Chapter 5
FIVE
Lucinda opened our meeting the next day with: “So, you’ve been at StyleList for three years and this is the first time we’ve met one-on-one since you were hired.”
We were seated on an enormous sofa in Lucinda’s thirty-ninth-floor office.
I had nearly coughed when I took a sip of the concoction Mary-Kate had given me as I walked in the door, surprised by the presence of alcohol.
So this was the elixir to which everyone attributed my boss’s youthful glow.
But hell, I was cocktailing with Lucinda in her sprawling office that overlooked all of Midtown Manhattan, so I was going to hold my own. I took a huge gulp and nodded.
“And why do you think that is?” she continued.
Because now you think that I look like a StyleList girl came to my mind.
I’d wanted to wash the curls back into my hair, but knowing that I was meeting with Lucinda, I’d worn it straight again.
I nervously wrapped some of the strands around my finger.
“Um, I’m not sure, Lucinda. I assume your schedule is hectic, and that your priorities are your fashion and beauty departments. ”
“Well said.” Lucinda got up and retrieved a folder from her desk.
“But not entirely accurate.” She strolled back over to the sofa, flipped open the folder, and smoothed her skirt over her thighs.
Today she was dressed like an urban Inuit in a black leather miniskirt, white fur boots, and a white fur beret atop her fluffed-up hair.
Without looking up, she said, “I don’t usually meet with my self-sufficient editors who excel. And you, doll, seem to be one of them.”
Lucinda continued to skim the contents of the folder while I processed what she’d just said.
Though Tara didn’t want to acknowledge it, I was her go-to girl: I always had an idea and could be relied upon to hit the most challenging deadlines.
I’d produced many of the most talked-about features at StyleList, one of which had even won the Oscar of magazine publishing: an Ellie Award from ASME, the American Society of Magazine Editors.
Since almost everyone in the office but Lucinda had congratulated me, I’d assumed she didn’t know or care that the story had been my baby.
But Lucinda was more observant that I’d thought.
“You were responsible for that fabulous package on female sports heroes that won the Ellie. And letters are already pouring in from readers about the sex survey you came up with. Since it only went on sale a couple weeks ago, we don’t have final numbers for the January issue, but it looks like the newsstand sales spiked.
Not to mention that the impressive sex survey landed me on Oprah this week. ”
In much the same way that I’d had to grit my teeth as Tara sashayed onstage to receive the Ellie (it was a win for the features department, after all), I’d had to swallow my annoyance while watching Lucinda on Oprah talking about my survey.
I had pulled a couple all-nighters in the office, finishing that massive national survey in only two weeks.
But, of course, Oprah preferred the internationally renowned, media-friendly editor in chief of StyleList over the lowly jumbo shrimp who had actually executed the story.
“I was so honored that Oprah chose to cover that piece. It was important for our readers to have that information,” I said carefully.
Lucinda smiled—a rare sighting. “Oh, you are good,” she said, emitting a horse’s snort of a noise that I assumed was her laugh.
“No wonder I never meet with you. You are such a classic overachiever.” Lucinda scooted over to my side of the sofa and grabbed my face in both hands.
I swallowed the urge to shrug her off during a long minute of examination in which I thought she might pull my lips back to inspect my teeth.
“What is your ethnic background?” she finally asked.
“I’m Black,” I told her, disentangling myself.
Lucinda waved her hand impatiently. “Obviously, doll. I do live in New York City, you know,” she replied, as if I were insulting her. “Black and what else?
Where the hell was she going with this, I wondered, and was this a potential human resources lawsuit? “My father’s parents immigrated here from Ireland.”
“Aha!” Lucinda relaxed again. “You’re a mélange!”
“Well, yes, my father is white. But I am Black, so…” Enough was enough. I was really trying not be annoyed by her continued close examination of my face. “Respectfully, I’m not sure what my ethnic background has to do with anything we’re discussing today.”
She got up again, this time to call Mary-Kate, who magically appeared forty-five seconds later with two fresh drinks.
As Lucinda took a few healthy swigs, the source of her perpetual unpredictability started to become more clear.
