Love is the New Black

by Chrissie Keighery

  Piper had hung her first-day-at-the-office outfit up the previous night and was pleased to see that the creases had fallen out. She put it on and checked herself out in the mirrored doors of the built-in robes.

  Her skirt was knee-length and navy. Her collared shirt was white. A thin red belt gave the outfit a splash of colour. It was an outfit that said serious and business-like. She hoped. She wasn’t in the habit of wearing much make-up, but today she’d applied a touch of foundation and a bit of mascara.

  Piper sat on the bed and put on her shoes. Navy sandals with a red strap to match the belt. The heels were about ten centimetres. Stylish yet serviceable, she told herself.

  But it was the handbag that Piper was most pleased with. She’d actually seen the bag in the fashion pages of last month’s Aspire. It was a Marc Jacob classic: a huge Hillier Hobo. Pretty ironic to call it a hobo bag when it’s worth more than what most people I know earn in a week, thought Piper.

  She’d bought it online at half the advertised price, but still, it was the most expensive thing she’d ever bought for herself. It was worth it, though. Having the gorgeous bag hanging off her arm made her feel like she might pass as professional.

  Gaynor had left breakfast stuff out on the kitchen bench, but there was no way Piper could eat. She managed to figure out how to use the Nespresso machine, found a takeaway cup to put it in, grabbed the print-out of the directions to work and headed out the door.

  Getting to Southbank was easy: just a tram and a little bit of a walk. Piper checked the time on her phone. It was only 8 a.m., yet the banks of the Yarra River were buzzing. Buskers were setting up. People walked with intent, swerving around those who looked like they had a lazy day to play with. To her right, a boat chugged past on the river, a white wake stretching behind it. It was all happening. In Mission Beach at 8 a.m., it would be dead quiet.

  The city buildings all seemed so grand, somehow. It was beautiful. Piper drank it all in as she walked, hardly believing she was really there. She stared across the river at the old facade of Flinders Street Station, at the tall buildings, imagining all the important people inside doing important things.

  The city was so full of possibility that Piper couldn’t help feeling swept up in it. She looked to her left and took a deep yoga breath to centre herself.

  This was it. The headquarters of Aspire.

  The revolving glass door seemed to speed up as soon as Piper entered. The spinning glass wall hit the heel of her sandal and propelled her forward. She didn’t so much exit the revolving doors as get spat out.

  She was thrust into someone in front of her and instinctively grabbed onto them to stop from falling over.

  ‘Not used to the pace?’ came a voice.

  Piper barely looked up. Extracting her hands from the torso of a complete stranger, a complete male stranger, was keeping her busy enough.

  ‘Oops,’ she said, just about to apologise when she realised the guy was already walking off. She could only see the back of him. Dark, wavy hair. Broad shoulders. Grey T-shirt. Mustard chinos.

  Very nice from behind, she thought, recovering herself. But what was with that comment? Piper was actually glad she hadn’t had time to apologise.

  Piper strode towards reception, making sure to pull herself up to her full height, following the instructions her yoga teacher at home had taught her. Since Piper was only 150 centimetres tall, this was pretty important. Still, even at her full height, she felt decidedly tiny.

  The reception desk was about three metres long. Behind it sat three incredibly gorgeous women. They sat so evenly spaced behind the expanse of desk that it could have been measured with a ruler. One had white-blonde hair, one bright auburn and the third, jet black. It looked as if they’d been given their jobs based on hair colour. Surely that’s a violation of anti-discrimination laws, thought Piper.

  Behind the receptionists was a giant, curved plasma screen. Tall, stick-figure models with big hair and impossible cheekbones pelvic-thrusted their way down a runway. Piper paused for a moment to check out the way their feet crossed in front of each other as they walked. As each model took centre stage, her name and measurements appeared in a caption at the bottom of the screen. Currently the caption read:

  Maddison Brown: Height 177 cm, Bust 79 cm, Hips 90 cm, Dress 8, Shoe 10.

  It’s like they’re for sale, Piper thought. Line up, girls, and show the buyers what you’ve got.

  She looked back to the receptionists, who were tapping away at sleek computers, barely acknowledging her existence.

