Fashionistas

by Lynn Messina

  Allison manages a thin smile. “Well, let’s not do it again. When we formed this group we promised to work as a team. We’re all in this together,” she says, but what she really means is that they’re all in this together and I’ve only been invited along for the ride because they had to. I’m the linchpin.

  But that’s the problem with us linchpins. We tend to be loose cannons.

  The Bridesmaid Maneuver

  Laurel Vega has an idea for a new magazine.

  “I want to call it Divorce,” she says, showing Christine the mock-up. On the cover is a black-and-white photo of Elizabeth Taylor in the cinched-waist silk dress she wore for her wedding to Conrad Hilton, Jr. The coverlines are in pink and say things like “What To Wear To Wear Him Out” and “Courting Trouble” and “20 Divine Divorce Destinations.”

  Laurel is Dan Neuberg’s assistant. Dan is the magazine’s publisher and, although the staff has almost no contact with the publisher, we are often visited by Laurel, who finds the business end of magazines to be boring. She pines for editorial.

  “The idea is to provide women with all the information they need to get a good divorce,” she continues. “A magazine just for her. And it won’t just cover the best clothes to wear to court—although we will of course have fashion layouts in every issue—but also the best lawyers and the best prenups and the best way to celebrate your new freedom.” She takes out a graph she made with PowerPoint and indicates with her wooden pointer that the numbers are there. Christine is getting the full treatment but then everyone does. Like a magician with a street-corner act, Laurel can set up her presentation in three seconds flat. “Half of all marriages end in divorce. These women need advice: What should I look for in a private investigator? Which assets are in my name? How do I tell the children? I know you’re afraid the subject matter will frighten the advertisers away but think about it. The target demo will be newly divorced working upper-middle-class women who are getting alimony. What does that mean?”

  Christine has no idea what it means and she looks at me in mute appeal. I’ve already been through the Divorce pitch and know the answer.

  “Disposable income,” I call out, like a kid from the peanut gallery.

  It doesn’t occur to Laurel that she has a larger audience than one until now and her smile widens to include me. “That’s right. Disposable income. Women who have enough money for the big-ticket items and the glamorous vacations to Bali. But that’s not all. What else does it mean?”

  Christine looks at me again and I shrug. This part is new to the presentation and I’m as baffled as she.

  “New houses and new apartments. Ladies and gentlemen, these are women who are setting up new lives from the top to the bottom,” she says, playing now to the last row, as if she were in some sort of a stadium and not a shantytown of cubicles. “The assets were sold off and the proceeds were divided. Now it’s time to acquire new assets. Washers and dryers and stereo systems and couches and entertainment centers. Ladies and gentlemen, this magazine will sell by the millions and it will bring in millions. Thank you for your interest,” she says before bowing.

  Christine’s good manners compel her to clap. She doesn’t quite understand what she saw but it was entertaining and worthy of an enthusiastic ovation. Laurel’s Divorce magazine presentation is a piece of performance art and, if the right people saw it, she would no doubt get a one-woman show off-Broadway.

  “Thank you,” she says again.

  “What’s up?” I ask, realizing she had to be here for some reason other than presenting her magazine idea to Christine. That is merely a fringe benefit.

  “Nothing much. I’m just dropping this off for Marguerite,” she says, picking up the garment bag that she’d laid on Christine’s desk. “Do you know which office she’s in? I went to Eleanor’s old one but it’s now a storage closet.”

  “Our new editorial director is in the tiny office next to the elevator shaft. Marguerite hung a large silver star on the door, so you can’t miss it,” I say.

  “Silver star? We use name tags upstairs.”

  “For some reason maintenance hasn’t gotten around to hers yet,” I say, as though I really don’t have a clue why.

  “Maybe I’ll put in a call.” It’s not her job to make sure things run smoothly down here, but Laurel likes to be useful.

  “What’s in the bag?” I ask.

  “One of Tisha’s old bridesmaid’s dresses.”

  “Tisha?” Christine is reordering her files with an ear bent toward our conversation.

