Blood Is the New Black

by Valerie Stivers

  “We’re closing September,” he tells her. “Unlike your show-pony boss, some people in this office work.”

  “We’re working,” I say.

  “You three ought to be working,” he agrees. “That Tasty Girl shoot should have been scheduled weeks ago, and Shane has made me responsible for tracking the project in-house. He’s been on my ass about it all week. You’re excused, McGraw. You didn’t work here weeks ago.”

  Now would be the time for some flirtatious banter. Too bad I’m no good at that. Instead, I turn back to the contest entries, feeling like an idiot.

  Nin has no such inhibitions. “Why are you drinking that? Are you on a diet?” she asks, teasingly.

  He shrugs. “Matilda just made a run to Jamba Juice. Shane drinks these and now everyone imitates him.”

  “Shane’s assistant brings Lexa her beet drink every afternoon,” Rachel says. “It seems like she distributes them for the whole office.”

  That explains what the juice was doing on Lillian’s desk on Sari’s first (and last) morning.

  “I didn’t think Lexa and Shane got along,” I say. Everyone laughs at the understatement.

  “The two of them have a history,” James says. “They worked together a long time ago in Europe and hated each other then, too.”

  He finishes his drink and tosses the cup into our trash can. Rachel and Nin are hanging on his every move.

  “Have a good weekend,” he says. “Good luck reading those essays.” He pushes off from the door frame and wanders away.

  I know he can’t make any personal comment to me in front of our coworkers, but I’m still disappointed. Waiting two days to see him again is going to be torture. When, I’m wondering, will our next drinks-date be?

  “Yum, yum,” Nin says after he leaves.

  “I thought you only dated bankers,” Rachel snipes. “He’s not your type.”

  “I know,” she replies. “But there’s just something about him….”

  THE NEXT morning, I set up in my aunt’s living room with a giant stack of essays to read. I’ve opened the floor-to-ceiling wooden-slat blinds that wrap around the glass-walled penthouse and I am enjoying the view. I hope I’m not allowing rays of sunlight to touch a piece of priceless art, but the sky is blue, the towers of Midtown sparkle in the distance, and on Vic’s terrace there is an incredible profusion of plants. She calls it her night garden, because she focuses on night-bloomers and succulents, but it looks pretty during the day as well.

  I have the terrace and the huge, black-painted living room, with its German transcendentalist landscapes and box-framed fangs, all to myself. Victoria is, as usual, sleeping in. In fact, I’m lying in wait for her, since the two of us have barely crossed paths since Monday and she’s the main reason I’m in New York, working at Tasty in the first place.

  At noon she drifts in, blinking, swathed in a pretty tulip-sleeved black robe. A thick layer of white cream covers her face.

  “Bright in here,” she says.

  “Do you want me to close the blinds?”

  “No.” She gracefully sinks down next to me on the low, charcoal-colored sectional sofa. “Sterling is like a vampire. He’s terrified of sunlight, but not me.”

  “Do you miss him?”

  “I do. It’s unusual to stay madly in love with the person you marry, but my feelings for Sterling haven’t changed. He’s still a mystery to me, I suppose.”

  “He seems pretty mysterious,” I agree. “And speaking of mysteries, Aunt Vic, the most horrible thing happened at this party I was at. Have you heard about the fashion murders?”

  “Fashion murders?” she asks, smiling. “Have the fashion police been accused of brutality again?”

  But her smile fades when I tell her what happened. I throw in the rumors Rico shared with me, and Marc Jacobs’s mysterious death as well. And conclude with, “Doesn’t all of this together strike you as strange? And ominous? I was probably two feet away from a killer at that party.”

  Victoria snuggles tighter into her black silk robe. “What frisson, darling,” she says. “It’s tragic that people are getting hurt. But it sounds like you’ve come to the city at an exciting time. Your industry will be talking about this summer forever. You should soak it all up like a sponge. Get close. See and hear everything you can.”

  Get close? She’s not worried that I’m going to get hurt?

