The British cat lady fluffs up; I suspect she has already told him many times about this contest. “It is a modeling contest,” she says. “Readers from all over your country have entered. We are going to pick the ten Tasty-est”—here the Brit giggles at her own wit—“and then fly them to a bloody great location for a photo shoot.”
Her sycophant, Annabel, adds, “We’ll break the next Han, the next Dasha, the next Iekeline!”
The Brit continues, “I’ve arranged for two simply brilliant chums from England to do the photography and the styling. Giedra Dylan-Hall and her consort Kush. Of course you’ve heard of them.”
There’s a flutter around the table. Even an inexperienced person such as myself can surmise that picking the photographer is outside the cat lady’s job description.
“The Giedra Dylan-Hall? I’m so sorry, sweetie.” SLS’s voice drips poison. “We don’t have the budget for that.”
This turns out to be a fatal mistake. His rival pounces. “I worried that you might be running a little over budget. So I asked Giedra to do it simply as a favor to me. And she agreed.”
“Free photo shoot? I’m sold,” the manager-type woman I met outside says.
SLS tries a different tactic. “Do you honestly think we have ten readers who are worthy of being in our pages? Aren’t you setting your sights a little high?”
“Pick one or two winners,” a skinny, tiny woman with streaks of premature gray in her short, dark hair chimes in. The color contrasts strikingly with her pale, youthful face. She must be one of SLS’s allies. “That would be stronger from an art perspective.”
“I agree that finding ten will not be so easy,” says a smokyvoiced woman with masses of curly brown hair and a painted-on beauty mark. “We did a casting call yesterday that made me want to put my eyes out with a Polaroid.”
The Brit curves her apricot-glossed lips into a smile. “We have to have ten winners,” she purrs. “Surely art direction and photography can compensate for any minor flaws in the models.” She appeals to the black man. “You always say, ‘The shoot’s about what’s behind the camera, not what’s in front of it.’ Don’t you?”
“That is a maxim of mine,” he admits grudgingly.
“So?”
“So let’s move on,” Lillian interrupts. “Have we secured Trey for the October ‘Ask a Man’ feature?”
“His people are getting back to us,” the Brit replies. “I’m sure he’ll fancy it.”
Lillian looks coldly at her. “Mmm…” she says. “If his commitment isn’t written in blood, get me a few other options.” She looks around at the table, displeased. “Let’s plan a little further in advance, ladies. You should all have excellent time-management skills by now. Next week we’re going to start mapping out November. I want warm, winter ideas. Boot stories. Coat stories. Maybe a few bathing suits for the Caribbean over Christmas break.”
“Ice-skating!” Annabel blurts, and then looks around anxiously, as if she’s overstepped her bounds by making a suggestion.
Lillian raises an eyebrow. “Dead on,” she says. “Ice-skating feels fresh. Now, let’s everybody put our thinking caps on and come up with ten or fifteen more of those. It’s our job to track down the trends wherever we may find them.”
“Until next Monday, folks,” the manager lady says, motioning that the meeting is dismissed. “Happy hunting!”
THE BRITISH blonde is Lexa Larkin, my new boss. Up close, she’s even freakier looking. Her white-blond hair swirls out from her face like meringue; her manicured hands are limp and weak looking. She says, “I’ve never had an intern without previous fashion experience. You should know that I have grave reservations about this. You’ll find that I’m very honest and direct with people. It’s one of the reasons I’m so successful.”
“I appreciate your honesty,” I reply, uncertainly.
She squints at me through her glasses.
This exchange takes place in the hallway outside the meeting, right where everyone can overhear. In fact, they can’t avoid overhearing because there is no background noise, no sudden babble of people being released from two hours of sitting still. People stride away silently, heads held high, looking like models walking down a runway. Every one of them is specter-thin and dressed to kill. My homespun red dress stands out like a blood-soaked rag in shark-infested waters.
“To be frank—and I’m always frank,” Lexa says, “you’re too old for a career change.”
