Jean Kingston over at Woman, however, was a different story. She was a too-young editor-in-chief of a rather artistic fashion and beauty magazine, who fell into the position after her predecessor Valerie Brown quit on a whim to marry Italian Indy Car driver Rudy Vianelli and travel around the world. While the adventure would be fun for a while, Camellia felt certain the move had been a huge mistake, and she was right. Less than six months into the marriage, Valerie discovered her new husband was having not one but three affairs, learning about his trysts through a YouTube video made by one of the mistresses, who was feeling betrayed after he brought all three women together in Brazil for a weekend-long orgy.
Valerie was out of a job and out of a marriage. It was rumored she had taken up with a billionaire playboy, who had no long-term plans for her, but kept her name in the headlines, which suited Valerie for the time being.
Meanwhile Jean was in a constant state of panic, struggling to stay on top of all her new responsibilities and not look like a cat immersed in water while doing it.
Camellia tapped the number of Woman’s publisher, Clinton Cavanaugh, and put the phone on speaker.
“Mr. Cavanaugh’s office, Ruth speaking. How many I assist you?”
“Ruth dear, it’s Camellia Rhodes. Is Clinton in?”
“Um, I’m not sure if he’s in the office yet. Hold one moment please.”
An instrumental of the B-52’s Love Shack blared from the phone’s speaker. “You know if he’s in, darling,” Camellia said to the music. “His office is located directly behind your chair.”
The music cut off abruptly as Ruth came back on the line. “Um, I’m sorry Miss Rhodes, Mr. Cavanaugh is in a meeting.”
“How about voicemail?”
“No voicemail. I can take a message if you like.”
Camellia paused, wanting to be harsh but knowing Ruth was the gatekeeper to Clinton. “Ask him to call me. Please. On my cell. He has the number.”
By the time Henry returned home from the hospital, Camellia had called twelve publishers and spoke with no one higher than their executive assistants. She shrugged it off and accepted her husband’s dinner invitation to Bacco, their favorite Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side.
Camellia changed for the event into a Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress with a plunging neckline. The dress reignited her excitement for the designer’s dinner party the following week. She still needed to shop and visit her hairdresser prior to the party. Once she made some headway with the publishers in the morning, she would hit the boutiques.
The driver was waiting at the curb as Camellia and Henry emerged from their building, Henry looking sleek in a gray Armani suit, his hair freshly cut. Helping his wife into the car first, Henry slid in next to her, looking for a kiss, but she was too fixated on what was out the window to comply. He followed her gaze to see Tray Mathers entering the building. Their building. Henry placed a hand on Camellia’s, which was trembling, but she pulled away.
“That bastard had to move into my building,” Camellia sneered. “Hundreds of high rises in this city and his pompous ass had to have this one.” She pushed herself into the corner of the car using a silver Manolo stiletto to get a better view of her former boss, whose imposing frame humbled the façade’s ornate double doors.
“Forget him,” Henry said. “He’ll lose interest in this place and move on, just as he’s lost interest in every woman he’s taken through those doors.”
Snickering over Tray’s “conquests” had been a ritual for Camellia and Henry. Upon returning home from Sunday breakfasts, they had often caught model-pretty girls in designer clothes and ruffled hair doing the walk of shame from their building into Tray’s waiting car. While the driver could whisk the women away, their indiscretion stayed thick in the air.
“No he won’t. He’ll stay for no other reason than to torture me. That would be so Tray.”
Henry turned back to Camellia, this time catching one of her still-shaking hands and holding onto it. “Let’s try to enjoy our evening, okay? Tray Mathers has no hold over you. Besides, if you really hate living in the same building as him, we can move.”
Camellia sat forward on the leather seat, staring intently at her husband. “Henry, that man will never make me leave the home I love. Never. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.”
Henry brought Camellia’s hand up to his mouth and kissed it softly. “Bravo, darling.”
A superb dish of cavatelli and two glasses of pinot had Camellia feeling downright merry. Henry entertained her with stories of his Chief of Staff, who in full-fledged mid-life crisis was driving to work daily in his new Aston Martin, his mistress – an administrative assistant – seated beside him, singing hip-hop songs over the booming bass. After dinner, Camellia and Henry took a stroll along 5 Avenue, enjoying the warm, fall evening. Camellia slipped her hand into Henry’s. He stopped and pulled her in close, kissing her deeply. She embraced him, breathing in the fresh scent of his aftershave – Henry never wore cologne, which was fine by her – and opened her eyes, curious if their PDA was garnering attention on the busy New York sidewalk. She caught site of a newsstand a few feet away and froze.
“I love you, Camellia,” Henry whispered, pressing her in closer. His declaration was met with silence. “Are you listening to me,” he teased, “or have you dozed off from the cavatelli?”
“I want to go home. Now.”
Henry pulled away from her, looking puzzled. She was pale. Her expression pained. “What’s wrong?” She nodded softly in the direction behind him. He turned and then cringed at the NY Scenes headline:
Flair Folds; Camellia Rhodes Shocked
(as we’ve been for years)
To the right of the headline was an old picture of Camellia delivering a speech to fashion design students at Parsons. Her mouth open mid-sentence, the photo imparted an image that suggested surprise, perhaps fright.
