by Lee Winter
Elena went very, very still. Could she mean…? But how? No. It was impossible. But then again, Madeleine had been talking to her daughter today, so…it was possible.
“Madeleine, are you saying what I think you are? That you have an interview with…” She stared at her, raking her face for evidence of a lie. “You have…”
Madeleine reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She scrolled to a photo of Natalii Duchamp, sitting on the floor, legs straight out in front of her; black, chunky boots sticking up under a glorious, white tulle and taffeta dress. Her famous mother was leaning forward, adjusting the back of it, her half-moon spectacles perched on her nose and a row of pins sticking comically out of her mouth.
“Interview? Yes. Four hours’ worth. And photos. Of the new line. Which I have approval to run in the magazine of my choice.” Madeleine spun the phone all the way around to face Elena. She shot her a cheeky grin. “So, you’d better up your game on that professional wooing. Make it good.”
Elena’s hands had the faintest tremble, as she cradled the phone and stared at the photo. “Are there more?” Her voice was almost a croak.
Madeleine chuckled and swiped to the next one.
Here, Véronique was standing back, admiring another dress on her daughter, while Natalii looked right at the camera, all swagger and charm. It was intimate, yet breathtaking. There was vulnerability there, too. It was unexpected from one normally so guarded.
Elena allowed a faint gasp. “They definitely said you could use these?” She swiped to the next photo, and her eyes widened at what she saw.
“Yep,” Madeleine said. “They loved them. They asked for prints after the story runs. Oh, that one there, that’s Véronique’s favourite.”
The photo showed the designer adjusting the collar on a resplendent, satin women’s pant suit, as her daughter glanced up at her, seeming impressed by the outfit and certainly unaware she was showing so much affection for her mother. It was a candid and powerful portrait.
“What resolution are these?” Elena asked almost fearfully. “What DPI?”
“I had my phone set on maximum. Here.” She tapped a button, and the photo’s properties appeared. “See? That’s okay, right?”
Elena exhaled in relief at the numbers. “Inside, these shots will be fine as they are. As for the cover, it’s right on the edge of acceptable. But have you ever heard the saying ‘black and white hides all sins’?”
“No.”
“Graphic designers have long known that if you turn a colour image to black and white, it looks artistic and interesting, even with flaws, instead of just low quality. Any of these would make a striking cover.” She skipped past the next few shots and tapped the screen with her nail. “These are quite remarkable, Madeleine. Truly. You should be proud of yourself.”
She lowered the phone carefully, her heart beating faster. For thirty years, no one had succeeded in getting this. And now? She slid her gaze over to Madeleine, filled with pride in her. A blinding thought struck, and Elena had to look away as she realised what it meant.
Madeleine, apparently now well used to her every twitch and expression, studied her in alarm. “What’s wrong?”
Elena shook her head. “I just had a thought. But not now. Later. All right, I suppose you wish to write the story yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Even though you have never written a feature article for any magazine in your life?”
“Yes.” Madeleine’s tone shifted to cautious.
“And you’ve certainly never written a fashion story.”
“No.”
“And yet you want to write this one, even though you will be on an exceedingly tight deadline?”
“I’m a fast writer.”
“Hmm,” Elena said in her most neutral tone. “You know I could put one of our top writers on it. You’d get full credit as the person Véronique spoke to and prominent photo credits. And you would not have to lift a finger, knowing your story would be in exceptional hands.”
“No! No way. Give away the story of a lifetime? I can’t believe you even asked.”
Elena tried to hide her smile. “Well. To the finer points. You are aware of Style Sydney’s going rate? It’s eighty cents per printed word for an unknown freelancer. I’m prepared to double it.”
Madeleine stared. Incredulity washed over her face.
“Well?” Elena asked archly.
“Elena, I come up with the best fashion scoop in thirty years, which has international syndication potential and photos that even you call remarkable, and you offer me that? If you’re trying to drive me to Emmanuelle Lecoq, this is a brilliant strategy.”
Elena’s jaw tightened at the mention of her arch rival. “Well, what do you suggest?”
