Blood Is the New Black

by Valerie Stivers

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure it must be difficult for you,” I placate her.

  “You have no idea. And you Yanks are so strict. The rules of conduct here are much more severe than in the U.K.”

  I don’t know what she’s talking about, but she seems to be calming down. “If you don’t want me to answer Lillian’s phone, I don’t have to.”

  “Are you trying to get me fired?” Lexa screams. “Of course you have to do exactly what Lillian tells you to.” Air hisses out from between her teeth. “You are a disaster,” she spits. “I knew it from the beginning. You can’t be trusted. You’ll answer Lillian’s phone, but other than that, you’ll stay in that intern room, at your desk, not getting into trouble, for the rest of the summer. Don’t bother coming to that Tasty Girl meeting tomorrow. No more meetings for you at all. And I don’t want to see you talking to another editor, ever again. Full stop.”

  “But—” I protest.

  “Now get out of my office.”

  LEXA IS clinically insane. That’s clear to me now. But knowing that doesn’t help. I’m trembling with the shock of the confrontation. My eyes brim over. So no one else sees me crying at work, I slip into the ladies’ room. It’s always deserted.

  Except, of course, for today.

  Annabel is leaning over a sink, crying. She’s wearing a striped, short-sleeved cashmere sweater and patterned skirt from, I jealously suspect, Thakoon. The fair skin on her neck and chest is broken out in big red welts.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, dashing the tears from my eyes.

  “I’m fine,” she sniffles. “I just came in here to be by myself for a minute.”

  “But you’re covered in welts,” I persist.

  “They promised me it wouldn’t be this way anymore. I have these allergies that were supposed to be cured, but they aren’t yet.”

  Medically, this is an unrealistic expectation. You can treat allergies with drugs or procedures like sinus drainage, but you can’t cure them. “What are you allergic to?”

  “Everything. Pollen. Dust. Cosmetics.” She laughs bitterly. “And before I was promoted to being Lexa’s assistant, I worked in the beauty closet. My eyes have been itchy since I started working here.” For emphasis she rubs her bloodshot gray eyes. “This morning Lexa made me sort out some products for her to take home.”

  “That’s awful. She knows you’re allergic?”

  Annabel suddenly looks wary. “She knows. But it’s complicated. She thought it would be okay.”

  Talk about protecting your abuser. I must look as disapproving as I feel because she sniffle-laughs. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

  She’s been rude to me ever since I started working here, but in this moment she seems vulnerable.

  “You know what you need?” I offer. “Cortisone cream. You should go buy some.”

  “No thanks. If I ride the elevator down looking like this, someone will take my picture and post it on a blog. I’d rather itch. Hey,” she says. “Is this another Eva 4 Eva ensemble?”

  “It is.” But I don’t want to talk about Eva. “About that cream…”

  “Wait a minute.” A calculating look crosses her face. “Do you want to go to a party tonight? I have a plus one.”

  “What kind of party?” My hand is already on the door handle. I thought Annabel was being nice to me because no one was looking. I’m surprised—and suspicious—that she wants to be seen out in public with me.

  “Saks is celebrating the return of the flare-legged jean. You’ll get a couple of free pairs.”

  Free pairs of three-hundred-dollar jeans?

  She misinterprets my expression.

  “Don’t worry. Saks always has good swag. They give me a Coach bag every season.” She shrugs disinterestedly, as if Coach bags are peanuts to her.

  Swag, I’ve already learned, is the magazine editor’s term for the barrage of free luxury goods sent to them by corporate PR people. So much of it comes in each day that various departments have “giveaways” to get rid of it. Nin and Rachel are obsessed with this feature of the job, and have told me all about their various scores.

  A party where they’re giving out jeans but the crowd is too glamorous to be impressed sounds stressful to me. Also, I was just out at a bar until after midnight last night with James and Rico. I really don’t think I should go. I deflect the issue. “Flare-legged jeans are back?”

  Annabel rolls her eyes and sighs disgustedly. “I know! Jeans just got skinny!”

  “I think it’s too soon,” I opine. “Fashion won’t go for it.”

  “They’re just trying to confound us,” she says. “It’s annoying.”

  Hey, this is just like talking to Sylvia! I can do this!