  “She’s Dan’s oldest daughter.” Laurel unzips the garment bag and shows us what Tisha had to wear to her cousin Judy’s wedding, a champaign-colored dress with the sort of straight neckline that is most unflattering to large-chested women. Tisha is a double D and this dress must have made her chest look like the French Alps. “Marguerite said she’s doing some story about bridesmaid dresses and wanted to know if one of his daughters might like a nice cocktail dress by Donna Karan. Tisha is gaga over the idea of having a one-of-a-kind original by a famous designer.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” says Christine with a smirk, which looks oddly out of place on her lips. Although she usually takes things very seriously, she has been deriving a tremendous amount of humor from Jane’s travails.

  “I know. That’s exactly what I was thinking. I’d have substituted my own dress, only I’ve never been a bridesmaid,” she confesses. “Actually, I was tempted to run out and buy some hideous thing from the discount rack at Michael’s Bridal but I held myself back.” Realizing she has lingered too long, she straightens up. “Must get going. The door with the silver star?”

  “Yep, the door with the silver star,” I say, “although I think she deserves a gold one for this maneuver.”

  Christine laughs and returns to her filing cabinet.

  The Factotum Strike

  Marguerite has a quarter share in an editorial assistant. When Kylie isn’t returning calls for Tom or typing up memos for Nora or ordering lunch for Pat, she’s at Marguerite’s beck and call. This rarely happens and you often see Marguerite at the photocopier, clearing the feeder with a pleasant smile on her face.

  The previous editorial director had an assistant but the second Jane realized who the new hiree would be, she fired Cameron and eliminated the position. Within seconds, she had maintenance on the floor taking apart the cubicle and throwing away files. The only thing that remains of Cameron’s existence are light streaks on the carpet, which make an outline of the former cube. These streaks are a rebuke to Jane. They are like traces of blood after Luminol is applied—evidence of a crime—and she has effectively tried with little success scrubbing the entire carpet to make it all one shade.

  Having successfully denied Marguerite her rightful assistant, Jane underscores the victory in meetings by delegating a mountain of busywork to her and saying she should have her assistant take care of it. Marguerite always waves her hand as if she doesn’t mind the partial-custody agreement, but she must feel the lost of status keenly. It’s the difference between hiring someone to clean your house once a week and employing a full-time domestic.

  “And last, the bridesmaid-dress story. I want to use only the top designers. My vision is of fashion-forward designs that we can shoot around town—the Staten Island ferry terminal, the Flatiron building. I want to go on location with these, not in the studio,” Jane says, as if this story idea were hers, as if it had not been foisted upon her by a bitter rival. “Jackie, call the modeling agencies and find out if they have any clients with bridesmaid dresses in their closet. We can have a contest and let the readers send in photos but we’re using models from Ford. Jackie, have T-shirts made up that say Fashionista and send them out to the first one hundred contestants. That ought to appease them. Anything else?” she asks, her eyes darting yet again to the stranger seated next to Marguerite.

  Jane’s not the only one who can’t keep her eyes off the new person, but she’s the only one who’s nervous. Pleated tro
users, practical shoes, puffed-sleeves blouse, a middle-aged softness around the middle—these are not the traits of a fashionista and Jane is afraid that this woman is from the corporate offices upstairs. The only reason she asked, “Anything else?” instead of finishing her last sentence as she walked out the door is she wants her leadership style to seem nurturing and supportive to an outsider.

  “Yes,” says Marguerite, “I’d like to introduce to the staff my personal factotum, Mrs. Beverly.”

  “Your factotum?” Jane spits out, as if trying a new food and finding it distasteful. “Your personal factotum?” It’s clear from the way she repeats herself that she doesn’t know what the word means. None of us do.

  “She’s going to help me out with whatever chores need doing,” Marguerite explains with a gleam in her eye. She knows that Jane doesn’t know what a factotum is.

  Jane looks at her with scorn. “You mean an assistant.”

  “No, Kylie is my assistant—” she finds Kylie and makes eye contact with her “—and a great job you’re doing, to be sure. Mrs. Beverly is my factotum.”