  “Not too close, naturally,” my aunt amends. “But you’ve always been intrepid. I’m sure you’ll take care of yourself.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I say. “But shouldn’t there be an investigation into that dog’s death at the very least? I’ll bet there’s a connection. I’ve been thinking I should call that contributing editor, Susan Craigs.”

  “No,” Victoria says emphatically.

  “No?”

  “Getting directly involved would be most inappropriate in your position. Any investigating should be done by the company itself, not one of its newest employees.”

  “But that’s the point! Nobody at the company is doing anything.”

  “That’s corporations for you.”

  9

  One of Them

  IT’S TEN O’CLOCK Monday morning. I’m reading the gossip blogs when an ice-cold hand descends on my shoulder.

  “Oh, hi, Annabel. That’s a really cute dress.” She’s wearing a silky, body-hugging floral number with epaulettes, capped sleeves, and self-covered buttons up the front. A nightmare from a sewing standpoint, but chic.

  “Thanks,” she says. “It’s Tuleh. I’m not sure if I like it.”

  I’m surprised to see her here so early. Annabel usually appears just before Lexa. She’s the only assistant I’ve observed to cut things so close.

  “Have you finished the first cut for those semifinalists?” she asks me.

  “I’ve done mine!” says Nin, walking in the door. “And it’s y’all’s fault if I’ve lost my tan over it.”

  Annabel looks at her reproachfully. “I would think as interns you would appreciate this level of responsibility.”

  “Kidding!” Nin holds up her hands.

  “I have Rachel’s,” I volunteer. “She just stepped away.”

  As I help Annabel bring the applications over to Lexa’s, I say, “We can make a summary of the results really easily using Excel.”

  “Good idea, Kate,” she says supportively. “Why don’t you show me how to do it?” We sit down at her desk and I walk her through the steps.

  Lexa’s door is, as is usual at this time of day, closed. It will remain closed all morning and then at some point it will open and out she will glide, clothing unwrinkled, hair in its perfect soft-serve waves, lips coated with frosty peach lipstick.

  “Is she in there?” I whisper to Annabel.

  “She’s not to be disturbed.” Annabel smiles at me blandly. “Now, why don’t you run up to Barneys for me and pick up Phoebe’s latest? Lexa has reserved one in every color. She’s going to switch bags at every event tonight and hope it gets into the gossips.”

  “Clever,” I reply.

  “Isn’t she?” Annabel gushes. “Here. I’ll give you petty cash for a taxi.”

  Can anyone be as much of a kiss-ass as Annabel is? I wonder while stuck in crosstown traffic. Is it possible to love a boss as much as Annabel seems to love Lexa? I really don’t think so.

  THE FEATURES meeting starts on a grim note.

  “We need to have a little talk about expenses, ladies,” Lauren says. “Since I’ve been on maternity leave things have gotten lax. Unlike most publishing companies, Oldham doesn’t skimp on your office supplies. You’re allowed to send messengers and you can take a car service home when you work late. But”—she glares at each of us in turn—“don’t abuse it. No more ridiculous purchases. She who expensed a charge at a blood bank knows who she is. And I’m keeping my eye on her.”

  Blood bank? James and I exchange what-the-fuck? glances. We’re once again (to my delight) sitting next to each other against
the back wall.

  Lauren continues with the announcements. The guest list for Wednesday’s Tasty-sponsored benefit for the Low-Income Ladies’ Plastic Surgery Fund (LILPSF) is restricted. Staff members are invited, but no significant others or guests. No freelancers. No interns.

  We move on through various items on the agenda until the topic of the Tasty Girl Contest rears its pretty head.

  “Everything is on track,” Lexa assures the room. “Giedra is flying in June thirtieth, and we’ll shoot over the Fourth of July.”

  “Not to rush you, honey, but do we have models yet?” Shane Lincoln-Shane asks with exaggerated politeness.

  “I’ll be making the final decision this week,” Lexa coos.

  “Can you share a little more with us about the candidates?” He’s putting her on the spot, since he must have heard that just last Thursday she had more than two thousand essays and hadn’t read any of them.

  Annabel swoops to the rescue, heaving an impressive stack of paperwork onto the table. “We’ve narrowed things down to…” She checks a piece of paper, which I see is the summary I suggested we make. “Twenty-seven strong candidates.”