  “But we can still go to the party.”

  It’s one thing to talk fashion nonsense, but another to go to a real fashion party. “I don’t know.” I try to come up with an excuse she’ll accept. “I’m not really dressed for it.”

  Annabel surveys me. “I don’t think this is so bad,” she says.

  I assume that from her it’s high praise. I’m wearing my mesh and rubber eco shoes and an Eva 4 Eva chemise-top black silk slip dress with a tattered, irregular hemline, under a forties thrift-store mini-jacket. I’ve tied a black velvet ribbon around my wrist. “I don’t know.” I hesitate. “Will other people from work be there?”

  “Everyone who is anyone will be there.”

  That’s what I was afraid of.

  “Take off that jacket.”

  I shrug free, exposing my pale arms, little moles, dark arm hair, and other fashion faux pas. I’m extra-regretting that I didn’t wear a bra this morning. True, the only kind of support I need a bra for is of the moral variety. But still.

  Annabel continues her scrutiny. “The ribbon is a little too high-contrast.”

  I remove it.

  “What’s up with the shoes?”

  “They’re from recycled tires. They’re environmentally responsible.”

  “Oh! That’s great, then. Green is the new black.”

  I can’t tell if she’s kidding.

  STAKEOUT POSTS a story about the sudden death of our contributing editor’s dog around four. I’m back at my desk, quietly taping Lexa’s expense receipts to sheets of blank eight-by-eleven paper, when Rachel says, “This is outrageous. Why does StakeOut always pick on us? They’re saying someone here killed a dog?”

  I jump guiltily, giving myself a paper cut. I keep my voice neutral. “You guys think it’s just a rumor? About the dog?”

  Rachel sighs. “It’s obvious what’s fake and what’s real on that site. If you had an instinct for news, you would know that.”

  Reluctantly, I type in the URL for StakeOut. I’m hoping it can shed some light on a deeply disturbing event.

  ONE BITCH DOWN…

  Starving Minions at Tasty Make Puppy Chow

  We have no confirmation on this, but it’s juicier than a big rare steak, and bloodier, too. We hope it’s true. Is that so wrong? This is what we’ve been waiting for since our favorite lady vamp took the reins at Tasty: a moment when Miuccia’s monsters show their true colors. Brace yourselves, soldiers of the light: Yesterday afternoon at Oldham, contributing editor Susan Craigs (author of My Closet, Myself ) was seen in the lobby with Marc Jacobs, her (female) Chihuahua. Two hours later Craigs, dog-free and looking drugged, was spotted leaving the building in the company of two burly dudes in suits who could only have been Oldham Secret Security troops. (That’s the OSS. We didn’t know it existed before, either, but everything is falling into place.) Since neither Craigs nor goons were wearing anything worthy of comment, our sisters at FashionLobby.com didn’t get pictures. Rumor has it that the Chihuahuaaahhhhh met with a mysterious untimely end (i.e., someone at Tasty tore its throat out and drank its blood). Anyone who knows which staffer did the dirty and which one disposed of the body, drop us a line….

  TAGS: OLDHAM INC., LILLIAN HALL, UNEXPLAINED DEATH, CHIHUAHUAS, MARC JACOBS

&n
bsp; Clicking around, I learn that StakeOut has a running joke that Lillian and other Tasty editors are vampires. I’m surprised it’s legal to say the stuff they say about them. And I’m uneasy that the site got this information. Who talked? Well, I did, for one….

  “Are you scared now, Kate?” Nin asks, one bendy-straw thin leg draped over the arm of her office chair. She’s swiveled to face me. She’s wearing a daisy-yellow blouse with black puffy sleeves like Mickey Mouse ears that make her arms look like twigs.

  “Maybe we all should be scared.”

  She and Rachel exchange glances—How much of a loser can she be?—and move on to pointedly discuss an upcoming benefit Tasty is hosting at the media hot-spot restaurant Carnivoré. I’m tempted to tell them that I’ll be going to a party myself tonight. Maybe I’ll see them there.

  Or maybe they’re not invited.

