Blood Is the New Black

by Valerie Stivers

  “And the dog was like that?” I whisper.

  “Yes. The closet is always locked. I don’t know how he got in there.”

  “Annabel, go get Lauren. Quick!” I order, keeping my voice low. If Lillian’s not here, I’m assuming the managing editor is next in line. At least that’s what today’s assiduous perusal of the masthead told me. “I’ll make sure no one goes in.”

  Annabel nods, instructs me to cover Lillian’s phone, and clatters off down the hall on her ladylike stilettos.

  “Maybe he had a heart attack? I heard a lot of yapping. I didn’t think anything of it,” Bambi chokes out.

  Sounds like Marc Jacobs to me. “Actually, he’s a she. How long ago was she barking?” I ask.

  “Around half an hour ago. But then she stopped and I forgot about it.”

  That’s odd. Even a body as small as the Chihuahua’s shouldn’t have cooled so rapidly. Also, I saw two tiny white specks on her neck. They looked like dry white sores, or puncture wounds. But if they were puncture wounds, they ought to be bloody, and they weren’t.

  I need to look at them more closely.

  “Bambi, sit down, try to breathe deeply,” I tell her, pulling open the supply closet door.

  Annabel stops me.

  “Lauren’s not at her desk!” she says, handing me the paper bag I asked for. She must have run all the way there and back. Fast.

  I give the bag to Bambi, who obediently puts her face into it and starts breathing.

  “Well, who else can we call?” I ask, distressed. A Tasty newbie, I’m the last person who should be handling this crisis.

  “Um.” Annabel is cracking under pressure. “I’m not sure. I’ve memorized the employee handbook but this wasn’t covered.” And then, seeming to notice me for the first time, she says, “Hey, is that an Eva McGraw slip dress you’re wearing over that miniskirt?”

  “You know who Eva McGraw is?” I’m shocked.

  “I wrote a paper about that dress. It’s a design classic.” Her fashion-magazine chops kick in. “But it was longer.”

  “I re-sewed it.”

  “You re-sewed an Eva 4 Eva slip dress?” Annabel asks, looking truly horrified. “Didn’t you know it’s a collector’s item?”

  “No. I didn’t know that.”

  “How’d you get that dress?”

  “Eva McGraw was my mom.” I can’t believe that just popped out of my mouth.

  Annabel’s eyes widen. “That,” she says, “is very interesting.”

  “But please don’t tell anyone.” The last thing I need is people around here finding out about Eva.

  “Hey,” says a male voice. “I was just passing by and I heard screaming.”

  Intuitively I know who it is before I turn around—the guy from the meeting. And it is he—chiseled, scruffy, wearing destroyed khaki pants and a T-shirt that says Hasselblad. Today his eyes look like the color of melted caramel. He smiles slow and twinkly when he sees me. I’m not sure if he remembers me, or is just a flirt.

  “Don’t worry, darling, we’re fabulous,” says Annabel. She gives him an appreciative grin. “False alarm!”

  “I work for Shane Lincoln-Shane,” he says. “I know screaming when I hear it. And this was not the ‘You photographed the model in the wrong top, you idiot’ type of screaming. This was the real thing.”

  “Everything is fine,” Annabel says.

  But everything isn’t fine.

  “Can you look at something?” I ask, beckoning him toward the supply closet.

  “With pleasure,” he says. Despite the circumstances, the way he says pleasure causes a swoony feeling in my stomach. His eyes flick beyond me and go dark when he sees Marc Jacobs, forlorn and stiffening on the closet floor.

  “Fuck,” he says.

  And then, to my great relief, he takes charge. He locks the closet door. He calls publisher Marion Morales’s assistant from Bambi’s phone. “Delores, it’s James Truax. Listen, we have a problem over here and we’re going to need you to track down Marion. You know where she is right now? Do you have her cell phone number? You’re going to need to call it.”

  James Truax is calm and competent in a crisis. He takes it for granted that he can tell Annabel and me what to do. (All I do is tell Bambi when she can stop breathing into the paper bag.) Even when Oldham security shows up, he gives them instructions in how to keep people away from the area. No one did anything when the screaming was going on. But now, after things have quieted down, an awful lot of people seem to be stopping by to “distribute pages” or “just to see if Lillian’s in.”