  “Do you have a good geographical range?” Lauren asks. “It’s important that we reflect that our readership isn’t just on the two coasts.”

  “I can distribute this spreadsheet if you’re interested,” Annabel replies smugly. “We have a wide range, broken down by state.”

  Lauren looks surprised. “That’s the first time anyone around here has ever voluntarily made a spreadsheet. Strong work.”

  “Thank you,” Annabel says demurely.

  I’m a little indignant. It would have been nice if she acknowledged that it was my idea.

  “What about the location?” Shane asks. “I’ll need Giedra’s contact information so I can discuss it with her.”

  “How are we handling this shoot?” Lillian takes an interest. “Teen models. But what’s the angle?”

  “Lillian, you remember,” Lexa says patiently, though I’m sure she’s seething underneath. “We discussed this back in the spring. We’re shooting them at an abandoned farmhouse upstate under the headline ‘Farm Fresh: A New Crop of Models.’”

  “You already have a location?” Shane feigns surprise and alarm. “Why haven’t I seen anything? Someone had better e-mail me pictures right after this meeting.”

  “We don’t have pictures. The place is three hours north, in Jeffersonville. Giedra’s seen it and she can vouch for it.”

  “That won’t work,” Shane says. “The ultimate responsibility for the look of this magazine is mine, and I’ll need to vet it first.” A grin breaks out across his handsome face. “It’s short notice but I’ll have my people get you a few farm-alternatives by the end of the week.” He pauses to enjoy the outrage on Lexa’s face. “Or,” he muses, “maybe we could shoot it in the studio with props. I’m seeing bales of hay—”

  “Hay just screams fall,” Lillian agrees.

  An idea starts forming in my mind. I’m going to be at my dad’s house this weekend. Heart beating madly, I raise my hand. “Lexa?”

  Heads turn to look at me en masse. My throat goes dry.

  “I’m going to be near Jeffersonville this weekend, if I can help out in any way.”

  Rachel, across the room from me, stares in disbelief.

  Lexa, too, is momentarily taken aback, but she covers it well. “Why, thank you, Kate,” she says. “That would be very helpful.”

  I’ve just begun mentally congratulating myself when Annabel chimes in, “I’ll go with her!”

  She’s coming with me for the weekend to my dad’s house? I can’t believe it.

  AFTER THE meeting I’m asked to cover for Lillian’s assistant.

  I enjoy answering the phone, “Lillian Hall’s office,” aiming for the perfect cheerful, bland anonymous assistant voice. The callers are generally wheedling and hopeless. I am meticulous with the spelling of their names and company affiliations. Every now and then I walk into Lillian’s office to put the pile of pink “While You Were Out” slips on her desk. Because Lillian is never in, even when she is in.

  When I’m working for Lillian, her luxurious, leather-covered date book stays with me. It is my job to “mirror” any changes I make in it in my plastic copy of the book. Hers is a beautiful item, heavier than it looks, covered with buttery-soft calf’s blood leather. Embossed on the front is a brand-stamp that vaguely resembles the molecule for hemoglobin.

  I have it open in front of me, struggling with Lillian’s crabbed, antiquey-looking, cursive writing, when the woman herself glides in carrying the parasol she uses on sunny days. I have a hard time believing this trend will catch on, but if anyone can make it happen, she can. She’s followed by her latest assistant, Carol, who grabs the date book as soon as her hands—deeply scored with lines from the handles of the many shopping bags she was lugging—are free.

  “I’ll do that, Kate.” Her politeness masks seething resentment. Carol—correctly—suspects Lillian favors me. Yesterday I saw her tear up one of the pink message slips I left for Lillian and eat it.

  Lillian looks disdainfully at Carol and says, “Darling, why are you all wet?”

  Carol is wet because it’s so hot outside the pavement is melting and she was carrying fifty pounds of garment bags.

  “I’m sweating. It’s nothing,” Carol says nervously.

