by Lynn Messina
I check out the other people in my square, sizing them up. None of them look truly confident—the woman across from me is jiggling her partner’s hand with a compulsion that seems beyond her control—and I take comfort in their obvious discomfort. By the time the band strikes up the first song and the caller tells us to promenade to the right, I’m almost relaxed.
The act of square dancing requires a certain amount of physical grace and a working knowledge of right from left. Although I have the former in short supply, I can sometimes rise to the occasion; I’m useless with the latter. In the right circumstance—laboratory, no ticking clock—there’s always a chance that I’ll get it correct but with a barker shouting out orders to the beat of a banjo, there is no hope. In the end I’m forced to watch my partner and follow his direction. I’m always one step behind. It’s like a satellite is transmitting my image there on a two-second tape delay.
“That was fun,” I say, when the band takes a break. I’m huffing because I’m out of breath and sweat is trickling down the side of my face. Square dancing does not show me to the best advantage.
“You sound surprised.” He is leading me up the stairs to the street. The air in the basement is thick and hot, and in late August Broadway offers an agreeable alternative.
“Well, duh. It’s square dancing.”
“Ye of little faith.”
“It’s square dancing,” I say again, trying to emphasize the unlikelihood of anyone finding it fun.
Keller shakes his head, as if I have a lot to learn. “Do you want to get ice cream? There’s a place around the corner that makes excellent sundaes.”
Since it’s only ten o’clock and the blood is still swirling in my head, I say yes. I say yes and follow him around the corner to Time Café, where we both order chocolate-fudge sundaes with extra nuts. He’s funny and sweet and likes to square-dance. I feel myself falling. Even though I’m trying my damnedest to hold fast to the edge of a cliff, I feel myself falling fast.
Enemy at the Thumbtack Wall
Allison wants my job.
“It’s not fair. It was my idea and she’s the one who gets a promotion and a gigantic office.”
I put the last of my office supplies—stapler, paper clips, scissors—into a box with Post-its, envelopes, thumbtacks and pens and tape it closed. Even though it’s only going twenty yards, I feel compelled to seal it. I only know one way to move.
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying. It was my idea. We just asked her to do one small thing—one tiny thing that was practically inconsequential—and now she’s taken over and stolen a senior editorship that should have been rightfully mine.”
Next I turn my attention to the filing cabinet. There are three years of files here and the sensible part of me wants to go through them one by one and throw away the dead weight. Most of these files are dead weight.
“Like, cavernous. Remember my first apartment? It’s bigger than that. Yes, even including the balcony.”
Allison has been complaining about my promotion all morning. Since the moment she arrived to find the memo about it on her desk, she has been on the phone. She has called every person she’s ever met to rant about the injustice. Fleeting seconds of silence are accompanied by breathing or dialing.
Christine sticks her head over the thin wall and rolls her eyes in a show of solidarity. “She’s awful,” she says under her breath, although there’s no need for discretion. Allison can only hear herself.
I throw all my manila folders into a plastic yellow crate that maintenance has supplied. I can sort through my files in my new office—in peace and quiet. “I know.”
“What’s she talking about?”
“Hmm?” I ask absentmindedly, looking at the pile of promotional items that have collected in my cube’s corner. Do I really need a beach ball that says SPF Perfect on it?
“She keeps saying that the plan was her idea.” Christine leans against the wall. “What plan?”
The more people who know about the plan, the less likely it will succeed. I hold up the beach ball as an offering and, without considering its merits, she shakes her head. I deflate it and throw it into the trash. “That’s exactly what I keep wondering. What plan?”
Christine has been listening to Allison for almost as many years as I have. “I hate to say it but I think she’s losing it.”
“Really?” I ask, shocked by this statement. Christine rarely says a mean word about anyone, not even Jane.
“Well, she’s never made sense—at least as far as I’ve been able to discern—but in the past week she’s been nonsensical and angry.” Christine leans close to my ear and whispers. “I think she might be schizophrenic.”