  “Hmm, that must be a quaint Australian thing,” Jane drawls condescendingly, although she’s still uncertain what it does. “I’m sure all the best aboriginals have one, but this is New York. We’re not a third-world trading outpost in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Actually, factotums are quite de rigueur at the moment,” Marguerite says, less bothered than usual by Jane’s backwater insults. “Terance Conran and Philip Johnson each have factotums.”

  Jane looks as though she’ll scream if she hears that word one more time. “I’m sorry. We don’t have enough in the budget to fund your fac—assistant.”

  “Please, there is no need to apologize,” she insists with exaggerated magnanimity. “As I said, Mrs. Beverly is my personal factotum. I’ll be paying her salary out of my own pocket.”

  “Oh, I see,” Jane says as if she gets it; but she doesn’t get it. She can’t imagine paying for something like that—for anything really—out of her own pocket. A long pause follows as Jane considers tactics. It takes her a while to hit upon a strategy that isn’t related to money. “It’s a shame then that we have no room for her.” She tries to give Mrs. Beverly a pitying look, but it comes out smug and superior.

  Marguerite smiles. “There’s plenty of room. I know just the space.”

  “There was never a cubicle there,” Jane blurts out, like the madman at the end of The Telltale Heart.

  “What?” Marguerite draws her eyebrows together.

  Jane composes herself and says, “I mean, just the space?”

  “Yes, that corridor by the freight elevator.”

  Jane shakes her head. “We can’t put an office there. Your assistant would be a fire hazard.”

  Marguerite whips out a piece of paper, pushes it toward Jane and waits.

  Jane picks it up and barely glances at it. “What’s this?”

  “A letter from the New York City fire marshal saying that putting an office in the north freight elevator corridor on the twenty-second floor of the Ivy Publishing building would not be a fire hazard.”

  “I see. Well, it will have to be cleared with maint….” She trails off as Marguerite slides another sheet of paper under her nose. This time Jane doesn’t even pretend to look. She already knows what the letter says.

  “I’ve cleared it with maintenance, Human Resources and the lawyers,” she says, taking out supporting documentation for each claim. “I even ran it by housecleaning. They’ve assured me they won’t mind emptying another trash can. I will, of course, be furnishing it at my own expense.”

  Jane’s mind is working so furiously on her next move that you can almost see smoke pouring out of her ears. But there is nothing she can do at the moment. Marguerite has trapped her in a corner and her only recourse is to end the meeting. “That’s all,” she says to the staff, getting stiffly to her feet. This is just a battle, she’s telling herself as she walks to the door. This is just a battle but the war isn’t over yet. She is already scheming her next move.

  By the time we come in tomorrow, she’ll have hired a butler.

  Your Life Gets Sillier

  Dot thinks you can tell a lot about a person from the way they treat their windows.

  “Don’t Buy Drapes Until You Read This,” she says, motioning me into her office with a zealous hand.

  Since I have no plans to buy drapes and she isn’t holding out something for me to read, I readily agree. “All right.” I move a stack of magazines from the chair to the floor and sit down.

  Dot smiles. “It’s an idea for a new column—Your Best Feature. Each month we’re going to highlight a different decorating feature and talk to three or four celebrities about their choices. First up: window treatments. Why a beige valance? Gingham or chintz? How do you feel about Levelors? That sort of thing.” She pushes a folder across the desk. “I’ve written down suggestions. And here’s the number of Perky Collins.”

  I know no Perkys. “Perky Collins?”

  “Yes, She’s the fabulous host of Perky’s Paradise, a popular show on the Home and Garden network,” she says, as if Perky Collins were a common household name. She is not. A popular show on the Home and Garden network gets a.3 ratings share. That means about two dozen people are watching. “She’s a very well-respected decorative scientist and she’s done some groundbreaking work with color. Hue You Are—What Red Says About You.”

  Dot’s phone rings, signaling the end of our meeting. I make an “I’m going now” gesture, which she completely misses because she turns her head to face the window the second I raise my arm. I leave with little fanfare and return to my cube.

