about lunch. I was disoriented but followed the crowd until, at the back of a corridor, Mira waved her badge, pushed a button and another set of elevator doors opened.
“After lunch,” Chaz looked at me, “Jazz will take you to HR. Get all your paperwork finished, get your badge and get a layout. This is the elevator you’ll use. It’s in an ‘Employees Only’ room in the garage. Secure and private for any of our subjects coming to visit. Your badge will get you in everywhere.”
Off the elevator, we pushed through the “employees” door and were on the second floor of the underground garage, with a limo waiting.
Lunch was Spago. “It’s trite,” Chaz acknowledged, “but it’s still a ‘be seen’ place. You’ll need to know the staff and the freelancers who hang around.”
Lunch was also tablehopping and several languages with Chaz as the ringmaster. He and Carola ordered steak tartare, which they pushed around on their plates while the rest of us picked at salads.
HR took up a chunk of the afternoon. Jazz stuck her head in at 5 and told me I was expected on the 19th floor for the daily content meeting.
“I can’t work without a plan,” I snapped. “By the time I get back, I better have a daily and weekly schedule compiled. I need a copy on an e-calendar, my PDA, and my paper desk calendar.”
Jazz’ lips thinned, but she murmured, “Yes, Maxie, uhhh, Boss.”
The 5 o’clock content meeting consisted of several producers and two anchors from the SNAP Show, the senior editors of the print magazine, two blog editors, both the print and the TV art directors and the show’s director. Chaz chaired it “because you’re new, Maxie,” leading me to fear that this would be my job as well. After introductions, the TV people opened their schedule for tonight’s show. The print editors went through the plans for the next issues and the art directors threw digital prints on the screen.
It seemed like an awkward group—larger than I was used to working with—but one of the things that set SNAP apart was the seamless flow between the print, broadcast and blog personas. There was one identity. The consumer knew stories on the nightly show would be reported in more depth in the magazine that hit the newsstands on Saturday. Conversely, the magazine acted as a teaser for the next week’s shows, a symbiotic relationship not lost on advertisers.
After the meeting broke up, I stayed on the broadcast floor to watch Jazz’ madhouse for an hour. There was a sense of controlled pandemonium as the story producers and tape editors carved things into split second segues and I was glad I only had to deal with space, not time.
Waiting in my office when I came back down were my badge, a desk calendar with schedules of regular meetings and a note from Jazz. “Boss, I’ll be right back. Ran out to grab a coffee. If you want anything, call my cell and I’ll pick it up for you.”
I walked out into the large room. Muted voices, clacking keyboards and phones with ringtones that sounded almost like rushing water replaced the silence. Even individual cell phones didn’t ring. I’d have to ask Jazz about that.
CHAPTER FOUR
I flew to Rio before my clothes arrived from the movers.
“Don’t worry, you’re only going to be there one night,” Mira told me. “Pack two changes, make-up and prescriptions. The office there will have everything else.”
She neglected to mention that the flights, which went through Miami, would also be overnights. Didn’t have to change my clothes, though.
It was good to have face time with the Brazilian staff. During their winter the workload slowed a little so they relied on freelancers and paparazzi to send stuff from the South American ski resorts All in all, a very competent operation that supplied occasional digital video for the nightly TV show.
In L.A., I thought Mira looked like the girl from Ipanema. I was discovering that a lot of Brazilian women looked like the girl. They gave the SoCal girls a tight race, and with even less clothes. Mira wasn’t just beauty; she was brains and well regarded. She was from inland; started her career in Sao Paulo. It was a bigger market but lower on the international scene scale. Rio had the cachet; it was gossip central.
Anywhere was everywhere. This trip cemented that the world was becoming one global marketplace. American and European brands—from Levis to Hermes—were on display in the stores and on the streets and much of the merchandise was made in Asia.