This is not what I’m expecting her to say, but I treat the comment with respect and seriousness, although my impulse is to laugh. “Schizophrenic?”
“There’s a disassociative quality to her ramblings, and she’s paranoid and her conversation suggests that she might be suffering through some sort of delusional episode.”
Christine makes an excellent case. Even though I know the truth, she almost convinces me. I don’t know what to say.
“Do you think we should do something?” she asks.
“What?” I blurt out. It’s meant to be an exclamation, but she interprets it as a question.
“Have an intervention,” she says seriously.
An image flashes through my brain: Christine telling a hysterical Allison that everything will be all right as orderlies from Bellevue put her in a straitjacket. “No,” I say, “I don’t think we should have an intervention.”
“Should we call her parents?” Her concern is real and I feel awful for nurturing it.
“No, not yet,” I say, playing for time. “Charges of schizophrenia are a serious thing and we shouldn’t do anything until we’re absolutely sure. Let’s observe her for a little bit longer.”
“I’ve been observing her for a while now,” Christine admits. “Are you sure we should wait longer?”
In a few days Allison would calm down about my promotion. The heat of anger will pass and she’ll resent me silently. “Positive.”
She doesn’t look convinced but is willing to heed my advice, for a little while at least. When she asks if I need help packing, I assure her I’ve everything under control.
The Pitch
My promotion comes with a change in venue and Jane gives me Eleanor’s old office. Recently turned into a storeroom out of spite, the space is filled with old issues, which maintenance has stacked neatly in the corner. March, April, May, June, July, August and September of last year form towers that stand as high as the light switch and they tremble whenever I come near. Maintenance has promised to return tomorrow or the next day to remove them, but I have little faith in that actually happening. My promotion seems as sturdy as a house of cards, and the pile in the corner is only a temporary concession. The magazines are like grains of sand and they will soon settle into every crack and crevice.
Because my office is twice the size of Marguerite’s and because it should rightfully be hers, I’m feeling slightly abashed as I knock on her door.
“Vig, come in,” Marguerite says welcomingly. “Congratulations on your promotion. Senior editor—quel magnifique. Come, sit down and tell me all about it.”
Marguerite—or her factotum—has done a bit of redecorating since I was last here: The chairs now have all four legs and they don’t squeak. It’s a vast improvement. “There’s really nothing to tell.”
“Did you know something like this was in the works? How long were you at the associate level?” she asks. Her manner is pleasant, but beneath the bland smile I can see her mind working. She’s trying to figure out how my advancement will lead to her downfall. Everything Jane has done in the past two weeks has been with this in mind and I can’t blame her for being suspicious.
“Only a year,” I say, although they were twelve very long months. “I had no idea it was even possible. You usually have to wait for someone to lea
ve.”
“Hmm, yes, that’s what I thought. I guess Jane just thought you were in particular need for a reward,” she says, as if reasoning aloud a mathematical equation. Jane’s generosity plus Vig’s promotion equals Marguerite’s undoing.
Her figures are a little off but she can’t know that. “I guess.”
“Well, whatever the reason, I’m sure you’re worthy. You strike me as a very clever girl,” she says, crossing her hands on the desk and leaning forward. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“I wanted to discuss article ideas.”
“Excellent. I’m all ears.”
“I know we were talking about my doing more service items—”
“Yes, I have the list right here, but I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet,” she says, smiling apologetically.
This is not why I’m here. I can barely remember the things I’d written on that list. “Actually, I have an idea that’s very different from what we talked about. It’s not as useful as a service item, but it’s more substantial than our usual.”
Intrigued, she leans forward. “Yes?”