  7

  A Finger on the Pulse

  WE’RE ON A rooftop bar overlooking Gramercy Park. Black-and-white-clad caterers stand at the ready with trays of full wineglasses. In one corner, models wearing flare-legged jeans go through their paces. Scattered showers of flashbulbs announce the arrival of each celebrity. I’ve ID’d Milla Jovovich, Johnathan Rhys Meyers, and Luke Wilson.

  Unfortunately, Annabel ditched me as soon as we walked in the door. Which leaves me standing by myself, nervously sipping my wine too fast and trying not to gawk, look out of place, or do anything else to draw attention to myself. My social anxiety isn’t helped by the fact that I’ve spotted James Truax’s tousled head through the crowd. He’s working, adjusting the lights for a concurrent flare-legged-jeans photo shoot.

  “Mwah-Mwah!” Two girls air-kiss in front of me.

  “I love your look!” Both are wearing cropped leggings with ballet flats and elaborate blouses.

  “I love yours!”

  “Mwah-Mwah!” They air-kiss again and part ways.

  A storm of flashbulbs at the door announces the arrival of Someone. I recognize Dolce and Gabbana.

  A woman in a tall, elaborate hat and no pants swans by me, chatting on her mobile phone. A double take confirms that she’s wearing thick, nude tights (I can see the waistband) under a bandeau halter in the new mini-muumuu style.

  That reminds me: A telephone is a great accessory. I dial Sylvia. Perhaps I’ll look in-demand instead of outcast. She picks up on the first ring.

  “Guess where I am right now? A real, live celebrity-studded party for Saks Fifth Avenue department store.” It should really be her on a rooftop overlooking New York City; she’s always dreamed of living here. I run through the trends on display for her—ruffle-tanks, Victoriana, skinny shorts, trapeze tops, cropped leggings…

  “Ugh,” she says. “I’m on my way to Culver City for the second time today, and all because of shorty leggings. Nico is obsessed.”

  Sylvia’s job entails driving all over L.A. buying clothes and then returning them a week later, sometimes after they’ve been worn on television (shopping bulimia!). The shows don’t have the prestige that Tasty does, and so aren’t able to borrow the clothes from the brands’ PR departments. And the shops are naturally suspicious, so Sylvia’s always stressed out, feeling like a criminal and trying to find stores she hasn’t hit yet.

  The silver lining is, she claims, the pressures of the job plus all the running around have made her lose weight. Since she was bookish and plump all through school, I can’t quite imagine her as a size six.

  “How are things going with Nico?” I ask, referring to her crazy cokehead boss.

  “She made me put zit cream on her back this morning. And then she volunteered to set me up with her younger brother.”

  Nico has some boundary issues.

  “Are you going to go out with him?”

  “Oh…” Sylvia trails off. I can hear horns blare in the background. “I’m going to put it off and hope she forgets.” She hates dating.

  I spot Annabel talking to a group of people including Kristen Drane, the fashion director, whom I have previously only seen asleep. I reluctantly sign off with Sylvia and approach the group.

  “You are working for Lexa, right?” the woman with curly brown hair and painted freckles—now that I see her up close, I can tell they definitely are painted on—asks me. “I heard her yelling at you this morning.”

  “Is that why you were crying as you walked into the bathroom?” Annabel asks.

  “We haven’t met,” I say, attempting to change the subject. “Kate McGraw.”

  “I’m Noë Childs, the beauty director.”

  “Nice to meet you, Noë.” I’ll bet that when Lexa forbade me to talk to anyone on staff for the rest of the summer, that included at parties. “Lexa’s not going to be here tonight, is she?”

  “Oh, probably,” Kristen says. “Lexa doesn’t miss the opening of a shoe box.”

  Kristen has slanty, feral blue eyes, a slash nose, and perfect posture. She’s smoking. I’m shocked that she would say something so disrespectful about a coworker in front of me, an intern. Backbiting, it seems, is de rigueur.

  Kristen continues, “Even Lillian will show up eventually. They’re giving out Crème de la Mer cellulite cream to go with the jeans.”

  “Lillian has cellulite?” Noë gasps, obviously enjoying herself.

  “I haven’t inspected it personally, darling,” Kristen says. “But you must have noticed she’s simply obsessed with product. She keeps expanding your section at the expense of mine.”

  “So why were you crying? What set Lexa off?” Noë persists, perhaps trying to change the subject herself.