SNAP thrived on this globalization. Celebs in Paris, London, LA and Rio wore the same brands of jeans, sported the same hairdos
and covered their faces with the same huge dark glasses.
“You know, Mira, we could just store hundreds of digital images, photoshop them into different backgrounds and use them for all our issues,” I mentioned over dinner. The travel and time changes were getting to me.
“I’ve thought about that,” she laughed. “It would sure cut our costs for freelancers. But then, how could we rationalize our own travel. Truthfully, that’s a big part of why I work here.”
“It’s a ginormous perk,” I agreed. “Not many people get travel, great food, hanging with celebs.”
“I don’t get much hang time here.” Mira looked pensive. “Mostly I’m in the office dealing with freelancers who are here; arranging for buys of shots or info. There are a few times, though; during Carnival with the Samba clubs is an assignment I always take.”
At a trendy restaurant near the bay we sat at an outdoor table and watched some of Rio’s Beautiful People stroll by. I ordered a salad and a chicken dish, but Mira went for what looked like a small cow.
“Is that all you’re eating?”
She pushed some of the bloody flesh around on her plate. “It’s from being around some of the people we cover. They all like South American beef, bloody rare, so I’ve sort of picked up the habit. Lots of protein, no carbs.”
Maybe that was the secret to the Ipanema girls. After that, dessert was out of the question.
I spent a couple of hours at the office the next day, going over future issue plans and running through a list of the South American freelancers Mira used. A few were very good and showed a lot of hustle—hanging around Galeao airport, camping out on the streets that wound through the hills, staking a place by the shoe store Constanca Basto and other shops and malls in Copacabana.
“A few of these could make it anywhere.” I waved at the shots “Do any of them want to move?”
“I doubt it.” Mira shook her head. “For the good ones, it’s a good life. They sell to us but they sell to South American magazines and TV shows, too. I know there are a couple who make more than $100,000 a year. A living salary, beautiful people to hang around, living in a gorgeous city with great weather and even better parties...what more could they want?
“The others, well, you probably wouldn’t want them.”
Going home was jet lag all the way. Rio was fabulous but not a trip I’d want to make often. I took a pill and dreamed about small cows.
CHAPTER FIVE
The SNAP limo picked me up at LAX. I insisted on a quick stop at my condo. The driver waited while I schlepped my bag upstairs and checked to see if my stuff arrived.
It had. The foyer and living room were stacked with boxes, the furniture was crammed in and my bed had been set up against the wrong wall. Welcome home. I found the box marked “bathroom,” took a fast shower, dressed in clean clothes from my travel bag—glad I hadn’t taken Mira’s packing advice—and was back in the limo in under 30 minutes.
This time I knew the ropes. I used my card key in the back elevator when the limo dropped me off in the garage. When the doors slid open on the 18th floor, I was greeted by a dim hush. None of the bright mirrors and Ice Princesses here, it was back to the hushed gurgle of the phones, murmurs, clacking keyboards and points of light coming from individual cubicles in the pods.
My spine tingled every time I came here.
Jazz met me and took my case and purse.
“How was your trip, Boss? You look a little lagged still. I have coffee waiting. Your first meeting is in an hour with the print art director.”
“Quick but interesting.” I shrugged my light jacket off. “Most of the women I saw in Brazil could be in any of our issues. Thanks for the coffee. I’d feel a lot more stable if the movers hadn’t just dumped my stuff.”
“I didn’t want to do anything while you were gone.” Jazz sounded hesitant. “I have an organizer and a designer on tap. They’ll start on your house as soon as you give me the word.”
The word was speechless. I knew that taking this job would give me a lot of the richie-rich perks (beyond limos, SNAP had corporate jets and apartments) but I’d never had personal personnel at my disposal before. This I could get used to.
“Thanks, Jazz,” I said as I went into my office. The smell of strong French Roast came from the service on the credenza. “Tell me about the art director. I know he’s fairly new, too, but I only saw him briefly before I flew to Rio.”
