“Just like that? Isn’t there some sort of warning period where we get a chance to turn things around before the powers-that-be simply decide to shut us down?” Camellia wanted to get up, to throw something at Tray, to storm out, but she couldn’t seem to move.
“Sorry Cammie, it doesn’t work like that.” Camellia scowled, loathing the girlish-sounding nickname only Tray dared to use. He stood, buttoning his single-breasted pinstriped suit jacket. It appeared the meeting was over, yet Camellia had a thousand questions.
“What about me?” she demanded.
Tray pulled out his Blackberry and began typing, not looking up. “What about you?”
“Will you be placing me with another magazine?”
“No place for you,” he replied, still typing.
They both looked startled when Camellia’s small hand hit the desk with a loud bang. “How can there be no place for me? How is that possible? Doesn’t anyone understand what I’ve accomplished at Flair over the last six years?”
Exhaling noisily, Tray tucked his Blackberry into his inside jacket pocket and glared at Camellia. “In six years, Flair lost a third of its advertisers. A third, Camellia. I think it’s safe to say we’re completely aware of what you’ve accomplished.”
No one was left in the Flair offices – save for a janitorial crew, who were vacuuming and emptying trash cans as if there would be people to crumb on the floors and dispose of Styrofoam containers come morning – when Camellia finally emerged from her office. Everything looked different. The concrete floors, which had always appeared a mix of cool eggplant tones, now looked undeniably gray and flat. The once-thought chic glass desks, used by the bank of editorial assistants, were now a glaringly bad idea of greasy fingerprints. Even the towering receptionist area, stationed across from the elevators, looked more like a tacky throne room rather than the imposing entrance it was meant to be.
Camellia shook her head at the incongruous sight. And then she smiled. She had been right; her next chapter was just around the corner. In fact, it was right in front of her, waiting for her to swoop down upon it and claim it her own.
Sharply inhaling, Camellia stepped back into her office, took a long, final look, then headed out into the crisp fall night.
TWO
The silk drapes were already drawn in the apartment’s main rooms by the time Camellia finally arrived home. The day’s mail was laid out on the mahogany sofa table, but Camellia ignored it, instead peeking into the kitchen to make sure the cook had left for the day. She had no energy for pleasantries or common courtesy, and though she had never “gone off” on the staff – as she had often witnessed her famous photographer friend Sylvia Steiner do – this surely would have been the day, had any of them been present.
Once she was certain they had all gone home, Camellia screamed – loud, long lamenting. It wasn’t a planned reaction. She hadn’t felt it coming. It just happened. And when she finally stopped, what felt like days later, she noticed her husband standing in front of her, pale as snow.
Camellia woke with a start, rising quickly into the morning’s diffused light before her stomach jerked and every muscle tensed, and she lay back down again, remembering the previous evening. The house was already buzzing with activity. Alain, the cook, was clanging about in the kitchen, making far too much noise considering the time of day. Camellia twisted her head, just enough to get a view of the clock. Six-thirty. Instinct urged her to get up and do something productive, but she couldn’t think of a single thing that required her efforts. Every moment of her life for the last six years had been dedicated to Flair. She didn’t know anything else.
The door handle turned and Camellia braced herself, not wanting Alain to see (and then gossip about) her current state. Usually, by this time of the morning, Camellia was already worked out and showered, wrapped in a silk robe and prepping her skin for makeup when Alain would deliver her customary breakfast of egg whites, fresh fruit, and green tea. She breathed a resounding sigh of relief as Henry’s crop of white-blond hair appeared in the doorway. He was armed with The New York Times and her breakfast tray. “Morning Sweetie,” he said a little too brightly.
“Hi,” she managed, her throat surprisingly sore. She propped herself up on the generous down pillows covered in crisp white Egyptian cotton linens. The strap of her silk nightgown slid down one shoulder, and Camellia swiftly caught it and put it back in its place. She nodded slightly, and Henry, as if on cue, placed the tray on her lap and then took a seat on the edge of the bed.