  Anthea Ferrari, a dark-haired woman who is the corporate PR director, arrives twenty minutes later, harried, grouchy—and, by her own testimony, half microdermabraded. James greets her and graciously takes up a position on the sidelines next to me. We watch as she sends Bambi home for the day. We eavesdrop as Marc Jacobs’s pigtailed owner—a contributing editor by the name of Susan Craigs—is found and informed. Some corporate bagmen dispose of the body. And too quickly, there’s no reason for me to linger in the presence of James Truax. I want to express my thanks but end up standing there stupidly, staring at him. “I’m Kate McGraw, by the way,” I finally blurt out.

  “I know,” he says, then adds, “Oh. James Truax. I’m in Photo.”

  I hold out my hand and we shake, awkwardly. Why did I do that?

  James Truax from Photo has a firm grip, but not too firm. He seems tall, though he isn’t much taller than I am. And something about the way he’s making eye contact with me sparks the ridiculous idea that he’s trying to impress me. I drop his hand. Another awkward pause falls between us. I start walking back toward my desk, and to my surprise, he follows me.

  “How is your second day?” he asks.

  “Great.” Suddenly I can’t keep up the pretense. “Just great. I’ve been scorned, publicly humiliated, tattled on, and now…whatever all that was about.”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll tell you a secret. I am from a state called Ohio. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  I’m smiling.

  “You have? Good. You’re ahead of most of them. That woman you work for doesn’t know Ohio from Idaho. And to her, if you’re from an upstart colony and your family isn’t super-rich, you’re a nobody. You don’t exist.” He says this lightly. “If she’s giving you a hard time, that means she’s threatened by you. And that’s not always a bad thing. Keep her on her toes and you’ll go far.”

  He’s very certain of himself. I haven’t met many people like that. And though I’m not sure why Lexa would be threatened by me, I like his way of viewing things. “Well, okay. I’ll take your advice,” I say. “It shouldn’t be too hard to keep getting into trouble. I can do that when I’m not even trying.”

  He laughs. “I’ll do better than give advice. Why don’t I buy you a drink?”

  I’m about to analyze the connotations of this statement when he adds that we’ll be meeting up with his roommate, Rico.

  “We’ll give Marc Jacobs a fitting send-off,” he says, “and Rico can fill you in about Oldham. He’s the accessories editor for A Man’s World, and he got me this job. He’s living proof that not all fashion people are assholes. I think this is you.”

  We’ve arrived back at the interns’ closet. He looks into the room as if he’s seeing it for the first time. It doesn’t look good, since it’s waist-deep in applications by wannabe Tasty Girls. I guess that mail cart Lexa promised arrived in my absence.

  “They didn’t splurge on the working conditions, did they?”

  “There used to be a beanbag. But they removed it to make room for me. To popular dismay.”

  He laughs. “You definitely need that drink.”

  I open my mouth to say no thanks—drinks with a hot coworker sounds too high stress—and agree to meet him downstairs at seven-thirty.

  Fortunately, Nin and Rachel are still away from their desks and don’t witness the invite or my acceptance.

  Anthea Ferrari forbade us to
talk about what happened to the poor little dog, on pain of legal consequences. But after several hours of logging applications, I decide this doesn’t include Sylvia. I call her and fill her in. Since she’s a devoted dog person, she gets so agitated she has to pull over her car in the parking lot of a Pinkberry.

  “Honey, that’s so fucked up,” she says when she can talk. “Couldn’t you have called an ambulance?”

  I’m not sure they have veterinary ambulances. They should.

  “The most disturbing part is I’m not convinced it was an accident,” I tell her.

  “What?” Graphic-novelist Sylvia is always ready to entertain a twisted plot. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just get a bad feeling from this place.”

