money. With a Frenchman chatting her up on her first night. Anything could happen. Maybe it would.
Later, as she finally got to lie in the king-size bed, watching the moonlight cast shadows on her wall, picking out in delicate filigree the silhouette of a tree on the roof terrace outside, and reminding her of a silver Maltese cross she’d been given as a child from a father she’d never known, she allowed herself to believe for the first time, with the deepest of convictions, that her future was here, in New York. It had to be. She felt drunk on the excitement, intoxicated with the possibilities, the potential that the city was offering. And this time, there would be no hangover.
five
She was to need that same strength of conviction the following morning in her new office.
"I, like, so love your hair,” said Cynthia, a twentysomething blonde with the figure of a waif and a walk like a show pony, whom Kate had just discovered was her personal assistant. An assistant! “Is that, like, the new style in England?” She seemed to be unusually interested in her hair, but then Kate remembered this was the beauty department after all, what else was she supposed to be interested in?
“You have an appointment with Lolly Bergerstein, but I can cancel it for you if you like.” Cynthia chewed her lower lip, and moved her light frame over to rest on the other foot.
“Er, yes. I mean no. No, don’t cancel.” Who the hell was Lolly Bergerstein? Was she supposed to know? She’d have to look her up on the Internet when no one was looking.
Kate had always imagined that working in New York might be a little stressful. She presumed all the girls on these kinds of magazines would be complete bitches, wanting to make her look foolish and stupid at every turn, laughing at what they perceived as her ungainliness, her gaucheness, her mispronunciation of obscure (except to the world of fashion) Mexican photographers’ names. But so far, this Cynthia girl was surprisingly friendly.
Although admittedly, there had been some consternation in the beauty department when she had arrived at nine that morning. Her number one assistant, the deputy beauty editor (she had two assistants!), Clarissa, had been comfortably ensconced, some might say entrenched, in the beauty director’s desk in the hope that by sitting there and looking like she could do the job, she would somehow be given the job. With Kate now physically in the office, she was forced to admit her aspirations had been dashed once and for all, and, wearing her best discounted Chanel suit, she set about removing pictures of her ex-boyfriend from the wall and clearing out drawers of favorite fluff-covered lipsticks and old business cards. Kate loitered, not really knowing what to do with herself beyond rereading the cards attached to the many bouquets of white orchids, white pashminas, white candles, white handbags, all sent to her from beauty companies keen to garner her favor. Quite why, she had no idea.
Today’s outfit, the same black wrap dress cunningly made to look different with her new Topshop jacket, suddenly didn’t look so smart. It couldn’t begin to do justice to the grandeur of her offices. She felt she had landed somewhere truly important, in a building whose sheer might would change things, shape destinies, form opinions, even if it was just by imparting such essential knowledge as how to turn a working wardrobe into a look for the evening with the magical addition of some kohl eyeliner and a pair of earrings (Yolanda’s top tip). It was made of stone, this building, not concrete, which was far more transient and always had the potential to be turned into a multi-story car park, at least in Maidstone. Circular doors spun round, with side entrances for bulky packages being carried by bulky couriers, their helmets and shoulders making them look like American footballers in black. Receptionists, looking as old and cranky as the judges on The Muppet Show , lent the
Later, as she finally got to lie in the king-size bed, watching the moonlight cast shadows on her wall, picking out in delicate filigree the silhouette of a tree on the roof terrace outside, and reminding her of a silver Maltese cross she’d been given as a child from a father she’d never known, she allowed herself to believe for the first time, with the deepest of convictions, that her future was here, in New York. It had to be. She felt drunk on the excitement, intoxicated with the possibilities, the potential that the city was offering. And this time, there would be no hangover.
five
She was to need that same strength of conviction the following morning in her new office.
"I, like, so love your hair,” said Cynthia, a twentysomething blonde with the figure of a waif and a walk like a show pony, whom Kate had just discovered was her personal assistant. An assistant! “Is that, like, the new style in England?” She seemed to be unusually interested in her hair, but then Kate remembered this was the beauty department after all, what else was she supposed to be interested in?
“You have an appointment with Lolly Bergerstein, but I can cancel it for you if you like.” Cynthia chewed her lower lip, and moved her light frame over to rest on the other foot.
“Er, yes. I mean no. No, don’t cancel.” Who the hell was Lolly Bergerstein? Was she supposed to know? She’d have to look her up on the Internet when no one was looking.
Kate had always imagined that working in New York might be a little stressful. She presumed all the girls on these kinds of magazines would be complete bitches, wanting to make her look foolish and stupid at every turn, laughing at what they perceived as her ungainliness, her gaucheness, her mispronunciation of obscure (except to the world of fashion) Mexican photographers’ names. But so far, this Cynthia girl was surprisingly friendly.
Although admittedly, there had been some consternation in the beauty department when she had arrived at nine that morning. Her number one assistant, the deputy beauty editor (she had two assistants!), Clarissa, had been comfortably ensconced, some might say entrenched, in the beauty director’s desk in the hope that by sitting there and looking like she could do the job, she would somehow be given the job. With Kate now physically in the office, she was forced to admit her aspirations had been dashed once and for all, and, wearing her best discounted Chanel suit, she set about removing pictures of her ex-boyfriend from the wall and clearing out drawers of favorite fluff-covered lipsticks and old business cards. Kate loitered, not really knowing what to do with herself beyond rereading the cards attached to the many bouquets of white orchids, white pashminas, white candles, white handbags, all sent to her from beauty companies keen to garner her favor. Quite why, she had no idea.
Today’s outfit, the same black wrap dress cunningly made to look different with her new Topshop jacket, suddenly didn’t look so smart. It couldn’t begin to do justice to the grandeur of her offices. She felt she had landed somewhere truly important, in a building whose sheer might would change things, shape destinies, form opinions, even if it was just by imparting such essential knowledge as how to turn a working wardrobe into a look for the evening with the magical addition of some kohl eyeliner and a pair of earrings (Yolanda’s top tip). It was made of stone, this building, not concrete, which was far more transient and always had the potential to be turned into a multi-story car park, at least in Maidstone. Circular doors spun round, with side entrances for bulky packages being carried by bulky couriers, their helmets and shoulders making them look like American footballers in black. Receptionists, looking as old and cranky as the judges on The Muppet Show , lent the
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