fashionably dressed an aura of old-fashionability. Elevators soared proudly, their elevation taking on greater social and political importance the loftier they climbed. And Darling magazine, she had quickly learned as she assailed the heights in the glass-walled lift, was on the fifty-second floor, which in Kate’s mind made it, and her, incredibly important.
“Shall we go through the appointments?” said Cynthia. She was clearly at a loss for what to make of Kate. She was not what she expected, but then she’d read some of those weird English fashion magazines, where it was all about shocking the reader, rebelling against convention, and she wondered if Kate’s black Lycra look wasn’t in fact a bold avant-garde statement on the future of fashion. Her punky striped hairdo certainly seemed to testify to this.
“Appointments, yes,” said Kate, wondering what the hell she was talking about. The doctor’s?
“You have a ten o’clock meeting with Alexis, then—”
“What will she want to talk about?” said Kate.
Puzzled, Cynthia glanced at Clarissa for help. How would Cynthia possibly know? Since when did an editor ever discuss, let alone divulge, anything of any importance to a lowly beauty assistant?
Clarissa wasn’t giving anything away.
“I guess it’s probably to welcome you, talk about ideas for the next few issues, that kind of thing. . . . I can come with you if you like,” Cynthia suggested.
“No, no, that’s okay. Ideas. Sure.” Look confident. Pretend you know what they’re talking about.
“You have lunch with BeautyCorp, with Peter Skye and Marilyn Preston, the presidents. It’s at Dauphinoise.”
“Presidents?”
“And then that hair appointment at Lolly Bergerstein’s I told you about earlier. She’s changed her whole schedule so she can fit you in; she usually has a six-month waiting list.”
“Oh. That’s nice.” So Lolly Bergerstein was a hairdresser. She was allowed to get her hair done on company time?
"There’s nothing nice about Lolly making that appointment for you—she wants you on her side, she wants to be able to tell everyone she does your hair.” Clarissa pointedly threw a large pile of files into the bin. "They’re all the same.”
Cynthia smiled sympathetically. “But she’s very good anyway, you’ll like her.”
“Could you show me where the toilets are?” said Kate.
The prime site in any office was a corner on as high a floor as you could get. By these markers, Alexis was a valued member of the company. But Kate realized the moment she entered Alexis’s office that over and above the floor ranking, your true status was all about window space. And Alexis loved her windows. She had pots of orchids lined up along the edge. Blinds flanked the glass walls where the office faced her staff, so she could shut herself away from them at any given time, spin her chair around, and sit and contemplate the view.
She was giving it plenty of contemplation now, seemingly tired from her night’s adventures at the gallery, and evidently not in the best frame of mind to deal with a new employee, an important one at that. Today’s power suit, all pink tweed with fashionably frayed edges, with big gilt buttons running down it, looked in contrast to last night’s white, a bit of a mess, or so Kate thought with her uneducated eye. It transformed this legendary editor into a trussed-up turkey, frazzled and pink from a recent plucking.
She turned round to face Kate, uttered a hurried hello, and moved to the chaise longue, a black leather architectural-looking sofa that struck the right note of informality yet gravitas in her first proper meeting with her new English import.
“So, Kate, how was your first night in New York? You enjoyed Jean-Paul’s opening?”
“Yes . . . he seemed nice, didn’t he?” "You English people ... all you say is ’nice’ and ’lovely’ ... and ’brilliant.’ ” She spoke very fast. Or was Kate speaking very slowly?
“Oh.
“Shall we go through the appointments?” said Cynthia. She was clearly at a loss for what to make of Kate. She was not what she expected, but then she’d read some of those weird English fashion magazines, where it was all about shocking the reader, rebelling against convention, and she wondered if Kate’s black Lycra look wasn’t in fact a bold avant-garde statement on the future of fashion. Her punky striped hairdo certainly seemed to testify to this.
“Appointments, yes,” said Kate, wondering what the hell she was talking about. The doctor’s?
“You have a ten o’clock meeting with Alexis, then—”
“What will she want to talk about?” said Kate.
Puzzled, Cynthia glanced at Clarissa for help. How would Cynthia possibly know? Since when did an editor ever discuss, let alone divulge, anything of any importance to a lowly beauty assistant?
Clarissa wasn’t giving anything away.
“I guess it’s probably to welcome you, talk about ideas for the next few issues, that kind of thing. . . . I can come with you if you like,” Cynthia suggested.
“No, no, that’s okay. Ideas. Sure.” Look confident. Pretend you know what they’re talking about.
“You have lunch with BeautyCorp, with Peter Skye and Marilyn Preston, the presidents. It’s at Dauphinoise.”
“Presidents?”
“And then that hair appointment at Lolly Bergerstein’s I told you about earlier. She’s changed her whole schedule so she can fit you in; she usually has a six-month waiting list.”
“Oh. That’s nice.” So Lolly Bergerstein was a hairdresser. She was allowed to get her hair done on company time?
"There’s nothing nice about Lolly making that appointment for you—she wants you on her side, she wants to be able to tell everyone she does your hair.” Clarissa pointedly threw a large pile of files into the bin. "They’re all the same.”
Cynthia smiled sympathetically. “But she’s very good anyway, you’ll like her.”
“Could you show me where the toilets are?” said Kate.
The prime site in any office was a corner on as high a floor as you could get. By these markers, Alexis was a valued member of the company. But Kate realized the moment she entered Alexis’s office that over and above the floor ranking, your true status was all about window space. And Alexis loved her windows. She had pots of orchids lined up along the edge. Blinds flanked the glass walls where the office faced her staff, so she could shut herself away from them at any given time, spin her chair around, and sit and contemplate the view.
She was giving it plenty of contemplation now, seemingly tired from her night’s adventures at the gallery, and evidently not in the best frame of mind to deal with a new employee, an important one at that. Today’s power suit, all pink tweed with fashionably frayed edges, with big gilt buttons running down it, looked in contrast to last night’s white, a bit of a mess, or so Kate thought with her uneducated eye. It transformed this legendary editor into a trussed-up turkey, frazzled and pink from a recent plucking.
She turned round to face Kate, uttered a hurried hello, and moved to the chaise longue, a black leather architectural-looking sofa that struck the right note of informality yet gravitas in her first proper meeting with her new English import.
“So, Kate, how was your first night in New York? You enjoyed Jean-Paul’s opening?”
“Yes . . . he seemed nice, didn’t he?” "You English people ... all you say is ’nice’ and ’lovely’ ... and ’brilliant.’ ” She spoke very fast. Or was Kate speaking very slowly?
“Oh.
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