by Gemma Crisp
Entering her new office, Nina was desperate to have a moment to herself to appreciate the first few minutes of sitting in her very own editor’s chair, to collect her thoughts and plan her first move. No such luck with Elizabeth around. Plonking herself down at the meeting table, her frenemy muttered an ungracious thanks to Felicity as her water and tea were promptly delivered, before embarking on a diatribe.
‘I don’t know what Michael has told you, but we need to turn this magazine around fast. The board was iffy about ABM buying the title in the first place, so we need to pull out all stops to get Candy back on track. I’ve booked in meetings with the national advertising manager, the marketing director, the circulation team and the finance analyst, so you can get the full picture – but believe me, it’s not pretty. I was in charge of the most recent issue, seeing you hadn’t started yet, but now that you are here, I still need to be across absolutely everything, do you understand? Michael trusts me to deliver, so nothing happens without my knowing about it. That means you send me every story idea, every photo selection, every headline and every layout. And you do not move forward until I’m happy with it. The cover is the most important part of the jigsaw – I don’t know how it works where you’ve come from, but organisation is absolutely key. I want to see three different options for each cover, and you should have them well in advance. None of this “we go to print this week and I don’t have a cover” malarkey.’
Nina stared at her, astounded. ‘That explains why the current issue is as crap as Lindsay Lohan’s career revival,’ she realised. ‘Because Lizzie had her grubby paws all over it.’ God help her. It just showed how horrendously out of touch Elizabeth was. And as for her demands for the cover, did she not remember what it was like to work on a magazine where you were at the mercy of the whims of the celebrity publicists who, loving their power trips something sick, could take weeks to decide whether to grant permission to put their talent on the cover or not? Not to mention that approval was usually only considered when celebrities had something to promote – a new movie, an album, or a tour. Even a DVD release wasn’t regarded as a good enough reason to justify approval anymore, as publicists became pickier and worried about their clients becoming ‘overexposed’. Just to make things even more complicated, there’d usually be at least a couple of months in the year when no matter how many times you trawled the release schedules, there wasn’t a single celeb relevant to your particular audience doing anything that you could use as a hook to get cover approval. During those dark days, you’d be scraping to find one decent cover, let alone the three different options Elizabeth was insisting on every . . . single . . . month.
‘Now, before we go any further, I’ve already decided who I think should be on the next cover,’ Elizabeth continued, oblivious to Nina’s distress – and to the fact that Nina might want to have a say in who appeared on the cover of her first issue as editor. ‘Get your picture researcher to look for the most recent studio shots of her, so I can choose my favourites. And you probably should email her publicist yourself to request interview time – from what I’ve heard, it’s always better if the editor does it themselves, rather than leaving it to one of their minions.’
‘Right,’ Nina croaked, still in shock. ‘So who is it?’
‘Nicolette Rivera. I’ve been told she’s an “it” girl who everyone seems to love,’ Elizabeth declared, obviously having no idea who she was.
Nina closed her eyes as her stomach sank. Of course her new boss – her ex-nemesis whom she was determined to impress – had to choose the one celebrity she would never, ever be able to get publicist approval for. ‘Stop the ride,’ she begged the universe silently. ‘I want to get off now.’
twenty-two
As the sound of the ringing phone interrupted Nina’s copyediting marathon, she glanced at the time. Christ, it was nine thirty already – how had that happened? Last time she’d checked, it was just nudging five pm. She hadn’t noticed when the bright Sydney daylight had morphed into inky darkness, the sky filling up with the bats who embarked on their nightly ritual of chasing each other across the sky to feast on the fig trees in Centennial Park. She’d been vaguely aware of her staff saying goodbye as, one by one, they’d left the office until she was the only one remaining – as usual.
‘Hi,’ she said abruptly, having recognised Jeremy’s mobile number. ‘Hey, pork chop – I was just checking if you were still there or on your way home?’
‘I’m still here. I told you I’d text when I was leaving. I haven’t texted, so that means I haven’t left,’ she replied tetchily. She knew he was just checking in, but Nina couldn’t help getting annoyed. She was busy enough as it was without him interrupting just to see if she’d left yet.
‘Okay, I just thought you might have forgotten. Well, let me know if you want me to come and pick you up when you’re ready to leave.’
‘I can get a taxi,’ she replied, her mind already wandering back to the feature article she was in the middle of rewriting.
Jeremy sighed. ‘I know you can, but I just thought it would be nicer if I came to get you. It’s pretty much the only time I get to see you, seeing you’re always at work. How much longer do you think you’ll be? It’s nine thirty already,’ he said, a drop of reproach seeping through his words.
‘I know what time it is,’ Nina said, trying not to let her irritation get the better of her, without much success. ‘Do you think I’m still here just for the fun of it? Uh, no. I’m here because I’ve had a hectic day and I still have stuff I need to do before I leave. And talking to you is just going to make me later, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to hang up now so I can get on with it.’