  Piper cleared her throat. ‘Um, I’m starting work today. Piper Bancroft,’ she said. The auburn-haired girl looked up, clearly underwhelmed by this information. ‘So, I need to meet with…’

  At the sound of a heavy rumble, Piper turned to look behind her. A giant crate on wheels was being pulled through reception. Piper couldn’t help but wonder what was inside.

  ‘This needs to be signed for by management,’ the delivery guy told the receptionists, handing over a delivery slip.

  The black-haired receptionist nodded and dialled a number immediately.

  ‘Oooh, this has to be the McQueen gown,’ the blonde receptionist cooed.

  ‘Ostrich feathers,’ the auburn-haired woman replied knowingly.

  The next few minutes were a whirlwind of activity. A stylish-looking girl with white-blonde hair that was shaved on one side and shoulder length on the other came down to collect the crated gown, pausing to give the receptionists a teeny glimpse inside the crate. Piper strained to get a look too, but her view was blocked by a group of male models telling the auburn-haired receptionist they were late for a shoot. Piper was surrounded by biceps and triceps and pecs and abs. The scent of cologne was so overpowering it almost made her dizzy.

  Finally, everyone cleared out.

  On screen, Maddison Brown had toppled over her size 10 stilettos and was now looking extra colt-like in her attempt to get up. Piper knew how Maddison Brown felt. Awkward.

  Auburn Girl stared at Piper blankly.

  ‘Um … with Rose McFadden,’ Piper managed.

  Following Auburn Girl’s instructions, Piper walked down the corridor, counting the doors on her left as she went. She felt like she was running the gauntlet: she passed between two photographers arguing about the best location for their shoot; and a rack of clothes, seemingly with a life of its own, pushed past her so that she had to stand aside or be run down. She managed to duck inside an open door to let the stampede of male models she’d seen before pass by. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be seen again if she got inside that scrum.

  The plate on the doorway read Art Department. Piper was a little surprised. She’d expected an art department to look, well … arty. But this room was pretty plain. Two girls were at the far end of the room and a guy sat, with his back to her, close enough for her to see his screen. He was mucking around with a page from the magazine, changing fonts and shifting pictures. Piper checked the corridor to make sure it was clear and exited before anyone even looked up.

  Finally, Piper stood at the half-open door to Rose’s glassed-in office. The plate on the door read Editor in Chief. Piper gave a timid knock.

  A woman she supposed to be Rose was leaning over her desk, looking at hundreds of images. She started talking without looking up.

  ‘Viv, I’ve narrowed it down. There are only three possible covers, really. This one is probably my favourite because the model’s cheekbones beautifully echo the jagged geometry of the …’

  Piper stepped into the office, feeling like an interloper. Well, being an interloper, actually, since Rose obviously thought she was someone else. She hadn’t looked up, even for a moment.

  Piper glanced at the photos on her desk. They all looked pretty much the same to her: a very beautiful, sharply angular model with a crew cut rose out of a waterfall, somehow staying completely dry and glam in gold chiffon. Rose pushed most of the photos to the side until there was only one left in front of her.

&
nbsp; ‘Actually, Viv, this is definitely the one. Of course it is!’ Rose said it like it was a eureka moment. She lifted the photo in the air and finally looked Piper. ‘Oh. You’re not Viv,’ she said, her face falling.

  ‘Ah, no,’ Piper replied. ‘Sorry.’

  It wasn’t a great first impression, apologising for not being someone else. Piper could almost feel the domino effect it might have. God, what would she be doing next? Apologising for being here at all?

  ‘Never be sorry for not being someone else,’ said Rose. She walked around her desk and Piper was finally able to see her properly.

  It was funny. Piper had expected sharp edges, but instead Rose was sort of soft-focus. Her hair was a mass of wild, blonde curls. Her eyes were hazel and her lips full. She wore a long, flowing printed dress and loads of bangles.

  ‘I’m Piper. You know my godmother, Gaynor Tremorne?’ Piper offered. For a second, she wondered if Rose even remembered she was starting today.

  ‘Ah, yes! Of course,’ Rose agreed. She floated back behind her desk and motioned for Piper to take a seat in the chair opposite.