Henry put an arm around his wife, leading her down the sidewalk back toward the car. “Screw the yellow journalism,” he snarled. “They’re obviously hurting to sell papers.”
“No, Henry, I have to read that story.”
“No. You don’t. It’s a bunch of crap and you know it.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s out there. People will believe it’s true.” She turned on her heel and walked back to the newsstand, fishing in her clutch for a dollar bill.
Henry quickly caught up to her. “At least let me get it for you.” He stepped in front of her, handed the man behind the counter a fifty, and took the whole lot.
Camellia smirked. “Always taking care of me, aren’t you?”
“And I always will. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
FOUR
The next morning, alone in bed, Camellia read the story again.
After six years as editor-in-chief of the oft-controversial fashion rag Flair, Camellia Rhodes’ reign of terror is over.
Quite literally.
While the well-heeled headmistress’ crotchety demeanor certainly played a role, crotches – and lots of them – along with disjointed arms, missing feet and other imagery dark enough to take over one’s dreams for nights on end appeared to be too much for advertisers. On Monday, Flair was shuttered, and Rhodes, along with most of her staff, was shown the door.
We here at NY Scenes will never forget an all-white apparel editorial highlighted by sliced skin dripping blood and bruised cheekbones titled “Red, White & Blue” that timed out (not so) fittingly with Independence Day.
Now that Flair is just a fading night terror, what will Camellia Rhodes do next? Gravedigger? Taxidermist? So many options, really.
She closed the paper and slept until dinner.
“It’s not a newspaper, it’s a gossip rag,” Marissa said brightly between sips of iced tea. “Everyone knows credibility isn’t NY Scenes’ strong suit.”
Camellia peered around the lively cafe situated in the heart of Soho. The small space, covered with oversized Parisian posters and mismatched
mirrors, was filled nearly to capacity with families dressed in jeans or cargos and T-shirts, shoveling back enormous plates of eggs, bacon, pancakes, and potatoes. The noise level was surprising, considering almost every mouth was filled. Even more surprising: not a single person recognized her. Camellia felt a sudden affection for tourists.
While grateful for Marissa’s unexpected invitation for breakfast – the first time Camellia had dined with her former assistant – she was hesitant to go out in public only a day after making the front page of that nasty tabloid. But the truth was, it was the only invitation she had received since Flair folded. And she needed news. Any news.
In fact, Marissa had been the only person to make contact with her. Not one publisher had taken – or returned – her repeated calls. And her friends. Perhaps it was more fitting to call them the society women she mingled with at events, since that was about all they were good for. When times were good, they flocked to her, making a fuss over her outfits and pulling her beside them to pose for the paparazzi. Now, not one of them had bothered to send her a measly pity email. It wasn’t as if they didn’t know. For such a mammoth city, in the fashion world, everyone knew everyone’s business.
Camellia took a sip of her tea and looked at Marissa. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure it won’t be the last publication to have a say over me or my demise.”
“It’s not a demise, it’s a transition.”
Camellia snorted uncharacteristically, and quickly put a hand to her hair as if to smooth away the vulgarity. She set her cup on the table and looked away, speaking in a whisper. “Transition to what?”
Marissa shifted in her seat, and pulled a dark cardigan over her bony shoulders. “Another magazine will come calling. You have to give the dust a chance to settle.”
Feeling her blood pressure rise, Camellia held tight to the table, putting great effort in appearing calm, although her next words came out with a hiss. “I should have been scooped up the next day. An editor of my caliber without a magazine? Please. I should have...” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, determined not to let anyone but Henry see her out of sorts. Especially an assistant.
Regaining her composure, Camellia shook out her glossy hair and refocused on Marissa. “Subject change.” She leaned in close, her face a genuine expression of concern. “How are you holding up? Have you begun your job search? Of course I’ll write you a recommendation letter – not that it will mean much – but you were very good at your job.”
Marissa lowered her chin, looking as if she were trying to duck under her thick, dark bangs. “What?” Camellia said.
“Tray offered me a position at Food,” she mumbled, not making eye contact.
Camellia straightened, her mind reeling. “Oh, Jeanine lost her assistant? Well, that’s great for you. Really great. You’ll like Jeanine. Mind you, she does talk about the latest kitchen gadgets, all day long, but she’s the good sort, and if you don’t mind weeding through the piles on her desk to find the memo she’ll swear she never received… What?”
Marissa was positively squirming.
“Spit it out.”
“I’m not Jeanine’s assistant. I’m her assistant editor.”
Camellia froze. “Tray gave you a promotion,” she finally said. It wasn’t so much a question as it was something to ponder out loud.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I guess he read my resume.”
“Your resume says you’re qualified to be an assistant editor at a cooking magazine?”
“Yes.”