“Wasn’t sure if you much cared about reading The Times this morning,” Henry said.
“I’m sure it’s safe,” Camellia replied, lifting the bone china teacup with an unsteady hand. “They’ll have to notify the staff before a release is sent to the press.” Suddenly the teacup felt like it weighed fifty pounds, and she lowered it to the tray with a splash.
Henry placed a hand on his wife’s toned calf. “They’re going to be okay.”
Camellia yanked her leg back under the covers, moved the tray onto the bed and grabbed the front section of the paper, snapping it open to block her view of Henry. “Of course they’re going to be okay,” she asserted. “They learned everything they know from me.”
Ignoring his wife’s cold demeanor, Henry stood and kissed her on the forehead. “I have to get to the hospital. Dinner in tonight?”
“Of course.” Camellia didn’t look up from the paper.
It wasn’t until she heard the soft click of the bedroom door that she lowered the paper, thankful to be alone. Her loss of control the night before had upset her even more than it had Henry. And the embarrassment that followed rattled her from deep inside. The only scenes she had ever caused had occurred on the red carpet, with Camellia flaunting an off-the-runway ensemble, and a flock of photographers shouting her name in hopes of a little eye contact for their pictures. Hysterics were foreign to her. Until last night.
Folding the newspaper and placing it precisely next to the damp tray, she lay back into the pillows and drew up the downy comforter to her chin. Her eyes darted restlessly around the plush room that was painted in pale hues, searching for something to do.
Thanks to an exemplary cleaning woman named Yara, who had only been with Camellia and Henry for six months, there wasn’t a crumb to be picked up from the floor or a sock in need of repair. Camellia had snatched up the young Puerto Rican girl as she stood sobbing in the lobby of Camellia’s apartment building, watching in anguish as paramedics wheeled out her boss – a high-stressed environmental lawyer, who had resided on the eighteenth floor – on a gurney, dead from a massive heart attack.
Camellia’s home had been spotless ever since.
She reached for the remote on the bedside table, careful to keep the covers in place. With a click, the flat screen mounted on the wall opposite the bed illuminated the room. Camellia squinted against the brightness, adding to the headache that was mounting a hefty battle. She spent the next two hours randomly flipping through channels, an exercise she hadn’t attempted since childhood. The tea went cold and the food was left untouched.
At nine o’clock, Camellia was lying on her side, staring at the clock radio on her bedside table. She imagined that, at this moment, her staff was being commanded into the main conference room, the only space large enough to accompany everyone comfortably. She wondered how long Tray would make them sweat before beginning the meeting. His presence alone would be enough to launch a missile of fear through even the most seasoned employees, as Tray never addressed them, even in greeting at the annual holiday party.
She could hear Tray’s words in her head. “Thanks to your incompetent editor-in-chief, you no longer have a magazine. Or jobs.” Cringing, she flopped onto her other side, but unable to find comfort, she pulled off the covers and finally emerged from her bed, her legs a bit shaky as they supported her. Grabbing her iPhone from the imposing mirrored bureau set in the corner by the window, Camellia headed to her bathroom, determined to at least wash he
r face and brush her teeth before the day got any older.
The cold water on her face was welcoming, and made her feel alert enough to begin her morning beauty routine, an intricate number of steps and high-end products, proven to keep her skin firm, soft, and nearly wrinkle-free. She sat at her vanity, her legs crossed elegantly off the side of the cushioned bench, as she pulled the products from a wide drawer and lined them across the counter. The thought of a good soak in the tub popped into her head, and she gave way to the idea, having an entire day to pass with nothing to do. As she stood to draw her bath, the phone rang, and in a rush of anxiety to answer, she knocked over the anti-aging serum she ordered twice a year from Paris, the precious contents spilling onto the white marble countertop.
“Damn.” She righted the bottle with a shaky hand while reaching for the phone with the other, knowing before she looked that it would be Marissa. She pressed the answer button and placed the call on speaker, suddenly not certain she had the strength to hold the phone to her ear.