“He’s mid-thirties, very metrosexual, dishy in a glam sort of way. Came from one of those regional magazines like Southern Living, but not that. Book is 7 to 5 on gay but I don’t have a horse in that race. The word is one of the corporate VPs brought him on board. He got to bring along his own AA, but haven’t met her—or him, I guess—yet. His name is Jean-Louis, but there’s a rumor that he was named Johnny Lew for the first 18 years. He’s still new enough that the long knives have left him alone. Plus, it seems that someone up there,” she raised her well-shaped and waxed eyebrows, “has his back.”
Unloading my briefcase, transferring a couple of files from my laptop and double-checking my calendar took up the time until Jazz appeared at my door with Jean-Louis in tow. She hadn’t exaggerated, he was dishy on the hoof. In his early-thirties, he was just under 6 feet tall and well-enough proportioned that I knew he’d worked on it for several years. There may have been some carving included, but it was hard to tell. I might break a cardinal rule about getting involved with a work colleague to check this out more closely. His eyes were such a dark blue they verged on violet, his black hair was the “just out of bed” look and he had his razor set on two-day growth.
“Hello.” His voice was tenor with a hint of drawl, “I’ve heard a lot about you. You just got back from Rio? How did you like it?”
“I did and I did,” I caught my breath. “Have you ever been?”
“Not yet. I’m planning to get there for Carnival this year, though. A good time to check on the locals and see first-hand what all the noise is about. I thought we could go over a few things. Let me download to your desktop so we can view it on your screen.”
Wow. This one didn’t waste any time on the preliminaries. I liked that he was here for work, but a few seconds of the old sex chemistry wouldn’t have been bad. And there weren’t any clues about orientation. No gaydar was going off, but then neither was any warmth.
We spent the next three-quarters of an hour looking over what Jean-Louis called “top and bottom,” his examples of the best and worst layouts that he’d culled from past issues of the magazine. I was more and more sure we’d get along as our design sense and tastes were compatible, although not identical. The studio and press conference shots were not debatable, but he was hard on the paparazzi and candids, pointing out a few that he never would have bought.
“It’s not that I don’t like paparazzi, if it weren’t for them we’d never be able to fill an issue. And I know their job is difficult, getting chased away and hearing the verbal abuse with the hope that somebody will buy. Or loading them up on YouTube waiting for the hit to get your name known. It’s a precarious life. They choose it, though so I treat them professionally and won’t buy unless it’s really good. No odd angles, no funny shadings, no weird backgounds, no photoshopping.”
He was right and he was professional. We were off on the right foot and had the drive to make SNAP a better product. It also wasn’t going to hurt my eyes to work with him.
We went up to the daily content meeting together and I watched how the others acted and reacted to Jean-Louis. I’ve always assumed that people know their own body language and control it, but it’s still interesting to watch the unspoken group dynamics. We’re not far removed from the animals who will turn on a weakling and peck him or her to death. I hadn’t seen a weak link so far in this group of overachievers, but noticed some coalescing around power. Not as strong as iron filings but a certain willingness to defer to Chaz and the executive producer of the TV show.
With the nightly show blocked out, I went
back to my office, made some notes about meeting with Jean-Louis to go over the Rio freelancers who had impressed me and called it a day. Jazz said the limo was here—tomorrow I was going to try driving myself—and walked out to the murmuring and unnerving liquid sound of phones again. Tomorrow I was for sure going to ask Jazz about that.
Flames leapt from the huge oak trunk. The massive stone fireplace covered most of the wall in the echoing room. A table with its back to the fire anchored two tables so long that the figures at the ends felt no warmth.
That didn’t matter; demons, werewolves and shape shifters were always relegated to the outer places.
“Are you threatening me?’ Stefan Kandesky’s face was translucent with anger. “You forget yourself.” He faced down Felix Huszar.
SNAP: The World Unfolds Page 2