Not bothering to wait for Jeremy’s reply, she slammed the phone down and dragged her burning eyes back to the computer screen. She felt like the world’s biggest bitch, but she knew he didn’t understand, no matter how many times she’d tried to explain how much work she had on her plate and the pressure she was under. They barely saw each other during the week, and at weekends she was either catching up on sleep or zonked out in front of the TV, completely brain-dead after another soul-destroying week of being beaten down by Evil Elizabeth. Even then, she was surgically attached to her BlackBerry, obsessed with checking every email that arrived, not wanting to give Elizabeth any excuse to accuse her of slacking off.
Nina wriggled out of her silver sequinned blazer – as usual, the building’s aircon had been shut off at eight thirty and it was beginning to get stuffy. After editing the raw copy filed by her feature writers, she still had a pile of layouts that needed checking before they were sent to Elizabeth for her tick of approval. Not that the tick was ever granted on the first go – after Nina had given her feedback to the graphic designers, tweaking a headline here and a breakout box there, Elizabeth would then sit on the layout for hours, leaving the Candy team in limbo, before finally emailing back a list of changes she wanted, which usually completely contradicted whatever Nina had just approved.
At first, Nina had tried to be diplomatic about it, suggesting a happy medium that incorporated both their requests, but when Elizabeth overrode her without even trying to reach a compromise, she had tried another tack, kicking up and arguing vehemently for what she thought looked best – but that too had got her nowhere. Elizabeth had made it quite clear that she didn’t value Nina’s opinion at all, so now she just bit her lip and kept quiet, acquiescing to whatever random changes Elizabeth wanted, even when the art director looked at Nina in despair. She knew she should keep fighting for what she wanted, but Elizabeth would never let her win, so what was the point? And it didn’t just happen with the design layouts, it was everything to do with the magazine – the choice of stories that made it into the issues, the pictures that accompanied them, the headlines, the subheads, the captions, the running order . . . Elizabeth was a micromanaging nightmare and, in her eyes, Nina couldn’t do anything right.
Realising she was parched, Nina headed to the kitchen. She’d been so busy that
day, she’d made a conscious decision to stop drinking water after lunch so she didn’t waste any time going to the bathroom. ‘And everyone thinks being a magazine editor is the height of glamour,’ she thought wryly as she opened the fridge to grab one of the bottles of coconut water that had been sent into the office by a savvy PR company who regularly had crates of it delivered to Candy and other magazines, knowing that eventually one of them would tweet about it and their client would score some social media love.
Sucking down the mineral-enriched goodness, she was about to kick the fridge door shut, when she spied a strangely shaped bottle hiding behind the rows of coconut water. Reaching to the back, she pulled out a large glass vessel, shaped liked a human skull. ‘Crystal Head Vodka,’ she read on the back, intrigued by the slightly grotesque bottle. ‘Looks expensive – I wonder what it tastes like?’ she thought. It had already been opened, so she pulled the stopper out and sniffed. There was a tumbler sitting on the kitchen bench; she splashed some in, then hesitated, remembering her promise to Tess that she’d cut down on her drinking after the previous weekend’s incident.
The Saturday night before, she had dragged herself off the couch to meet up with some of the old Nineteen crew for dinner and drinks, starting at China Doll on Woolloomooloo Wharf. Not that Nina had eaten much; her appetite was another casualty of her job, along with the ability to go to the bathroom whenever she wanted to. While her former colleagues had fawned over her, desperate to find out all about her ‘amazing’ job, how it felt to be sitting in the editor’s chair and all the perks that went with it, Nina had polished off drink after drink. She couldn’t bear the slightly jealous looks, the way they seemed to treat her differently now that she was an editor, how they sucked up to her in the hope she’d remember them next time a job vacancy came up. ‘If only they knew what it was really like,’ she’d thought, ordering another bottle of pinot grigio. But she didn’t want to burst their bubble – it was easier to play along, pretending that she absolutely loved being the editor of Candy, that it was everything she’d ever dreamt of and so much more.
After dinner, it had been her idea to go to Hugo’s Lounge in Kings Cross – even though the club was past its prime, Nina had a VIP card which gave her access to unlimited two-dollar drinks. She’d stayed there until it had closed, buying drinks for anyone and everyone. Most of the Nineteen crew had bailed around one am, but Nina had partied on, making new friends every time she went to the bar. When they’d shut up shop, the security guard had had to carry her down the stairs. He’d tried to put her in a taxi, but she’d insisted she didn’t need one, that home was just down the road and a taxi driver wouldn’t take her that short distance anyway. He’d shrugged and headed back to the club, leaving her tottering down the street. She had been doing pretty well until she’d drunkenly decided to take a shortcut through the back streets of the Cross. Stumbling down laneways, passing junkies sitting in the gutter with needles in their arms and prostitutes coming back from dealing with their latest clients, she’d stacked it a couple of times, ruining her gold Prada stilettos, but refusing all offers of help. After getting thoroughly confused about the direction she should be heading in, she’d finally given up and called Tess, who thankfully was already up, getting ready for her early shift. After slurring her way through what she’d thought was a perfectly coherent explanation, Tess had made her walk to the nearest cross street, tell her the name then promise not move until she got there. Nina didn’t remember much else, but apparently Tess had found her passed out on a bus stop bench, using her Miu Miu tote as a pillow and clutching one of her scuffed Pradas to her chest like a teddy bear.