“Well?” It was the only greeting that made sense. Pleasantries would be demeaning. Feigning ignorance would be a full-forced slap in the face.
“Oh, Camellia.” And Marissa’s sobbing ensued.
With careful focus on discerning Marissa’s words through the anguished lamenting, Camellia was able to piece together how the morning had unfolded at Flair. Tray had ordered Tavi (the leggy receptionist with the well-edited shoes was how Camellia had differentiated her) to arrive at the office a half hour early to flag all the employees to the main conference room. And he did make them wait, for thirty-four minutes, according to Marissa. No coffee or pastries had been laid out. Not even a pitcher of water and paper cups. The rumors swirling around the room were thicker than the sweat that was also accumulating, with the number-one suspicion growing in solidarity that the magazine was being sold.
Tray’s entrance silenced the staff.
He took his time making his way to the front of the room, positioning himself behind an acrylic podium that had once seemed so well matched for Camellia, who had used the delicate yet contemporary lectern to deliver her favorite fan mail selections, her petite frame erect yet energized as she had read the vernacular letters of art students and emerging photographers. Now, Tray not only overwhelmed the clear podium with his opposing stature, he also looked as if he placed himself in the one spot where he could not hide from the staff. An obvious adjustment of his male anatomy temporarily displaced the man known for the swooping terror he customarily delivered with satisfaction to the executives of Ruther Jacobs Publishing.
He flipped on the microphone, though the quiet was so extreme, a whisper could have been comprehended at the back of the room. “I’ll make this quick,” he said, without emotion, his eyes landing just over the heads of the tallest employees. “Camellia Rhodes has been relieved of her duties. As of today, Flair is shuttered. Sales reps will stay on temporarily to reconcile their accounts. A few of you will receive offers for other positions within the company. As for the rest of you, Ruther Jacobs Publishing does not provide recommendation letters. Please clean out your desks immediately. Security is waiting to check your belongings and escort you out of the building.”
It was over.
“Honey, are you in here?”
Camellia woke with a start and immediately grabbed the left side of her neck, which was throbbing. The bathroom lights flicked on. She shut her eyes in protest.
“What are you doing in here?” Henry’s hands were on his wife’s shoulders, gently pulling her from a most uncomfortable position where she had fallen asleep with the left side of her face pressed against the hard countertop.
“My neck,” Camellia cried out, her hand clutching at the pain. At last upright on her vanity bench, and her eyes now adjusted to the light, Camellia regarded herself in the mirror and gasped.
“You’ve been crying,” Henry said, running a plush washcloth under cold water then wringing it out and placing it on
Camellia’s forehead.
She put her hand over his and let it linger there for a moment before taking charge of the washcloth, moving its position south to her burning eyes. “Marissa called.”
“Oh.” Henry picked up the house phone mounted on the wall beside the vanity “Yara, please bring up two glasses of chardonnay, thank you.”
“I don’t want a drink.”
“Humor me, okay?”
Within minutes there was a knock at the bedroom door. Henry excused himself and quickly reemerged with two stemless wine glasses filled nearly to the rim. Without removing the washcloth from her eyes, Camellia took a long drink of the crisp, dry wine, her eyes closed in appreciation. “That is good,” she admitted. “I suppose I should listen to you more often.”
Henry chuckled. “Let’s not start talking crazy.”
Camellia smiled for the first time that day. She let the washcloth drop into her lap. “Henry,” she said, her voice cracking. “What would I do without you?”
Henry clinked her glass with his. “I hope you never figure that out.”
THREE
The day’s multi-hour nap proved to be a key player in upsetting Camellia’s circadian clock. After listening to the rhythm of Henry’s soft snoring for more than an hour, she finally slipped out of bed, tied her silk robe at the waist, and for the first time in a day, left the safety of her chambers for other – uninhabited – rooms of the apartment.
