by Geneva Lee
“If that’s what it takes,” he warned me lightly. “But I’m not going to have to, because you already know all of this. You just have to believe it.”
I dropped my head to his shoulder. “Now I know why I fell in love with you.”
“Were you doubtful before?” He grinned wickedly, pressing his lips to a spot behind my ear.
“I’ve had my moments.” I turned into him, tipping my chin to drink in his handsome face. When we were together like this, it was easier to see how it had happened despite how hard I’d fought to keep him at a distance. I had questioned why I fell in love with him. Hell, I’d worried about my sanity. But since the moment I’d realized I’d fallen, I’d known I loved him. Now, how and why didn’t seem important. Not so long as we could stick together.
“You are going to have them eating out of your hand,” he promised me.
“How do you know that?”
“Because you’ve had me eating of your hand since the day we met,” he explained. Then he sealed his confession with a lingering kiss that left no room for doubt.
The editorial office of Trend was housed in a building every bit as imposing as the bustling streets of New York. My eyes traveled up, trying to take in the full glory that was home to the oldest and most important fashion magazine in the world. As if on cue, my mobile buzzed.
“Are you there?” Lola asked when I answered.
I cradled the phone closely, pressing my index finger to my other ear to block the street noise. “I’m here. Remind me why you aren’t?”
“Because I have to finish this bloody portfolio. Remember, talk like we’re already a huge success,” she advised.
“That would be easier if we had so much as a website,” I muttered, my stomach flipping over as I stared at the revolving door in front of me.
“It went live two hours ago.”
“What?” I squealed. “Are you some type of witch?”
“That’s bitch,” she corrected me. “We’re open by invitation only. Now go in there and wow Abigail Summers.”
We hung up, and I strode into the lobby of Dwyer Publishing. If I had the time, I probably would have been intimidated by the polished marble floors and or the oversized screens displaying recent magazine covers. But a freak out was not on the schedule. Instead I headed toward a the lifts.
“Floor?” An attendant asked as I stepped inside.
“Twenty-five.”
“Very good.” He pushed the button and then returned to a practiced position.
I stared at the old man and his pressed uniform, wondering how long he’d done this job. He’d probably delivered many a hopeful fashionista to that floor. I had half a mind to bombard him with questions.
“You’ll do fine,” he said kindly as the lift shuddered to a stop.
I managed a nervous smile. The doors slid open and I came face to face with a pretty redhead. Light freckles dusted her porcelain complexion, and, perhaps knowing basic black would only wash her out, she wore a brilliant, emerald green shirt dress.
She stuck her hand out. “Katherine Harper. Abigail’s assistant. Can I just say we’re so excited about the Bless concept?”
“Th-thank you,” I stammered.
“Can I get you anything? A coffee? Water?” She paused, screwing up her face in an effort to recall more options. “Oh, tea?”
“I’m fine,” I assured her. Given the way I was shaking, I’d probably spill it all over myself.
“Are you ready to go straight into the interview or would you like a moment?” She continued leading me through the maze of cubicles toward a large corner office.
“I’m ready.” That was a lie, but I pasted my smile on.
Katherine waved as we passed a desk. “That’s Nolan. He’s our international editor. We’ve borrowed him from France for a few weeks.”
Nolan tipped his head, not bothering to look up from his tablet.
“He thinks we’re all crass and overweight,” she whispered when we were out of earshot.
Judging from that acknowledgment, I’d sensed he had the typical French attitude toward Americans. At least I didn’t have to interview with him.
Katherine seemed immune to his attitude, however. She’d dismissed him as easily as he had dismissed her. “We’re so eager to hear all about Bless and where you came up with the concept.”
Was this what it was like to be wined and dined—in the business sense?
Katherine froze in her tracks and spun around. Her overly cheerful demeanor was replaced by a conspiratorial whisper. “This is pretty overwhelming, isn’t it? The first time I walked in here, I thought I was going to throw up.”
“I still might,” I admitted with a grateful smile.
“Look, Belle, you have a great idea. When I read your partner’s pitch, I was sold, and trust me, there are a lot of women who need this service, myself included. Do you know how hard it is to afford to keep up with my own job? I have to come to work in the latest pieces.” Her voice continued to lower as she spoke. I could tell it wasn’t something she shared lightly. I’d only been in New York for a day, and I already felt like I couldn’t keep up with it.
I took a deep, steadying breath. I was here for a reason. The business plan I’d finished over the weekend was solid. Lola’s publicity and marketing plan was incredible. We even had the money to fund our launch. Standing in front of me was our first target customer, and she was already sold. Things were in place. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”
“Believe me, my credit cards thank you.” She squared her shoulders, her eyes widening in excitement. “Ready?”
“Yes.” This time I meant it.
Considering the powerhouse impression I had of Abigail Summers, I was surprised to come face to face with a petite brunette whose hair was piled messily on top of her head. A pair of Versace reading glasses perched on her long nose. Only someone as powerful as the editor of Trend could command respect without doing her hair in the morning. She glanced up from her desk long enough to appraise me disinterestedly before turning her attention back to her file.