  Speaking of that feeling, it’s now seven P.M. and the floor is almost dark except for the pool of light from my desk lamp. “I went to the restroom just before I called you, and I could have sworn someone was watching me from behind the photocopier. And earlier today there was a cute blonde digging through the trash in the kitchen. She was collecting empty cups of this gross beet drink they all like. It’s like they’re wild animals.”

  “Well, you know how important intuition is,” she says, seriously. “If you’re really worried, I think you need more information. Investigate the scene of the crime. And keep your eye on everyone.”

  “Okay.”

  “And don’t work too late.”

  “I have to. My only chance of impressing my boss is to get these contest entries sorted in record time.” Since she’s been depressed lately about being single I don’t tell her that I’m waiting around for a maybe-date with an alarmingly hot coworker.

  5

  Thirsty

  JAMES TRUAX IS waiting for me on the black-flagstone plaza, leaning up against a concrete planter, hands shoved into the pockets of his khakis.

  “Quick, let’s go.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Shh…”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  He doesn’t answer me, but briskly walks down the street. Two blocks away he says, “Okay, you can talk now.”

  “What’s the big rush?” I ask. I’m expecting him to say something about Marc Jacobs, or the vow of confidentiality we both signed hours beforehand.

  “I try to stay out of the work tabloids,” he says. “And StakeOut isn’t above writing about the photo assistant leaving with the new intern.”

  “Oh.” An awkward pause descends. “That’s ridiculous,” I say.

  He agrees. “It is. Especially since everyone knows I make it a rule not to date fashion chicks.”

  “Are you calling me a fashion chick?” This is a first.

  “Are you implying that you want to date me?”

  “No!”

  He starts laughing. “Don’t sugarcoat it for me.”

  “You know what?” I say. “I don’t think I’m in the mood for a drink after all.” I stop on the street corner and fold my arms against a slight chill in the balmy, evening air.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be mad. I was just kidding you.”

  “I’m not mad, I’m tired. I’ve had a long, weird day. I just want to go home.”

  “All the more reason for a drink. Come on. Forgive me. I’m poorly socialized.”

  Somehow I doubt this. I suspect James Truax gets whatever he wants. The light changes and I follow him across the street. “If you’re so against fashion girls, why did you want to have a drink with me?”

  “You held up pretty well today. I didn’t see any of those debutants you work with getting Bambi to breathe into a paper bag. So what’s your story?” he asks me. “Why did you jump in there like Meredith Grey in couture?”

  “These are homemade clothes, not couture. The reason I knew what to do with Bambi was because in my real life I’ve been working as an EMT and I’m enrolled in med school in the fall. I’m going to be a doctor. Why do you work at Tasty if you’re so anti-fashion?”

  “I’m a photographer. The job helps me make connections. And it also pays pretty well, so I can save up money to go shoot what I really want to shoot.”

  “What do you really want to shoot?”

  “Nothing you would be interested in.”

  “You just met me, how can you know what I’m interested in?” I say, surprised—and impressed—by my skill with the sassy comeback. If you didn’t know me better, you’d think I was flirting.

  “The next art project I’m planning is in Guatemala.”

  “I built houses in Guatemala one summer with Ameri-Cares,” I volunteer smugly, “the summer after my senior year in high school. It was one of the best jobs I’ve ever had.”

  We’ve stopped in front of a narrow storefront lit with a neon Heineken sign.

  James Truax makes eye contact for a second. I’m mesmerized by his dark stare.

  “Here we are.” He opens the door and then waits for me to walk through it, chivalry unusual for a man his age. He puts his hand on the small of my back to guide me past a long bar to a darkish area with carved wooden booths.

  Waiting in one of the booths, smoking—I didn’t know you could still do that indoors—is a guy wearing a fedora and a natty white blazer over a cotton tank top that says Bundeswehr.

  “Sit down, kittens, and tell me everything,” he commands, blowing a cloud of smoke into our faces. “I hear there was a dogicide at Tasty Country Day?”

  This, I gather, is Rico. James summons the waitress for drinks. I whisper to him, “We signed a nondisclosure.”

  Rico hears me.

  “Puhleeze, darling. You aren’t going to start being loyal to Oldham, are you? The bosses would mix cocktails with our blood if it served their purposes.”