  Allison is away from her desk, so the area is unusually quiet and I stare at my phone, willing it to ring and provide me with a distraction. After five trancelike minutes, I admit that I have absolutely no magical powers and open Dot’s file. I don’t want to read about the new column idea because I already know what it will be like. All our monthly columns are the same. Girl Talk, Style Wise, Pajama Game—pick a celebrity and ask her trivial questions. If you were on a deserted island, what beauty product would you die without? What designer best captures your sense of style? Moisturizer or nail polish: Which is more vital to your well-being? Finish this sentence: I’d be naked without my….

  Most of these interviews are done at a discreet distance—through a publicist, over the phone—but we always make it seem like we’re sitting on the deck with Sean Connery watching a pod of dolphins frolic in the sea. We are peddling intimacy and exclusivity and the idea that you can’t get there without us.

  I open the file and, unable to distract myself further, start reading about the new column. Window treatments are just the beginning. Refrigerators (the inside scoop on what’s inside) and beds (has the frill gone out of your marriage?) and gardens (growing pains) will follow in rapid succession.

  Asking silly questions to rock stars and actresses—or rather their publicists and handlers—is just business as usual at Fashionista. Light and frothy are our specialty and the only thing deep here is your mortification. And if you always feel like a reporter in a Noel Coward play asking, “So, what do you think of the modern girl?” you have no one to blame but yourself. There are plenty of useful magazines out there asking important, relevant questions that don’t make you cringe. Go work for one of them.

  Pinky

  Maya is like Typhoid Mary.

  She’s being very careful—washing her hands regularly and keeping her hands out of her eyes—but she is still highly contagious and there’s no telling how many co-workers she’s infected.

  “I don’t think any,” she says defensively. She’s sitting on her couch with a cold, wet towel over her right eye. The left one is staring at me, red and drippy.

  I’m here at Maya’s request. She wants to practice pitching article ideas, but I’m a reluctant, unenthusiastic sounding board. The A to Z Guide to Antioxidants bores me and I quickly change the topic
.

  “You touch everything,” I remind her. Copy is the center of trafficking. Everything passes through her hands. Every layout and article goes through her infected fingers and flirts with conjunctivitis. It’s inevitable that someone catch it. That’s why they make you stay home from elementary school when you come down with it in third grade.

  “I told you, I kept my hands clean. I must have been in that bathroom like sixty times today.” She sits up and the cold compress slips off to reveal a second infected eye. This one is worse off. It’s so puffy and swollen that it can barely see my disapproval. “I was in there so often I thought about bringing my chair and pencils in and setting up shop next to the sinks.”

  “You should stay home then,” I say, the voice of reason. “By the end of the week there could be a dozen cases of pinkeye. Then how will you feel?”

  “I can’t afford to take a day off. You know that.”

  This is true. When you freelance there is nothing to protect you from yourself. There’s no social safety net and you don’t stay home for anything less than scarlet fever or rubella. “I hope you’re at least going to the doctor.” From her look, I can tell she’s already raised and dismissed this option. “Maya,” I say, outraged on behalf of a dozen magazine editors whose eyes will soon be red and puffy.

  She glares at me with her demon eyes. “I looked it up on the Web. It’ll clear up on its own.”

  “Really?” I’m doubtful.

  “Yes. It’s a viral infection.”

  “How long?”

  She is absentmindedly playing with the fringe on a throw with her infected fingers, and she will now have to either wash the pillow or burn it like the velveteen rabbit. “Only four weeks,” she mumbles.

  The idea of Maya walking around Manhattan looking like a monster that escaped off a B-movie lot for four weeks makes me laugh. “Call the doctor. You might as well get it over with.” Maya is reluctant because her health insurance, with its very large deductible, doesn’t help with everyday scrapes and bruises. It’s for when her appendix bursts or her kidneys fail or when she tears her anterior cruciate ligament in a skiing accident. “An office visit will run you a hundred bucks. A hundred bucks to alleviate suffering is a small price to pay. Plus, you owe it to your co-workers.”