Maddie gave her an impish look. “Why don’t we skip the negotiations, and you just tell me what your best offer is—and please try and be brutally honest.”
Elena stared, unable to believe the audacity. Then she smiled. It was her full smile, the one she rarely shared with anyone, and she felt a ridiculous amount of amusement at the confusion that flooded Madeleine’s face.
“Good,” Elena replied, “there’s hope for you yet. Women must never be a pushover in negotiations. Too many devalue their own worth or, worse, try to be people pleasers. Excellent. Come along,” she said as the car came to a stop outside her home. “I believe some professional wooing is in order.”
At Maddie’s still stunned expression and lack of movement, Elena smirked. “Well? Do you want a deal or not?”
CHAPTER 19
Reaching an Understanding
“Oh my God, you weren’t kidding.” Maddie sighed after her first mouthful of double-chocolate fudge cake. Her taste buds did a happy dance. They were in Elena’s kitchen, perched on a pair of facing bar stools at the wide, central island. “When you woo a girl, you really do. This is gorgeous. How did you know I’d like it? God, how is it you even have food this decadent in your house?”
“Your mother told me, on your birthday, that chocolate is one of your favourites. We had a bit of a chat. Delightful woman. And Rosetta, my cook and housekeeper, is convinced I don’t eat enough and that tempting me with such endorphin-inducing food will fix that. She usually leaves something fat laden in the fridge.”
Maddie paused mid-bite, wondering if she was being pranked. “You think my mother’s delightful.” She waved her fork. “And you two just chatted? She sure left that bit out. Or are you just joking?”
Elena’s eyes lit with amusement. “I do not make a habit of joking. Well, except, perhaps, about the amount I had planned to offer for your story.”
“I see. By the way, this is a terrific opening gambit. Chocolate is my weakness.”
“I would never have guessed.” Elena eyed her licking the fork.
“Ha-ha. You’ve gotta admit this is glorious.”
“I admit, I’m not immune to the wicked lure of chocolate. As a teenager, I craved it, but I refused to succumb.” She looked at her untouched portion. Her fork wavered.
“It doesn’t show,” Maddie said, as she ran her gaze over Elena’s trim figure.
“No,” Elena agreed without a hint of modesty. “Although, I have a personal trainer, yoga instructor, and willpower to thank for that. So, now let’s discuss what you really want.”
“Do you even know?” Maddie gave her a challenging look, pulling her plate closer, her fork diving in again.
A mysterious smile greeted her. “Oh, I believe so. You are an open book.”
“Let’s hear it, then.”
“If you insist.” Elena examined Maddie’s face. “I suspect, in order of desire, you require: love, approval, career success, and stability in all areas. The latter is probably why you were not in love with New York. You were too far out of your comfort zone. Possibly, you desire a pet. I’m thinking a cat—something cute and snooty.”
Maddie loaded up her fork and shook her head. “No cats. Allergic. I also have an unfortu
nate habit of killing goldfish. And dogs need walking all the time, and one of us doesn’t have a housekeeper to do that. So…no pets in my immediate future.”
“And the rest?” Elena dug her fork in for a stab of the cake.
“I’d dispute the order of wants, perhaps, but it’s pretty accurate—as it would be for everyone, even you. I mean, it’s obvious you want success, so no contest there. And, come on, if you were dumped far enough out of your comfort zone, you’d crave stability, too. That’s not just me. Of course, you also require love and approval. Who doesn’t?”
“No,” Elena said, voice firm, “I don’t require approval. And love is highly overrated—as was proved today. Or whatever it was I had with Richard.”
Whatever it was? Maddie would have loved to have gotten to the bottom of that comment. Instead she just chuckled at Elena’s absolute certainty. “Come on, sure you want love. Who doesn’t? Even approval—but I think you just pretend you don’t better than most. Be honest.”
Elena sighed. “Our word for the day. On that note.” She pulled out her phone and pushed a button. After a beat she barked, “Felicity? Email me a J11 form immediately.”