The imposing modern living room with stark-white furniture and impossibly high ceilings was dark save for a slice of moonlight cutting across the espresso stained hardwood floor from a gap in the heavy drapery. Camellia pushed the velvet window dressing aside, taking in the widespread view of Central Park – the singular factor for her selection of this pre-war apartment building after only three months of paychecks from Flair.
The sleepy town of Harleysville where she grew up had had such a park – on a much smaller scale – where her parents took her most Sundays. “Outdoorsy people,” as Camellia often referred to her parents, Tom and Gina Gryzbowski had practically raised their only daughter in the open air. Family outings were traveled on bike, meals were often eaten on a red-checked blanket in their yard, and the park was their main attraction. From baseball games to leisurely walks on the trails, taking in birds and small critters, that park was Camellia’s point of reference for her childhood. Which was why she found it so funny that she would want to be reminded of it daily in her New York high rise. Leaving that neighborhood had been her goal since the age of thirteen, when she first saw a copy of Vogue at the salon in town.
She let the drape fall and exited the room, passing through the dining room with its mammoth round table and Murano crystal chandelier on her way to the kitchen. She was famished.
The kitchen, for as little time as she spent in there, was her favorite room in the house. She loved the stainless-steel appliances, the gourmet range with seven burners and the concrete counters. Six low-back leather barstools – which Camellia had never used – lined the large island. Her meals were customarily served to her in either the dining room or at the cozy table in the conservatory located off the library.
Thankfully the fridge was stocked. Camellia retrieved storage containers filled with turkey breast and new potatoes, a tomato-basil salad, and something with couscous. She ripped off the lids and dove in, not bothering to take pleasure in the aromas and textures and flavors of the dishes as she usually would. Instead she ate without thinking, practically without breathing, until she emptied every container.
Henry found his wife the next morning, her body folded over the rounded arm of the floral settee in the conservatory. “Camellia, what are you doing out here?” he asked, running a hand along her smooth neck. “Was I snoring?”
Camellia opened an eye and then closed it again. She groaned, already feeling pain in her back from her awkward sleeping position. “Oh hell, I need aspirin,” she said, her hand pressed into the small of her back. She slowly righted herself, wondering wh
y it felt like she had aged twenty years in twenty-four hours.
Henry sat beside her and Camellia nestled her head into his chest. “You’re going to be fine,” he said soberly.
“Yes I will,” she said authoritatively. “I needed a day to assimilate is all. This is a big city and there are dozens of magazines that would kill for my direction. I’ll shower and dress then make a couple of calls.”
“That’s my girl,” Henry said, hugging his wife close.
“Enough about me,” Camellia said, looking up at her handsome husband, “what do you have going on today?”
“Hospital all day. Can you believe I’ll be finished with my fellowship in three months?”
“And then I can brag to the girls back home that I’m married to a doctor,” she said with a smirk.
“Girls back home? Have you decided to renew childhood friendships?” Henry teased.
“Are you kidding? Our mailbox would be filled with invites for chili cook offs and road rallies.”
Henry laughed. “You really are terrible. But I love you madly.”
“No, I’m honest. And,” she paused, squeezing her husband’s hand, “I’m so proud of you, Henry.”
He smiled and kissed Camellia’s forehead. “It’s still early. Alain won’t be here for another twenty minutes. Would you like me to make some eggs?”
Camellia’s hand went to her stomach. “Good God, no.”
Henry’s mouth dropped open, a sly smile forming. “Camellia, you’re not…”
“Absolutely not,” she snapped. “I’m without a job, not my faculties.”
Feeling much like her old self in a red Donna Karan pantsuit and Chanel slingbacks, Camellia sat at the desk in the wood-paneled office she shared with Henry, her iPhone in hand. She was scrolling through the phone’s address book, determining the order of magazine publishers she wished to call. As editor-in-chief was the only title she would accept, she knew better than to contact the magazines with beloved figureheads already in that role. Obviously, no one was going to fire Anna Wintour to give her a job, though Camellia thought that was just the kind of move that would invigorate the no-surprises glossy.
The Makeover Page 2