“But…I just graduated from college last year,” I stutter. “And Lillian offered this job—”
At the sound of Lillian’s name, Lexa flinches.
“I am up for whatever you need me to do. I’ve had lots of work experience. I was an EMT, so I’m used to a fast-paced environment—”
“We all do charity work, darling,” Lexa says dismissively. “But I’ve been in fashion since before there was a Fashion Week.”
I find this hard to believe.
“My years in the industry have given me an encyclopedic knowledge,” she continues. “I know the name and specialty of every French frock-maker worth her salt since the 1750s. Have you heard of Rose Bertin? Or the Marquise de Flambeau? She dressed Madame de Staël.”
“No, but I’ll Nexis them!”
Two very similar looking girls passing us roll their eyes at Lexa. She smirks back.
We start with a tour, whisking from the conference room back toward reception, down a long central corridor lined with cubicles. Editorial takes up half the floor. The other half, Lexa says, is for “the publishing side of the masthead.” I understand from her tone that they are subhuman. As far as I can tell, our half of the floor comprises a huge central space with three rows of cubicles—one row for Fashion, one for Research and Copy, and one for Lifestyles and Features. At the end of each row are the closets (Beauty, Fashion, Accessories). And in each closet is a desk (where the “closet assistant” sits; there is such a job). Long hallways run all the way around the perimeter, where Photo and Art are located, and where the bigwigs have actual offices with doors and windows. Shane Lincoln-Shane, the art director (the imposing man who spoke in the meeting; the lavender pen is his trademark), is in one corner office and Lillian is in the other.
The all-white theme of the reception area continues into the interior. Snowy, high-gloss paint seals the wooden floors. White canvas covers the cubicle walls. Work spaces are personalized with design-classic desk lamps and cleverly collaged bulletin boards. Most chairs are backed with bright cushions in a fabric expressing the occupant’s personal style. Aromatherapy is big. We pass through distinct scent zones of lavender, gardenia, rose. My eyes itch.
Lexa points out the off-limits areas: The first no-no is Lillian’s palatial corner office. I peek inside as we dash by, catching a glimpse of Oriental rugs and dark antiques that contrast dramatically with the white space. The offices on either side of Lillian’s are empty. The diminutive but terrifying editor-in-chief, Lexa explains, “doesn’t like a lot of foot traffic.” It makes her “cranky.”
Lillian’s assistant, a gorgeous light-skinned black girl named Bambi, marooned in a cubicle in front of Lillian’s door, is hiding behind her computer whispering into her phone. She stares at us with wild, hunted eyes.
“Don’t be mad, Shallay,” she pleads. “I’ll find out as soon as I can.” Then she slams the phone down and starts typing frantically. On the ledge of her cubicle are three towering, exotic flower arrangements addressed to Lillian.
When we’re out of Bambi’s earshot, Lexa tells me that Lillian fires her assistants every couple of weeks, so remembering Bambi’s name isn’t essential. “There was a brilliant girl during our re-launch who lasted for a few months,” she tells me. “Oddly enough, that one survived Lillian but was fired for an impropriety with the company Web server. It’s such a shame when a young person is fired from her first job.” She smiles at me blandly, lips like peach-frosted pillows in her white face.
On that cheery note, we continue our tour of the th
irty-seventh floor, walking down a long hallway away from Lillian’s office. I’m eager to see the view, but the perimeter walls are taken up by offices, through whose open doors I see windows with the blinds drawn tightly shut. There’s a problem with monitor glare, Lexa explains.
The art department is the number-two off-limits locale. Shane Lincoln-Shane can be thrown off his game by the slightest of interruptions.
“If you see Shane Lincoln-Shane coming, hide,” Lexa instructs me. A previous intern once made the mistake of asking him where the bathroom was. She was intercepted by HR on her way out of the stall and canned, right there in the can.