  “I don’t know. I’m the my-word-means-something type.” Though I told Sylvia.

  “Kate’s idealistic,” James says. “She graduated from Brown a year ago.”

  “That’s soooo sweet.” Rico exhales another cloud of smoke. “Here’s what we’ll do, darling. James will tell me everything, and then the kitty cat will be out of the bag through no fault of your own, and we can discuss freely.”

  James launches into the story, and after a brief struggle with my conscience, I help him. Innocence-on-a-technicality isn’t really my style.

  “Very weird,” Rico proclaims, delighted. “So what’s our theory, gang? Do we suspect the contributing editor of some foul neglect of her puppy?”

  James shrugs. “I don’t know her.”

  “I met her in the hall earlier today,” I say, “before the thing happened with Marc Jacobs—the dog’s a she, by the way. I don’t think she neglected her dog. She seemed protective of her. And the corporate people were sure it was an accident.”

  “Of course, accidents can happen to anyone,” Rico leans over the table to whisper conspiratorially. “But so can scandals, and they’re much more fabulous. If the contributing editor is innocent, the guilty party must be a staffer.”

  Rico obviously loves gossip.

  “Lillian is a dark horse, don’t you think?” he continues. “And those vamps she’s brought on board with her, brrr…Wouldn’t want to meet one of them in a dark alley—or a darkened supply closet.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t really know anyone yet.”

  “Not knowing someone never stopped Rico from talking about them,” James interjects.

  Rico rolls his eyes. “Were you aware that two Tasty-affiliated people have died since Lillian topped the masthead? Now what do you think of her?”

  “He also likes to read the gossip blogs,” James adds.

  “Jimmy!” Rico scolds. “Do you want your new girlfriend to have a bad impression of me?”

  “Rico. Do you want me to do your next batch of head shots for free?”

  This appears to be a potent threat because Rico says, “Sorry. I know you’re not his ‘girlfriend,’” putting the last word in air quotes.

  James scowls.

  “I’ve barely even seen Lillian,” I quickly interrupt.
“I’m just an intern.”

  “And James hasn’t filled you in?”

  “I don’t concentrate on office politics,” James says.

  “Well, darling, there are some unwritten rules about Lillian Hall. One, don’t ride in the same elevator with her. You haven’t, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Thank God. You might yet survive. Two, she can’t stand the smell of garlic. That’s why none is served in the cafeteria.”

  “I haven’t been to the cafeteria yet.”

  “Good. Three, no one bigger than a size six is allowed on the floor. Never, ever invite a fat friend up to Tasty, or suggest an overweight person for a job.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “That’s fashion, babygirl. Four, she always sits in the same chair in the conference room, at the fashion shows, at Carnivoré, and anywhere else she goes. But no one on staff tells newcomers which chair it is.”

  “Are you trying to make me paranoid?” I glance at James, wondering if this is all an elaborate leg-pull.

  Rico seizes my hands. “I’m trying to save your skin. Or at least your job. Are you listening to me?”

  “I am. When in doubt, remain standing until Lillian has already sat down.”

  “Also, you should always be able to answer the question ‘What was she wearing?’ Lillian expects total sartorial recall. Like, Susan Craigs, the Marc Jacobs girl stumbles distraught onto the scene in…?” He snaps his fingers and says “Snap” at the same time.

  “Pigtails.” I’m good at this game. “Paul & Joe floral demi-sleeve blouse from two seasons ago. Paper Denim & Cloth miniskirt. Stackable blue rubber bracelets. And…some kind of strappy slip-on heels with the plastic-looking base. Maybe Gucci or Louis Vuitton. Overall, I’d say she was rocking a kind of eighties-resort look.”

  Rico raises an eyebrow. “I’m impressed. I wouldn’t have suspected that you would have TFR—Total Fashion Recall.”

  James, on the other hand, looks at me like I’ve grown two heads.

  I shrug. “I don’t buy international luxury brands but I like to read about them.”

  “So if Susan Craigs is ‘eighties-resort,’ what am I?” Rico asks.