Maddie licked her fork, as her boss hung up and then dialled another number.
“Maxwell, Elena… Yes, I do know what time it is,” she said, almost purring into the phone as she watched Maddie eat.
Maxwell had to mean Max Giles, Bartell Corp’s chief financial officer. That was a very good sign that Maddie wasn’t about to be offered peanuts again. She chewed slowly, listening.
“A very good reason,” Elena continued. “It’s about a large, unbudgeted editorial payment I wish to make. I’ll text some numbers through to you so there are no mistakes. Call me back when you get it. And before you ask, yes, it’s worth it.” She ended the call, lowered her phone, and tapped out some figures.
Maddie caught a glimpse of the text just before Elena hit Send. She choked on her cake. There were six figures. Six figures. With zeroes. Many, many zeroes.
Tiny bits of chocolate cake sprayed across her plate, and Elena stalked behind her and slapped her back soundly, as her phone rang.
“Max? No, it’s essential,” Elena said without missing a beat, as though Maddie wasn’t flailing about in front of her. “A story we cannot pass by. It’s unprecedented.”
Elena walked to the fridge and returned, placing a bottle of water in front Maddie. “No, that is not all,” she said after a series of shocked verbal eruptions came from the phone.
Maddie cracked the bottle’s seal.
Elena returned with a glass and placed it in front of Maddie, barely looking at her. “I want to redo the next issue of Style globally—yes, every issue in all five countries—and drop in a new twelve-page cover story in time for Australian Fashion Week.”
Maddie choked again, this time in shock, and Elena’s amused gaze drifted to hers. She gave her a slow, feline smile, revealing how much she was enjoying this.
“Yes, I’m aware of that, but we both know they don’t actually print until midnight tomorrow, so you won’t have pulping costs, just overtime. Mm. Correct. We will be able to recoup the costs from onselling the story to international publications in countries that don’t sell Style. You will quadruple circulation for the next two issues; I stake my reputation on it. Just tell me you can do this. Tonight. Yes.”
Her phone pinged with an incoming message. “I believe I have the freelancer release contract, so I hope to seal the deal shortly and will send it to you and Tom tonight. Give him a call and let him know it’s coming, would you? All right. We’ll talk soon.”
Elena closed her phone. She opened the text message she’d sent to the CFO and showed Maddie the screen. “That is—honestly—my best offer. It includes global rights for your story and exclusive, first use of all your Duchamp photos. It’s higher than we’ve ever gone before—for anyone.”
Maddie stared at the sum, feeling numb. It beat anything she’d even remotely had in mind. That was a life-changing amount. She shot Elena a mischievous look. “Would Emmanuelle offer more?”
Elena’s mouth twisted in distaste. The silence dragged out. “Yes,” she said, as though someone was ripping her fingernails out. “I believe she would put an extra thirty thousand in. Possibly forty, if fiscal madness seized her. But she has a little more wiggle room on overheads than I do.”
“I see,” Maddie said. “Thanks for the honesty. So why would I go with Style, if it’ll cost me forty grand?”
Elena returned to sitting beside her at the counter. She considered the question. “Well, you know us. You know that my team and I would never distort your words or images in the editing process. I would ensure that you’d have a final say on the last draft. I’ll make sure that’s in the contract. You know my commitment to quality. And you know my reputation—it is well deserved. I expect the best, because I produce the best.”
“But you’re not the best anymore, at least not in Australia,” Maddie argued, playing devil’s advocate. “CQ is the leading fashion magazine in this country, right now, and at least half the story is about Australian Fashion Week.”
Elena’s jaw worked, as she seemed to digest that unsavoury statement. “Yes,” she said tightly. “But Style is the leading fashion magazine in the world. You’d get more readers total, just fewer here.”
“What if I didn’t want to sell to a fashion magazine at all? I have quotes for a terrific profile. I’m sure Vanity Fair, Rolling Stone, Time, and many other general mags would buy my story. I’d reach an even wider audience.”