After Shane’s area is a big open room for the designers and photo department—I’m introduced to the Susan Sontag–gray-streak girl from the meeting; she’s Matilda, the head designer—and then we come to what Lexa calls “the fashion closet,” across from Photo. It’s a huge room, bigger than the whole art department, where clothes that designers send in for shoots wait to be either used or returned. Appallingly, I want to spend hours in there, examining the decadent goods. I even think I see a rack of Marni for fall. The brand’s melted-candy colors and funky tailoring make it my favorite label—though I don’t have the money to have a favorite label.
I feel increasingly pale and squishy as I meet my new coworkers. Everyone is so poised and pretty and lint-free. Their blacks match. They all greet me with slight, polite surprise. As if it’s obvious from looking at my vintage dress and cheap accessories that I don’t fit in here.
I wish I didn’t care. But I do.
One of the last times I saw my mother comes to mind. She’d already rented her apartment in New York—the one we later found out never existed—but she was home for the weekend.
I was sixteen and wanted Eva’s help finishing a top I’d been working on. I was planning on going to a party that night and needed it to make an impression on my crush, Will Crossman (sarcastic, black-haired, pot-smoking high-school god, Will Crossman)—at least that was the fantasy. In reality I should have known I wouldn’t talk to him. And I was way too shy to make an impression on anyone. Nonetheless, when Eva came home later than planned, I was already annoyed with her. And then she got a phone call from a friend insisting that she come back down to the city for a party where important industry people were going to be. I was outraged when she agreed to go.
I followed her around the house, berating her for letting me down and for letting my dad down—“Don’t you think your husband wants to spend the weekend with you?”—while she mechanically tried on outfits and did her hair and nails. She looked pale and tired. She’d been having problems with shortness of breath, which she claimed were brought on by the stress of her career. I must have criticized her for caring so much about how she looked. She told me, bitterly, that I didn’t understand how hard you had to try to fit in if you weren’t born into the world of money.
I’ve always remembered that, not because what she said was wise—I thought it was stupid—but because of how unusual it was for her to speak sharply to me. Now, for the first time, I can see how she felt. Trying to be one of these Tasty girls could suck you dry.
I trail Lexa away from Photo and Fashion, past the Copy/ Research row, past Features, around the corner past Beauty and the beauty closet, and into her dark office. Lillian, three doors down, is a little too close for comfort. Also, it’s as cold as a meat locker, and like everyone else, Lexa has her white canvas blinds drawn, despite what must be an incredible view.
My new boss flips on a lamp, snaps her fingers, and points to the chair in front of her barren desk. Her chair-pillow is peachy-pink raw silk. Instead of a fluorescent light, she’s hung a peach-and-gilt chandelier (of the million-tiny-lampshade variety). I perch on the guest chair (no pillow) nervously. On one wall she has a framed poster of an advertisement for the magazine with the “The More You Shop, the Tastier You Are” slogan. Sitting next to her computer is the same clear plastic cup with a straw that I noticed on a couple other of the senior people’s desks. It’s filled with crimson fluid. Lexa seizes this and starts slurping.
If everyone stays so slender by drinking this smoothie, maybe I should try one.
“Is there a Jamba Juice near here?” I ask.
“It’s beet juice,” she tells me dismissively.
The straw rattles in the bottom of the cup. Lexa openly and noisily licks her lips, then takes the straw out of the cup and squeezes the last few drops onto her outstretched tongue. You’d expect someone who looks so posh to have better manners.
I’m officially not looking forward to working with her.
And then without a chance to ask about what my responsibilities will be, I’m whisked out of her office by her assistant, Annabel, the officious, pop-eyed girl from the meeting. (OK, like everyone else around here, she’s actually very pretty, in a sleek, patrician kind of way.) “You must feel really honored to work here,” she says, emphasis on you. “I’ll show you where the interns sit. And if you have any questions, save them for next week. I’m preparing a binder for new employees that explains everything. It’s already two hundred pages.” She glares at me as if the binder is just for me.
Two doors down from where Annabel sits in a half-walled cubicle outside Lexa’s office is a small, windowless room lined floor to ceiling with filing drawers—another kind of closet, I assumed when we passed it the first time. Now Annabel knocks on the open door. Seeing who it is, the room’s two occupants leap up.