  Lillian, of course, never sweats. She looks as cool and coiffed as ever. She squinches her eyes shut, as if she’s in pain. “I can’t cope with your hygiene issues now. I’m having a terrible day. Please don’t take your post until you’re presentable.” Then she opens her eyes, smiles at me, and says, “And you, Miss McGraw, come into my office.”

  I totter carefully toward her door, since I’m wearing another pair of Victoria’s shoes and haven’t, as promised, adjusted to them.

  “Sit down,” Lillian sighs. She takes a seat at her glass conference table and indicates that I should take the one next to her. I do, goose bumps rippling my flesh from the ice-cold air. Lillian rubs her temples, without speaking.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her. It’s not my place to question the editor-in-chief’s moods, but she looks upset.

  “I’m the same,” she says. “Every day is exactly the same.”

  “Fashion is treading water? You aren’t seeing any original ideas for next season?”

  She smiles. “That’s why I like you,” she says. “You’re quick-witted.”

  I smile hesitantly. I’ve been meaning to ask her if there might not be another reason she plucked me from obscurity. “Lillian,” I say slowly, “you mentioned last week that you knew my mother.”

  “Yes. We were friends. It was a happier time for me.” She perks up a bit.

  They were friends? My mom never mentioned her. But then again, my mom never mentioned a lot of things.

  “You’re not still in touch with Eva, are you?”

  “Eva dropped us all some years ago, when, as I now gather, she left home. We had no idea she had a family hidden away, or we would have extended the hand of friendship to her daughter.”

  She pats my knee. And Lillian is just not a knee-patter. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this. I hope you’ll come to think of me in time not as a mother—never as a mother, of course, I’m too young-looking for that—but as a mentor.”

  “Lillian. I’m honored.”

  “You’re one of us. You have a consistent style, you understand clothes on a deep level, and I thought your offer to help in the meeting today demonstrated presence of mind.”

  Wow. I’m incredibly flattered. There’s no one in the world I’d rather hear compliment my style.

  Acting on impulse, I stand halfway up in my chair and give her a hug. Her shoulders are hard as marble, and she, touchingly, resists for a second before pressing her cold cheek to mine.

  “Thank you so much,” I say, backing away from her. I don’t know what came over me. “I won’t let you down,” I stam
mer.

  Her eyes mist. “I know you won’t.”

  IF NIN and Rachel didn’t already hate me, Wednesday afternoon clinches it.

  Despite the fact that interns aren’t invited, Rachel and Nin have been particularly obsessed with all the details of the Carnivoré party. From StakeOut they know who is on the guest list, what’s on the menu, and so on. The Richards sisters will be there, supposedly, and an R&B star’s designer daughter, Little Star. Rosie O’Donnell is hosting. StakeOut promises (or threatens, depending on your perspective) to crash and provide full coverage, with “photos of the bloodsuckers.” (That means us.)

  Around six P.M. Reese stops by my desk with a garment bag. She looks prettier than usual. Her little black Alexander McQueen dress hugs her graceful, springy figure; the top quadrant of her thick, dark locks is done up in a pulled-back French braid while the rest of her hair falls smoothly over her shoulders.

  She sits on the edge of my desk and asks, “Does this braid look like I’m wearing an extra brain on top of my head?”

  I’m not sure what the right answer is here. “Is it supposed to?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Reese, you look beautiful. It would be impossible for you to look anything but beautiful. And your hair does not look like an extra brain on top of your head.”

  She leans further toward me. “I feel insecure. I need a pick-me-up. Want to go do a bump in the ladies’ room?”

  “You’re crazy.” Maybe all the staffers do coke, but as far as I’m aware, they don’t do it at work. Also, I don’t do coke. “You have nothing to be insecure about,” I dodge. “Your look is great.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “I came by to tell you the good news. The PR girls were in the fashion closet picking out outfits for tonight and they mentioned that we needed some seat-fillers for the party. I suggested you. Here’s your dress.”

  She pats the garment bag lovingly.

  My first thought is that James will probably be there taking pictures. Maybe this will be an opportunity to talk with him. My second is that the garment bag is from Marni and it doesn’t get any better than that. And the third is that Nin and Rachel are going to hate me with a white-hot passion forever.