  ‘Gaynor,’ she said slowly, ‘was on the cover of Aspire, my first cover as editor.’ Rose paused, remembering. ‘Everyone said she was too old. Everyone told me to use a model, not an actress. Yet, it was the best-selling Aspire that whole year. Gaynor is like a good luck charm to me.’

  She looked at Piper strangely, almost as though she was hoping Piper might also be a good luck charm. For what, though? Piper wasn’t sure. She was probably reading too much into a look. Like Dylan said, sometimes she got carried away with over-analysing things.

  ‘I’m really looking forward to this job,’ Piper said, bringing herself back to reality. ‘Thanks for giving me a chance. I’m happy to do anything you need –’

  As she spoke, Piper heard the click-clicking of high heels entering the office behind her. She paused and turned around. The girl behind her was quick to fill the silence.

  ‘Rose, you have a management meeting in the boardroom at one. I’ve booked a Skype with Alex Perry at three to discuss a spread for his Frockaholic range for the August issue. Cocktails at seven o’clock with the features crew and Jennifer to thank her for coming in for the interview and shoot –’

  ‘Aniston or Lawrence?’ Rose interrupted.

  ‘Aniston. We’re still working on Lawrence. I’ll send you your program for the day.’

  If Piper had been waiting for someone with hard edges, this girl met that expectation and raised it one. She could only have been a few years older than Piper. Her hair was black, except for the ends, which had been dip-dyed bright blue. She was incredibly tall, thin as a rake, and wore a tight black dress with killer high boots. Her lips were bee stung and bright red. A sleeve of tattoos ran down her left arm. The tiger on her bony upper arm held Piper’s attention.

  ‘Thank you, Vivian,’ Rose said. She motioned a bangled arm towards Piper. So far, Vivian had managed to ignore her completely. ‘This is Piper, the girl I told you would be starting today,’ Rose said. ‘I have a good feeling about her. Piper, this is Vivian Jacobson.’

  Piper smiled at Vivian. In return, she received a head-to-toe scan, finished with a subtle eye roll. Piper had a sense that Vivian didn’t care much for Rose’s feelings. Rose didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Oh Rose,’ Vivian said, ‘not another intern? I’ve just got rid of Henry or Harry or whatever his name was and now we’ve got another pasty soul who’s flounced in from fashion college with zero idea of how the world really works. Honestly, I know they’re free, but half the time these work experience students couldn’t do up a shoelace, let alone be any real help.’

  Piper stood there feeling awkward.

  ‘Piper’s not an intern,’ Rose said to Vivian, her smooth voice a huge contrast from Vivian’s snappy one. ‘She is a friend’s goddaughter, and now she is our employee. Piper will assist you until we work out where she’s best placed.’ She turned to Piper and smiled. ‘I’d be lost without Viv, you’ll learn a lot from her.’ Then she looked down at the pictures on her desk. ‘Right. I need to finalise this cover with the art department,’ she said, floating out of her office and leaving Piper alone with Vivian. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet below zero.

  Without a word, Vivian walked out of Rose’s office and started down the corridor. She snapped her fingers over her shoulder, in what appeared to be an instruction to follow. Piper practically had to break into a jog to catch up.

  ‘So, what can I do with you? Or at least, what can I give you to do so I don’t have to babysit?’ Vivian hissed as she walked.

  Piper tried not to react. Babysit. ‘You give me a job and I’ll do it,’ she said, hoping she sounded strong and confident.

  Vivian almost looked amused. At least, the corners of her fire engine–red lips lifted slightly. She paused at the door of a large but windowless office.

  Inside, a girl sitting in front of a computer looked up and gave Piper a wave and a smile. Piper recognised her as the girl who had come into reception to collect the ostrich gown.

  ‘Your computer,’ Vivian said, pointing to a Mac on a small empty desk beside the girl. Then she waved in the direction of a hatstand in the corner of the office that was groaning under the weight of coats and bags.

  ‘Hang up your coat and your fake Marc Jacobs and I’ll go try to find you something you can do,’ said Vivian, before disappearing down the hall.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the girl at the computer, gesturing towards Piper’s bag. ‘Thousands of people have made the same mistake.’

  Piper tried to turn her grimace into a smile.

  ‘Real Marc Jacobs bags never have a metal tag hanging off them. The logo tag is always on the actual bag. Other than that, it’s a pretty good copy.’