“This one.” She held out a piece of paper, and Katherine scurried to grab it.
“Your appointment is here,” Katherine interjected as her boss continued to sort through papers.
“Is she?” she asked, her voice flat as her gaze fixed on me. “Thank God, you’re here. Call the doctor, I think I need a new prescription.”
Apparently she was a little sarcastic and a lot bitchy. Katherine’s eyes darted from me to the desk and back again, softening apologetically at the edges. Annoyance stirred in my chest. I’d dealt with plenty of people like Abigail before. I’d even worked for a man just like her, and if my experience with Smith had taught me anything, it was that people like that only responded to strength.
“Belle Stuart.” I stepped toward her desk and stuck out my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Abigail.”
So much for staying safely in ass-kissing territory. Arrogance appreciated flattery, but it respected confidence, and respect yielded more between two parties. At least that was what I told myself.
I could also have just totally screwed myself.
Abigail snatched her reading glasses off and tossed them on her desk, rubbing her temple before gesturing for me to take a seat. “Kat, grab us some coffee.”
Maybe I’d made the right call, although I decided against telling her that I preferred tea.
“Belle, is it?” Abigail said as soon as her assistant had left the room. “Tell me why you’re here again.”
I knew exactly why I was here. I’d been going over my talking points for days. Lola had grilled me over them before I’d flown out. The fact that she had no idea why I was in her office was what was tough to swallow.
My eyes locked with hers, and I paused to consider my answer, and that’s when I saw it. A slight flicker glinting ominously. Her face was otherwise unreadable. But that was all the information I needed. She knew why I was here.
“You
r magazine wants to do an editorial on my start-up,” I said in a sugary tone. There was no need to call her on her deception. Abigail Summers was either testing me or punishing me. Either way, I had a good feeling of where I stood with her.
“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” She folded her hands on her desk and waited for me to respond. I nodded. “We’re both busy women, so I see no reason to pretend otherwise. I told Katherine she could do these little pieces because she’s concerned about the magazine’s image. Or rather, my image. I don’t really give a fuck what people think about me.”
“I find that refreshing,” I said sincerely.
“Then I hope you won’t be offended when I tell you that I don’t care about a start-up company unless they’re cloning Michael Fassbender. No offense.”
My eyebrows raised as I pressed my mouth into a thin line. Oh, I was offended. Mostly because her message was pretty clear. “So Trend isn’t doing a series on female entrepreneurs?”
“It is,” Abigail said, “but I’m not. Frankly, this meeting is a waste of my energy.”
“Frankly,” I said as I stood back up and smiled down at her, “I feel the same way. I’ll show myself out.”
Katherine met me at the doorway. “Is everything okay?”
“The interview is over,” I told her, “and I was leaving.”
She sucked in a breath as she shook her head. “I’ll be handling the interview personally. I just wanted you to meet my editor.”
Too little. Too late. I’d met her brilliant editor, and I was smart enough to know that I’d been dragged into some type of internal power struggle. I dealt with enough of that in my personal life.
“Belle,” Abigail called, “I’m sure you’re a bright woman with vision and promise but Trend isn’t about spotlighting potential. It’s a showcase.”
I should let it go. The best course of action was to nod and walk away. There was very little potential for fall-out in that scenario. But it was pretty clear there was very little possibility that Trend was going to be featuring my company. “A showcase whose subscription sales are down over twenty percent in the last year. Your magazine has also cut print runs to less than half of what they were five years ago even though digital magazines only account for 10% of your sales. Not to mention that you’re actively courting advertisers for the first time in twenty years, because they’re no longer coming to you. Showcase whatever you want. You’re the editor. But take it from someone whose business is in the growth stage, you need to worry a little less about your traditions and a little more about your relevance.”
Her face remained impassive as I dumped this on her. Abigail picked up her glasses and slipped them back on. “Enjoy your time in New York.”
I’d been dismissed. It wasn’t the first time, but it was the time that carried the most heartbreak. I’d invested my dream in today, and it had all been a sham. Bless still felt vulnerable to me, as if one wrong move would kill the whole deal.
And I’d just made the wrong fucking move.
I didn’t bother to return Abigail’s pleasantry; instead I walked out, leaving a dazed Katherine behind me. I’d just passed Nolan’s cubicle, wondering if being a wanker was a prerequisite to work here, when she caught up with me.
“I’m so, so sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I have no idea what that was about.”
I spun around, trying to keep my frustration in check. Katherine had been kind to me from minute one. This wasn’t her fault. But since she was the only one around, she was going to bear my rage. “It was about control. She’s in control of this magazine.”
And you’re not, I added silently. I had no idea what was going on between Katherine and her boss, but I had a pretty good idea that neither of them particularly liked one another. It was obvious that Abigail didn’t care for her or her ideas.
“She was the one who okayed the idea.” A defensive current ran through Katherine’s words. “She specifically chose you.”