This is all the encouragement I need and I talk for a little while about Pieter van Kessel, explaining my idea for a series of articles that follows a young talent through all the stages of success. Marguerite is receptive and thoughtful and she takes notes, as if what I’m saying actually matters. Her enthusiastic response reinforces my decision to follow up with van Kessel. I’ll follow up with him and write my article and keep my fingers crossed, but I have no illusions. A promotion means freedom and responsibility, but it gives me no control over content. Fashionista’s content is like the Constitution of the United States: Only an act of Congress can alter it.
“Do keep me up-to-date on that,” she says, when I’m done raving about van Kessel’s designs. “I’d love to go to his next show.”
I’m almost flushing with pleasure. I can feel the color invading my cheeks and I fight it. I can’t be this susceptible to a little attention. I just can’t. “I’ll let you know when it is.”
“Excellent. Do you have other ideas you want to talk about?” She glances at her watch. “I’m always interested in fresh, exciting ideas. Australia is a little off the beaten path but that distance gave us the freedom to do a few groundbreaking articles. Perhaps you’re familiar with the series we did on young Aussie designers?”
I have never picked up a copy of Australian Vogue in my entire life, but I compliment her on the series anyway. It’s a harmless white lie and Marguerite’s smile brightens. “Excellent. Well, why don’t we run through some of these fresh and interesting ideas now and the rest you can submit in outline form.”
I can barely think for the deluge of thoughts that flood my head. Fashionista is an anomaly in the magazine world. Usually a publication is dependent on a constant influx of fresh and interesting ideas. We’ve managed to skirt this tricky issue by erasing fresh and interesting completely from our pages. From month to month the only thing that changes are the names, and the real challenge for our editors is finding the most current celebrities to grace our pages. The painful truth is that the guy who reads the nominees for the Academy Awards is doing my job, only he’s doing it better.
“Well, I was thinking we could do an investigative piece on who the trendsetters really are,” I say slowly. This is something that has been knocking about in my head, but I haven’t fleshed it out yet. “We usually approach trends from the top, showing famous actresses in the latest style, but I think we should explore the flip side—the kids in the thrift stores who are the actual innovators,” I say, before giving a short lecture on the theory of trends (early adopters, late adopters and mass consumption). This was not my intention and I’m sure Marguerite has heard it all before, but I can’t help myself. The experience of having someone listen is too novel.
Phase Four
Gavin Marshall is like Belgium in the late teens. He’s the site of other people’s conflicts.
“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” says Jane, as she flaps her napkin in the face of the artist’s publicist, Anita Smithers. “We can’t have the opening party there. It’s much too small a space. Where are the celebrities going to stand? Gavin, do you understand my concerns?”
“The Karpfinger is showing his work. We have to have it there, don’t we, darling?” Anita says, taking the thin white hand of her client in a display of solidarity that is completely one-sided. Anita is a physically imposing woman. Her bones are large and she stands over six feet tall. If you saw her in a deserted alley after dark, you’d run the other way fast.
Gavin says nothing. He’s a slight man, both in his physical appearance and the force of his presence. He seems content to stare into his gazpacho and pretend he’s alone at the table. I have seen him glance around him a few times, as if planning his escape, but for the moment he’s behaving admirably and staying put.
“Why can’t we have it somewhere more grand, like the Guggenheim?” Jane asks, stabbing her lettuce with a fork. She’s no longer trying to hide her agitation.
When we met the artist and his publicist in the bar of the Sea Grill restaurant, Jane and Anita disliked each other on sight and began snapping at each other almost instantly. I’m not surprised. They are almost the same person with their silk scarves and wraparound sunglasses.
“Because it’s a gallery showing and must be shown in a gallery.” She squeezes her client’s hand in encouragement. “Gavin, be a dear and explain the rather simple concept to her.”
Jane takes Gavin’s other hand. It’s his own fault. No one told him to put down the soup spoon and leave himself vulnerable. “I’m very sorry that I’m the only one at this table who thinks you deserve to be in a museum.”
Gavin’s work is already in several museums around the world, but Jane doesn’t know that. She’s like one of those seminar moderators you see at a place like the Museum of Television and Radio. The only things she knows about her guest are on the index cards her assistant wrote up.