“Oh, don’t be so uptight, overachiever.” She wiped her mouth daintily on what looked like an Hermès scarf. “I have a proposition for you.”
At this, I perked up. Crazy as she was, Lucinda was a publishing icon who could make or break my magazine career. I tried not to look too eager as I sat forward to hear her out.
Lucinda finished her drink (an impressive feat since they were presented in tall tumblers with very little ice), and said gravely, “StyleList is in trouble.” Everything I’d heard about StyleList’s performance indicated record-breaking advertising revenue, steady newsstand sales, and rapid digital growth.
My face must have registered my alarm because Lucinda quickly continued: “No need to be too concerned, doll.” She patted my hand gently, then grabbed it, her nails digging into my palm.
“And no need to tell anyone else about our little conversation.”
I didn’t know many people who could be equal parts motherly and menacing. “I thought we were in the middle of double-digit growth.”
“Everyone does,” she said impatiently. “And we were for a long time. But over the past couple years we’ve hit a plateau.
” Lucinda faced the window, the late afternoon light turning her hair an even brighter shade of red.
“The gap between StyleList and our lesser competitors is closing. They might even overtake our newsstand numbers if we don’t do something. ”
One of StyleList’s claims to fame was that the magazine sold more copies in supermarkets, drugstores, airports, and bookstores than any other fashion title.
Not only did we make a ton of money from those sales but advertisers paid a premium to be a part of our success.
If that claim was in jeopardy, StyleList did indeed have a major problem.
I waited, wary of saying the wrong thing.
An editor in chief’s success is largely based on newsstand numbers, so Lucinda was probably in trouble too.
Without turning around, she said, “You seem to have a knack for attention-grabbing stories, which I like. And we need to reach new audiences, audiences that you understand better than anyone else.” Lucinda summoned her assistant/bartender one more time, took a long drink of her third cocktail, and declared, “I need more ideas that challenge the StyleList status quo and generate buzz across demographics—like the sex survey. I’d like to promote you to special projects editor. ”
I suddenly needed a drink, too, and was grateful that there were two sitting in a row in front of me. Special projects editor was a huge leap, a senior-level title on StyleList’s masthead where I would get to conceive and execute major features and multi-issue packages. “Is Tara aware—”
Lucinda interrupted me with one wave of her hand.
“Tara will be fine with this. She knows that StyleList needs to do more sexy stories that expand our reader base, like the Matsumoro wedding. We got tons of mail after we ran that piece. I want to cover more real-life events in the chic urban crowd.”
I allowed myself a moment to dwell on the irony that even though I’d just met Kiara Matsumoro the night before, Lucinda expected me to deliver inside stories on the Black elite.
How typical of white folks to assume we all know each other, I thought with some irritation.
And now I understood: In a desperate bid to save her job, Lucinda wanted me to be StyleList’s melanin whisperer to bring in readers who weren’t responding to her current stale mix of celebrity diet reviews and the performative diversity of shooting blond supermodels with Maasai tribal members in Kenyan game reserves.
As I tried not to let my face betray my anger at getting asked to be Black on demand, I realized Lucinda was waiting for a response.
No one in their right mind would turn this down, certainly not someone whose own goal was to someday run a magazine.
I set my drink on the table and stood up.
Surprisingly, she stood too, looking at me expectantly.
“Thank you for this opportunity, Lucinda,” I said. “I understand the situation and I will do my best to keep StyleList on top where it belongs.”
“Of course, you will, overachiever.” Lucinda clapped me on the back with surprising force.
“You didn’t ask,” she continued, “but the position comes with a significant pay increase. HR will email you the details.” With that, Lucinda sat behind her desk, perched teal cat-eye readers on her nose, and started tapping on her keyboard.
I realized this was her way of dismissing me.
As I moved toward the door, she peered over her glasses.
“You know, Alonzo Griffin tried to talk me out of hiring you. I won’t lie, he said some very unflattering things.
But he’d come on to too many of our in-house models to let him sway me.
I told him to go fuck himself.” She waited a second to make sure that I was paying full attention, then pronounced with absolute seriousness, “Still, this is when you pay me back.”