They must be the other interns.
“Is that DVF?” asks a tall, size-zero girl with perfect, limp brown hair that looks like she slept on it and woke up looking fashionable. Except, because of her heavy, peaches-in-syrup Southern accent, she pronounces it “day-vee-ehff.”
Annabel is wearing a short-sleeved, pearl gray cashmere cardigan over a wrap dress that I, too, suspected was Diane Von Furstenberg.
“The dress has a seventies vibe, but the sweater is patrician,” pronounces the other girl. “Very TriBeCa.” She has black hair and wears pearls.
“TriBeCa?” Annabel says. “You’re saying I look downtown?”
My fellow interns hasten to assure her that they didn’t mean downtown-downtown. They meant original but classic.
“I don’t know,” Annabel says. “Should I return it for a solid color?” She was carrying a pen in her hand, and starts anxiously clicking it.
The black-haired girl jumps in, attempting to save a bad situation. “Is there anything we can do for you, Annabel? We’d love to help out.”
Annabel thinks for a minute. “Nothing right now. I have to get back to work. Lexa is really relying on me.”
She’s totally forgotten me.
“Uh,” I say. “So I’m supposed to sit here?” I point to an empty desk.
Annabel flips her hair—shoulder-length, highlighted—and departs.
Once she’s gone, the others don’t pretend to be nice.
“There are only supposed to be two interns,” the brunette says, pronouncing it “intuns.” So much for Southern hospitality.
“We had a beanbag in here before,” the black-haired girl says, “but they got rid of it to make room for your desk.” She looks like she did lots of hazing at her sorority.
“Kate McGraw,” I say, and smile weakly. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about the beanbag.”
The tall, Southern girl is Nin Casey. She’s nineteen, a former model, and has an adventurous sense of style—at the moment, she’s wearing daisy-yellow bloomer shorts with knee-high brown boots and an eyelet blouse designed, I suspect, by Catherine Malandrino. She’s taking a year off from college to work here, and by her own testimony doesn’t want to go back. Her father is a prominent Atlanta real-estate developer.
The other one is Rachel Rosen. She tells me, “I just graduated from Columbia J-school with honors. I’ve written lots of pitches, I have tons of clips from the fashion trades. It’s only a matter of time before I get a byline in a book with a big circ.”
Rachel also hasten
s to add that she won a student-writing competition the prestigious New Yorker ran. She has been granted special dispensation by the corporate powers that be to “keep blogging.”
“The higher-ups like it because it creates a link to the MySpace generation,” she tells me.
Nin says, “You link to MySpace?”
I guess she’s so rich and stylish and pretty, she doesn’t have to be smart.
I can’t decide if I hate these girls or want to be them, or both.
Rachel and Nin are surrounded by white plastic mail buckets heaped high with manila envelopes. These are the Tasty Girl Contest entries.
Nin tells me, “There’s really not enough work for three of us.”
Is she kidding? “Didn’t Annabel mention logging entries in the meeting?” I ask. Prying extracts the name of a disorganized Quark file they’ve been working on. “You could do this in Excel,” I suggest. “And network it so we can all work at the same time.”
Rachel says, “We didn’t learn Excel in J-school. Most pubs use Quark.”
“Yes, but to keep track of all this information, it will be easier if we use something sortable.” I demonstrate how an Excel file works.
“I love grids,” Nin says. “They’re so boxy.”
“I can easily cut and paste all your data into this, and—”
“Okay, you do that,” Nin says. “We’re going to the caf.”
They both depart for lunch in the famous Oldham cafeteria—designed by the architect David Rockwell—and I cut and paste the pitifully small amount of data they’ve compiled. Then, uninvited, I start opening envelopes (some of which are inaccurately addressed to America’s Next Top Model at our street address). In addition to head shots and application forms, the girls have answered lengthy medical questionnaires and provided an essay on the topic “What Makes Me Tasty?” And here I thought modeling was all about looks.
Blood Is the New Black Page 3