“And she unchose me.” I felt a little calmer now. “Katherine, don’t worry about it. I’m not interested in being a pity piece. In a few years, she won’t be able to ignore me or my company, but I’ll be more than happy to ignore her.”
Katherine’s lips twitched, but she kept the smile off her face. “I’d appreciate that.”
“Something told me that you might.” The down button on the lift dinged as its doors slid open. “Good luck.”
“I’d say the same to you, but I don’t think you’re going to need it. Not with your attitude.”
“Thank you,” I said as I stepped inside. “For your words earlier and for the chance to come here.”
“I’m not certain you should be thanking me for that.” She laughed but it sounded hollow.
I held the door open with my arm. “No, you showed me earlier that I belong here. I belong in your magazine.”
“I wish it was my magazine.”
“It was your idea to reinvent its image, and it’s a good one,” I assured her. “But I think right now we’re both in the wrong place. I’m going to take this lift and get back to where I’m supposed to be.”
“If only I knew where I was supposed to go.” Her tone grew wistful.
“You’ll figure it out, and when you do, give me a call. The world needs us promising women to stick together.”
Katherine leaned in and pecked me on the cheek. “You’re right. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to stay here and do my time.”
As the lift carried me to the lobby, I considered what Abigail had said. By the time I reached the ground floor, all my anxiety had vanished. This terrifying, life-changing meeting had been nothing but a blip. So Trend wouldn’t be catapulting my company into super stardom? I could do that on my own.
I dialed Lola, worried that she’d finally fallen asleep, but she answered immediately. “How did it go?”
“Abigail Summers told me that Trend wasn’t interested in potential, so I rattled off those figures you gave me on the magazine’s subscription issues.”
“And then what?” Lola was breathless on the other end.
“She told me to enjoy my trip and went back to work.” I glided through the revolving door and found myself back in front of the Dwyer building. This time it didn’t feel so imposing.
“You scared the most successful woman in fashion.” Lola paused. “You’re on your way.”
“So you aren’t mad?” I asked with relief.
“Not at all. There was no way we could launch in that publication timeframe. We aren’t ready!”
I froze in my tracks. “Then why am I here?”
“I wanted to scare the future most successful woman in fashion,” she teased. “I sent you because now you’ve faced your biggest rejection. How do you feel?”
“Like proving her wrong,” I answered automatically.
“And you’re going to.”
Yes, yes, I was.
The room was utterly still, its furnishings and lighting carefully chosen to blanch color from the room. Walking into the old, and very off Broadway, theatre had the effect of stepping into a vintage postcard. The whole place belonged to a different place and time, even the actors who quietly made their way onto the stage as an antique grandfather clock struck the hour. The two actors unrobed and began to dance in a slow, haunting rhythm. Their movements mirrored one another’s and as they’re hands finally met, they arched backwards writhing as the song’s tempo sped up. But despite how their bodies smashed against one another, they remained separate—two forces of motion colliding but never combining. It was a fight for control.
They had no audience save one beautiful older woman. The lurkers would arrive at dusk for their vicarious thrills.
The Looking Glass was a macabre floorshow, a spectacle of sensual burlesque that managed to unnerve and incite at the same time. I approached the woman watching silently at the bar. She didn’t look up as I came nearer, didn’t demand to know how I’d managed to get into the closed theatre. Her eyes remained glued to
the conflict on stage, her auburn hair cascading down her shoulder and blocking me from studying her once familiar face.
“Mistress Alice,” I greeted her in a low voice. That was what she was known by here—the moniker she’d given herself when she concocted her theatre of dreams—but that wasn’t her real name. Very few people in New York knew that. In fact, I currently might have been the only one.
She didn’t look to me, although her lips curved into a slight smile. “You’re on the wrong continent.”
“But am I in the wrong place?” We’d seen each other through the years on my occasional trips to the States for business or pleasure. This was the second time she was my business.
“I doubt that, Smith.” She stood, her silk robe fluttering gracefully closed over her long legs and gestured toward the rear corridor.
Age had made her lovelier and distance had made her softer. The lines of her elegant face had sharpened even as her smile had grown kinder. She’d only had to put an ocean between her past and herself. It hadn’t been a desperate choice. It had been a calculated one.
“How is Georgia?” she asked as she softly closed the door to her private dressing room.
I swallowed. Of course that would be the first person she asked about. “She’s well.” I didn’t elaborate further at this point. “How are you, Samantha?”
“Business is thriving.” It wasn’t an answer.
I raised an eyebrow.
“I’m lonely,” she admitted. “My children insist on staying in London and my lovers tire quickly.”
It was a more direct answer than I’d expected, but then again, Samantha had never felt the need to engage in the perverse mind games her husband was so fond of.
“And Hammond?” she asked dutifully.
“Complicated.” I chose the word carefully. She was, in point of law, still married to him. Although she’d put an ocean between them nearly ten years ago.
“Everything with my husband is complicated.” Her voice was brittle, coated in regret and self-recrimination. “And you and your sister still work for him?”