‘Not my finest moment,’ Nina admitted to herself in the office kitchen, then shrugged. Surely she was allowed to blow off steam now and then? Most people got obliterated on the weekend; it wasn’t like she’d committed a crime. ‘Stuff it,’ she thought, and knocked back the vodka. The cold, clean liquid slithered down her throat, leaving a faint liquorice aftertaste. ‘Not bad – who needs coconut water when you can drink swanky vodka from a glass skull?’ she asked herself as she slurped down some more. Carrying a glass of the straight liquor in one hand and the bottle in the other as she made her way back to her office, Nina told herself she deserved it. It had probably been sent in by one of the many booze companies who were very generous with their products, so it wasn’t like she was stealing from someone’s personal stash. Technically it belonged to the magazine, and she was the boss lady of the magazine, so really she had as much, if not more, right to it than anyone else. Besides, she was the one who was working back past nine thirty for the fourth night in a row, so why shouldn’t she have a little drink to make her Thursday night a bit more bearable?
Feeling slightly fuzzy around the edges after polishing off another measure of what was quickly becoming her new favourite vodka, Nina printed off the edited versions of the stories she’d been slaving over and dropped them into the tray for the sub-editors to work on the next day. Turning her attention to the stack of layouts, she belatedly noticed the small yellow envelope in the bottom corner of her computer screen, signalling she had new email. ‘Probably just the scans of the weekly English trash mags from our UK office,’ she thought, flicking over to her inbox, which she’d been ignoring for the past two hours while she concentrated on editing copy.
There were thirty new emails – not from the UK office, but from Evil Elizabeth. Nina’s hand groped for the glass skull, splashing more liquid into the glass then raising it to her mouth. The vodka was now getting warm, but Nina was past caring. She needed some liquid strength to help her get through the barrage of emails from Her Royal Evilness. It was bad enough that she had to deal with her incessant messages and phone calls during the day, constantly checking up on her and meddling with everything she could get her hands on, but the damn woman wouldn’t leave her alone, even at ten pm when Nina was still trying to catch up on everything she hadn’t done yet because of all the interruptions.
Scrolling through the list of emails, Nina’s fury started simmering. They were all things that could wait until the morning, yet Elizabeth couldn’t help but clog up in her inbox unnecessarily, demanding to know what was happening with various bits and pieces that Nina was already on top of.
Yes, she’d sorted out the recruitment forms for Felicity’s replacement – the editorial assistant had resigned after Elizabeth had yelled at her because the tea that she had made when Elizabeth had been in the Candy office for yet another meeting hadn’t been hot enough. When Nina had stuck up for her staff member and tried to diffuse the situation by jokingly pointing out that, technically, Felicity was her assistant, not Elizabeth’s, so she shouldn’t have to make her tea in the first place, Elizabeth had gone ballistic, accusing her of being disrespectful and threatening to give her a verbal warning. Fun times.
Yes, she’d spoken to the fashion team about keeping the prices of the clothes they shot under five hundred dollars. Despite her time on Marie Claude back in the day, Elizabeth didn’t seem to have a fashion bone in her body, and couldn’t seem to grasp that some people were happy to drop more than their fortnightly pay on a new piece to add to their Sass & Bide collection.
Yes, she’d approached the agent of a celebrity couple, pitching the idea of an ‘at home’ shoot with them and their two beloved pugs. Yes, she’d made it clear that, unlike some magazines, Candy didn’t pay for celebrity access and yes, they were fine with that.
‘Yes, yes, YES – I’VE ALREADY DONE IT ALL, YOU SHREW! I KNOW WHAT I’M DOING, YOU DON’T NEED TO KEEP CHECKING UP ON ME LIKE I’M A CHILD!’ she felt like screaming. Instead, Nina decided it was time to blow the joint before she got so angry she put her fist through her computer screen. Taking one last swig of vodka, this time straight from the bottle, she grabbed her stuff and headed for the lift, before the guilt about leaving the unchecked layouts and unanswered emails could get the better of her.
She could see the living room lights were on as she climbed unsteadily ou
t of the taxi when it pulled up in front of her building. That meant Tess was still up, so she fumbled in her bag for some mints before heading up the stairs. ‘Don’t want her to think I have a drinking problem or anything; she needs to worry about herself, not me,’ Nina thought, squinting as she tried to get her key in the lock. After five tries, she finally managed to swing the door open, almost knocking Tess over in the process.
‘Sho shorry, Tesh!’ Nina squawked as she fell through the door and onto the couch. ‘Oops, am I slurring?’ she wondered. ‘Surely I didn’t drink that much vodka?’
‘Go out after work, did you?’ Tess asked, as she helped Nina to the couch.
‘No, I’ve binatchaoffish all night,’ she mumbled.
‘Bloody hell, Nina, have you been drinking again?’ Tess asked, her worry and frustration obvious. ‘You can’t keep working like this. You’ve done at least sixty hours in the past four days, and it’s been exactly the same for the past few months. You’re stressed out of your brain, you look like a wreck – when is it going to stop? You really need to look after yourself.’