“Yes. You likely would. But not a passionate audience. You would not reach people hanging off your every word, desperate to know more. You would not reach Véronique’s ardent followers. But let’s say you went with a mainstream magazine—do you know them? Trust them? Would you feel comfortable ringing up their editor and saying you hate what they’ve done with the layout and they have to drop the third photo on the eighth page, because you just don’t like it?”
“Elena, I wouldn’t feel comfortable saying that to you now.”
“Hmm.” Elena paused for a moment. “But you would say that to Perry, yes?”
Maddie nodded.
“So, that settles it. If you chose us, Perry would be your liaison. As art director, I’d want him involved anyway. His design eye is unmatched. And I’ll have our best senior editor help you with our in-house writing style.”
“Is all that worth forty-thousand dollars?” Maddie asked.
“CQ’s Australian Fashion Week issue went to the presses yesterday. Its next issue will be in a month. Your story would lack currency, if you had a series of photos about a fashion line that had already been photographed on the runway and seen on every blog and newspaper in the world. Your exclusive value would then only lie in the interview and the novelty of the photos, without their news value. You and CQ would look downright late to the party and silly. It would make you appear far less impressive. I wish you to be spectacular.” Elena smiled and reached for her hand, covering it. “Let’s be spectacular together.”
God. Maddie was having a hard time resisting that combination of words and smiles. And now touch? Elena’s fingers squeezed Maddie’s and released them. Maddie’s heart thudded like the pathetic organ it was. She doubted her business brain could withstand the onslaught of Elena Bartell in full charm-offensive mode, either.
“I forsee a two-part series,” Elena began with a flourish of the same hand that had briefly clasped Maddie’s. “Twelve pages this issue, just on fashion week content to whet the readers’ appetites. We’ll tease them about the next issue, which will contain twenty pages on the life and times of Véronique. I assume that’s all covered in your four-hour interview?”
“Yes. Everything—right down to her milking cows in the late eighties. Badly.”
Elena ceased all movement. “What?”
“They lived on a farm for a bit. To escape Véronique’s scary ex-lover. Philippe the rugby player. He once threw her s
ewing dummy off a motorway from his Ferrari.”
“Dear God.” Elena rubbed her temple.
“Are you okay?”
“That insane woman says nothing whatsoever to a soul about her private life for three decades, and you get all this out of her? How? What on earth did you do to her?”
Maddie shrugged. “I’m not sure. I was just, um, myself.”
Elena stared at her. Finally she exhaled, nostrils flaring. “That’s what we never tried. Sending a normal person in.”
Maddie laughed. “You think I’m normal?”
“Madeleine, how do you take your coffee?”
“White with two sugars. Um, regular milk I mean. Not soy or skim or any of that stuff.”
Elena gave her a pointed look.
“Oh. Right.”
“Where was I? Oh yes, two issues. We’d promote them extensively in TV, print, and online. You will be famous, Madeleine.”
“I didn’t do it for that.”
“Oh?”
“No. And before you ask, not the money, either. That’s all just…extra.”
Elena looked slightly alarmed. “Are you not sufficiently wooed, then? Are you still not convinced to go with us?”
“You make a good case.” Maddie hesitated. “I was thinking more long-term. I did this interview to get ahead in my career. And, of course, yes, to prove to you I am a journalist. So, while your offer is great and all, it’s just…” She faded out, not sure what she was asking for. Just something different. Less financial. More…
“Ah.” Elena nodded, reached for a piece of paper and scribbled for a few minutes, then pushed it over to her. “The major events of the next twelve months that I will be attending. These will have a large VIP-publishing presence. Sell your story to us, and you will be my guest for the evening at any four of these you choose. I will ensure Bartell Corp flies you to and from them, should you select events not held in Australia.”
Maddie’s eyes slid down the page, widening as she examined the list. Peabody Awards lunch. Matrix Awards. Pulitzer Prize dinner. Time 100 gala. New York Times Fashion Week opening night. Met Gala. Sydney Magazine Publishers cocktail party. American Publishers black-and-white ball.