“Well then.” Camellia reached for her wallet and pulled out a twenty. They hadn’t ordered food yet, but there was no chance she could eat a bite now. She set the bill on the table and gracefully scooted out from the booth bench. “I mean you no malice,” she said softly, picking up her handbag and placing it in the crook of her arm. She looked down at Marissa, who had managed to wedge herself into the corner, cowering as if her former boss might use her Prada Bowler bag to take a swing at her. “I just wasn’t prepared to hear...well, I just wasn’t prepared. Good luck in your new position. I’m sure you’ll be a great asset.” With that she turned on her heel and left Marissa and the tourists, plunging back out onto the unforgiving city streets.
It wasn’t that she was angry with Marissa; for Heaven’s sake, she understood the girl needed to support herself. And it wasn’t as if she had a drop of ability in the kitchen. In fact, fighting against domesticity had been a lifelong battle for Camellia, dating back to the hot summer afternoons of her teenage years, her schoolteacher mother spending her precious two months off attempting to educate her only daughter in the joys of household duties. Camellia could care less about recipes for garlic chicken and mushroom stuffing, or successfully removing mildew from the bathtub. Her salad days had been spent under the sweeping oak tree at the far end of their yard, paging through armfuls of old fashion magazines she had picked up for pennies at yard sales, and sipping tart lemonade.
No, working on a magazine that celebrated cooking – and grocery shopping – would be a step backward for Camellia. Never mind that the position was far beneath her level of experience and capabilities. And, of course, Tray was the publisher, and even if he was feeling horrible about how he had mistreated her, Tray was the type to let a relationship rot rather than admit he had made a mistake. So, of course he wouldn’t have offered that position – or any other, for that matter – to Camellia. And yet she couldn’t stop stewing over Marissa’s quick appointment. Was it that Marissa was back on her feet and worry-free while Camellia’s future hung lifeless like an unanswered question?
As her driver made the turn onto her street, Camellia knew there was trouble. A group of men were milling about on either side of her building, every one with a camera in hand. “Shit,” she said, as the driver came to a stop in front of her building.
“You got a back entrance?” the driver asked.
“I suppose. I’m not sure,” she admitted, never before needing a reason to sneak around her own building. The paparazzi in New York were nothing like the stalker-like photogs in Los Angeles. Here, the famous lived out in the open every day. While fans did approach them, there was a more laid-back vibe to the interaction. And the paparazzi only came about for events. Or scandals. Perhaps it was because the celebrities who chose New York weren’t looking for constant recognition the way so many LA socialites did, careful to shop at the stores and dine at the restaurants where the photographers were sure to be stationed.
She gazed out at them, trying to determine if the best course of action would be to walk proudly past them, ignoring their calls, when a paparazzo no older than twenty with shaggy blonde hair spotted her and broke into a run in her direction. “Go! Go!” she barked at the driver. He punched the gas, throwing her against the seatback, the screeching tires alerting the rest of the photographers to their presence. Once Camellia was sitting upright again, she straightened her outfit and checked her hair before instructing the driver to circle the area for a while. She fished her phone from her bag and speed-dialed the concierge on duty, who directed her to the service entrance at the back. The driver pulled up the car as close as he could get to the unmarked door the employees used to come and go. The concierge was waiting, door open wide. Camellia slipped into the building undetected, slipping the concierge a fifty.
Yara, whose youthful features were looking severely stressed, met Camellia at the apartment door. “Mrs. Rhodes, the phone is been ringing and ringing,” Yara announced, nervously twisting a corner of her apron, as Camellia tried to sidestep past the maid and close the door. “I answer one time and say you not home, but the woman keep asking about you bidness. I say ‘Is not my bidness,’ but she no care. She really mean, Mrs. Rhodes.”
“Sounds like she was a raging bitch,” Camellia said matter-of-fact, setting her bag down on the round table in the center of the foyer. “Don’t answer the phone for the next week or so. In fact, please turn off all the ringers on the phones u
ntil further notice.”
Camellia went into the office and checked her personal email account. Fifty-seven new messages had arrived since she had last checked from her phone on the way to the cafe. While a number of them were electronic newsletters from departments stores and websites, pushing products, trends, and upcoming sales, a larger than expected group were from media outlets around the country. Camellia laughed as she clicked through the messages, each bearing the same request for an interview. “They won’t talk to me about a job, but they’re sure willing to reach out to me for the details of my grand demise,” she said out loud. “To hell with you all,” she added, deleting the entire inbox.
FIVE
It wasn’t until two days before Diane von Furstenberg’s dinner party that Camellia emerged from her apartment again, although still using the service entrance. It had been a full week since Flair had closed – more than enough time, in her opinion, to get the expected anger and resentment out of her system and get on with her life. But the get-together with Marissa had thrown her. She had expected blubbering from her former assistant, a wide-eyed fear of the unemployment unknown. Instead, Marissa was composed and lighthearted. She nearly had the upper hand of the conversation until Camellia had yanked it back with her quick departure. Or so she had hoped. She was the one facing the unknown, not Marissa. And her only chance for redemption was to make a grand showing for Diane and all her sparkly guests.
The Makeover Page 3