  Piper fingered the tag that hung from her handbag, wishing she could cut it off. She tucked the bag way underneath her desk and then gave it an extra shove with her foot. Out of sight.

  ‘I’m Lucy,’ the girl continued. ‘Junior fashion stylist.’

  It figured. Lucy looked even more stylish up close. Tribal swirls were carved into the shaved side of her white-blonde hair. She wore soft-looking print leggings and a baggy cream T-shirt. Piper ran her hand down the length of her plain brown hair.

  ‘I’m Piper, and I have no idea what I am,’ she said.

  Lucy grinned. There was a piercing in the middle of her tongue that made Piper wince a little. Getting her ears done had been hard enough for her.

  ‘Ah, I’ll give you a little clue,’ Lucy said, getting up from her desk. Piper followed her to the other side of the room. Lucy opened some sliding doors. ‘You are now in the fashion cupboard, the hub and centre of any self-respecting fashion mag.’

  Piper’s jaw dropped as she walked inside. It was more like a room than a cupboard. Piper had never seen anything like it. Hundreds of pairs of shoes lined the floor amongst mountains of cardboard boxes and coathangers. Dozens of hats were on the top shelves, some standing alone and others stacked up on top of each other. In between, there were racks of clothing sticking out at all angles. A giant poster of an Aspire cover in heavy cardboard leaned precariously against a rack of clothing. Piper had seen the episode of Sex and the City where Carrie got to go inside the fashion cupboard at Vogue. This was similar, but much, much more chaotic.

  As if to demonstrate Lucy’s point about the fashion cupboard being a hub of activity, a short, bronzed guy with a white Mohawk haircut power-walked in. Behind him, a tall, sturdily built girl wearing a kimono-style grey dress, her brown hair piled high on her head, pulled a suitcase on wheels. ‘Wardrobe malfunction on the McQueen shoot,’ the Mohawk guy said, flicking some invisible lint from his impeccable black suit. ‘I need Jimmy Choos. Size eleven. Life or death.’

  Piper stood back as Lucy fished out a box and handed it to the guy. It only took her a moment, making Piper suppose that the chaos might be a bit more organised than it seemed.

  ‘I worship a
t your feet Lucy,’ the guy said, already exiting with the box. ‘See you there.’

  ‘I think the stuff in here could be the accessories for the Dinnigan shoot,’ the kimono-clad girl said as soon as Mohawk had gone. She looked flustered as she tapped at the suitcase. ‘I didn’t really hear Vivian properly and I totally wasn’t game to ask again.’

  Lucy shook her head. ‘That’s okay, Bronwyn, I’ll check it out,’ she said.

  Bronwyn looked as though Lucy had given her a reprieve, and she scuttled out.

  ‘Albert is freelance,’ Lucy explained. ‘He’s doing make-up trials for our Alexander McQueen shoot at the Botanical Gardens next week. He’s the best in the business. Bronwyn’s one of our interns. She’s studying to be a fashion designer and she’s in her second week of work experience.’

  Lucy and Piper stepped out of the fashion cupboard and sat back down at their desks.

  ‘Well, as you may have guessed by now,’ Lucy said, ‘you’ve landed in the fashion department. In full, that would be fashion, beauty and health. If you’ve got Vivian setting your agenda, I’d say you’ll just be doing as you’re told, like we all do.’

  Piper’s heart sank a little. The fashion cupboard was cool, and any girl would kill to comb through its contents. Plus, Lucy seemed really lovely, and it was clear from her interactions with Albert and Bronwyn that she was being modest in saying she only did what she was told. But Piper had really hoped to land in the features department, where she knew the in-house articles for the magazine were created. Even if the articles Piper had come across in Aspire were just fluffy, feel-good pieces, they were still published fluffy, feel-good pieces. At least she’d be doing something to develop her writing skills.

  ‘So, do you write your own pieces in the fashion department too?’ Piper asked. Lucy shrugged in sort of half-agreement, nodding in greeting at a chic-looking woman scurrying past to the fashion cupboard. ‘Do you think there’s a chance I’d get to actually write anything for the fashion section?’ Piper continued, feeling humbled about lowering her expectations even further.