  “Lillian wants me to answer her phone during her assistant’s lunch break,” I say, unwillingly. “And Lexa thought I’d mess it up and get her in trouble.”

  Everyone gapes at me.

  “Lillian talked to you?”

  “And she didn’t fire you?”

  “What did you say to her?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know. She said she felt old.”

  They exchange meaningful glances.

  “Kate’s mom is Eva McGraw, from Eva 4 Eva,” Annabel says, apropos of nothing.

  Kristen snorts and puffs on her cigarette. “Is that an Eva McGraw slip dress?” she asks. “I thought it looked familiar.”

  “Oh my God. I loved Eva 4 Eva,” Noë cries. “I wore one of her dresses every day my first summer in New York!” She gazes at me fondly.

  My brain is whirling. I grab another glass of white wine off a passing tray and take a deep gulp. I had no idea that Eva was this popular. The only reason that’s ever been given to me for her depression was that her last collection failed. If she had this many fans, surely she could have bounced back from one lousy fall.

  “Did you know Gene Gantor loved your mom’s designs?” Annabel asks.

  “I don’t know who Gene Gantor is,” I admit, and wait for her to heap scorn on me.

  “I wrote a paper on him. He was the editor-in-chief of British Vogue for thirty-five years—notoriously, the only straight man in fashion. He was a total diva, and famously a nightmare, but he had one of the world’s greatest eyes.” Annabel tells me that Eva was one of Gene Gantor’s favorite rising stars during the last years of his rule. Apparently, my mom used to hang out with Le Gantor, as Annabel calls him, when he was “state-side.”

  “After you told me that she was your mom, I Googled her and found a picture of them together at the Bowery Bar. I’ll send you the link.”

  I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be talking about this. I just want them to shut up. It hits me like a boot in the stomach to hear about Eva’s glamorous secret life in New York hanging out with some diva-guy instead of being at home with my dad. I’m surprised by how painful it is. Eva’s been gone for so long that I must have healed a bit without noticing. Hearing news about her—even if it’s just about a photo I’ve never seen—rips open all the old wounds.

  My back bumps against the glass wall separating the terrace from the indoor bar space. My coworkers have bee
n closing in on me and, unconsciously, I’ve been edging away. I’m glad that they’re being nice all of a sudden, but I can’t talk about my mom for another minute. I slug the rest of my glass and excuse myself.

  Making my way through the now-thick crowd, I notice a flurry by the door, followed by an explosion of flashbulbs.

  Poised on the threshold is a thin, elegant woman in an off-the-shoulder black taffeta dress that’s both Victorian-ruffly and Victorian-dominatrix-y. I’m sure it cost more than my dad’s car. Her glossy black hair frames a perfect face: Lillian Hall. And behind her, Lexa, basking in reflected glory.

  When Lexa finds out I’m at this party she’s going to kill me.

  I duck in the other direction.

  And run into Rico.

  “Kitten!” he cries, air-kissing me on both cheeks.

  “Hi, Rico.” Rico doesn’t look nearly as fabulous as he did the night before. I know sportswear is hip at the moment, but he looks like he’s wearing gym clothes.

  “Don’t eye my situation like that, Miss Mac.”

  “Sorry. Is that Stella for Men?” I name the trendiest gym wear I can think of.

  “No. This is ‘Rico was at Equinox when he’”—he glances at something over my shoulder—“‘remembered about the Saks party and decided to come!’”

  “Hey.”

  James has walked up to us, carrying a beer and a flute of champagne. There’s a camera around his neck. “Hi, Kate,” he says. “Your highness.” He hands the flute to Rico. “Champers isn’t included in the open bar, so I had to pay good money for that.”

  “Oh. Why do I not feel sorry for you?” Rico gulps down the glass and hands it back to James. “I’m a little dehydrated, darling, since I was working out and all. Why don’t you get me another one?”

  James, strangely obedient, goes back to the bar. Annoyingly, I notice a couple of girls checking him out. Rico surveys the scene. “Well, Kate, this party has it all. The coke. The girls. The boys. The tiny skirts. The oversized handbags. And you’re right on trend.”

  My World Wildlife Federation canvas tote is rather large.

  “What do you think?” Rico asks.