Anita tells Gavin to list for Jane the museums that already display his work, but when he remains silent, she obligingly rattles it off for him. And there’s no reason she shouldn’t. Announcing his accomplishments to the world is what she’s paid to do.
“We will have the opening party in the Karpfinger Gallery and that’s that,” Anita says, tugging Gavin by the arm. She wants him to back her up with a grandstanding gesture. She wants him to storm out of the Sea Grill in an angry huff. “If you don’t like it, then there’s nothing more to discuss.”
Jane doesn’t want to be here. She’s not used to dealing with people who behave as badly as she, and she doesn’t know how to handle it. If it didn’t mean besting Marguerite at her own game, she’d charge out of here on a cloud of Tresor. “I’d like to indulge in the luxury of throwing a tantrum like you, but Gavin’s work is too important. I must overcome my personal feelings for the sake of art. Some of us are capable of making sacrifices.”
Anita’s upper lip curls in disgust. She’s been making sacrifices for art for more than half her life and doesn’t need this philistine taking the high moral ground with her. “We’re having the party at the Karpfinger.”
Jane’s control over her temper is slipping, and she’s a hair-breadth away from walking out despite her spite.
“Jane, why don’t you pick the place for the after-party,” I suggest.
“The after-party?” Anita asks.
“I know just the place—Mehanata 416 B.C.” Jane says, naming a rundown Bulgarian restaurant that supermodels flock to. After-parties are some of Jane’s favorite things. They are usually more exclusive than the main event and you often catch celebrities on the rebound. “We’ll get the back room. We’ll need a D.J. Vig, sort that out.” She turns to Gavin. “You’ll be the guest of honor, of course. You’re going to need a proper wardrobe,” she says, examining his beat-up jeans and worn T-shirt. “You’ll go shopping with me. I know all the right people.”
I inte
rvene before Jane can pull his arm off. She has already terrified him. He’s staring at his hand in hers as if it’s an alien life form. He is prepared to sacrifice the extremity to save himself. “Hey, isn’t that Damien Hirst over there? And he’s waving at you,” I say, pointing vaguely in the direction of some potted plants in the corner.
The two women are surprised and loosen their grips. Gavin breaks free and stands up. “I must say hello. I don’t want to be rude.” His manner is apologetic, but there’s a relieved look in his eyes.
“You’ll work everything out between you?” I don’t want to leave Jane and Anita alone, but I have no choice. If Gavin backs out, then the plan doesn’t work.
When we’re on Fifth Avenue and away from prying eyes, he turns to me. “I’m starving. Want to get something to eat?”
“All right,” I say, shocked that he hasn’t run away. I would. I’d flee in the opposite direction as fast I could. “What do you want?”
“Not gazpacho.”
“There’s a sandwich and salad place up the street.”
“Sounds good. Lead the way.”
“You seem surprisingly normal,” I say.
“I don’t know how else to handle Anita except ignore her,” he explains in his posh accent. “She’s really easy to take when you’re catatonic.”
“Why do you put up with her?”
Gavin shrugs. Now that we’re away from his publicist, his features are more relaxed. His wide blue eyes no longer eat up his face. “My agent swears by her and I swear by my agent. She’s good at what she does.”
I consider saying the same about Jane but common sense prevails. He wouldn’t believe me anyway, so I change the subject. “We’re very excited about the prospect of working with you.”
“You are?” he asks, his tone faintly skeptical.
Jane has done more damage than I realized. “Don’t judge Fashionista by our editor in chief. She’s more a figurehead than anything else.”
We arrive at Lou’s Café and I hold the door open for him. It’s a tiny restaurant with only seven tables, but thanks to the lateness of the hour—somehow it’s already two-thirty—we have no trouble getting a booth. The hosts sits us by the window, where sunlight is pouring in. Despite the air-conditioning, I’m warm.