Chapter 7
SEVEN
The next day, I closed the door of my office and took a deep breath as I dialed Barbara’s direct line. She answered the phone herself, throwing me off guard.
“Well, if it isn’t StyleList’s second coming,” she said crisply.
“I thought Kiara was laying it on a little thick at Lucinda’s lovefest, then I heard about your promotion.
Frankly, I thought I’d never hear from you again after you got the stamp of approval from Lucifer. That’s usually how it goes down.”
How had Barbara heard about my promotion? “The, um, new position was kind of a surprise to me,” I stammered, feeling silly at how nervous this woman made me.
“I bet,” Barbara responded. She was not going to make this easy at all.
I cleared my throat. “I would love to get together for lunch.”
“Why?” Barbara asked.
I was thankful she couldn’t see the sweat mustache forming over my lip. “I’d love to hear your plans for Sugar.”
“You want to hear my plans?”
“I mean, I have some ideas for you, too.”
“So, you want to hear my plans, and then give me some ideas—just because you’re a nice person.” I could feel Barbara smirking.
My embarrassment made me impatient. “Barbara, I’ve been working at StyleList for almost four years. I’ve seen firsthand how mainstream fashion magazines disregard us. And I don’t want Essence to be our only other choice. I’d love to see Sugar live up to its potential.”
No way Barbara Porter would stand for being spoken to that way by a scrub like me, I thought, but she chuckled and replied, “Hold on.” Almost immediately her assistant picked up the line and made an appointment for us to have drinks the following week.
I’d never heard of Club Macanudo, the restaurant Barbara had chosen, and when I got there, I understood why.
I opened the door and immediately started coughing.
Club Macanudo turned out to be an upscale cigar bar that served a few bar bites to soak up the flowing brown liquor.
Peering through the thick smoke at the mass of suited white men puffing away on contraband Cubans, I scanned the room for a short natural and leather.
On the far wall, an enormous television blared the Giants vs.
Patriots game, and the crowd erupted into cheers as the Giants scored a touchdown with the clock ticking down the last seconds of the quarter.
While the suits pumped each other’s hands and downed another round of celebratory scotch, I took a seat at the bar and ordered a glass of champagne.
The bartender, an incredibly efficient Asian woman with long blond hair and a septum ring, set the flute in front of me in less than a minute.
I took a sip then swung my legs around to watch the room, coming face-to-face with Barbara.
She was decked out in butter-colored leather pants with a matching suede jacket and a tan fedora sitting low on her head.
Feeling plain in my black slacks and black turtleneck, I wished I’d at least added some statement earrings.
Barbara took in the flute I was holding.
“Ballin’, huh? If it’s Cristal, then you, Nikki, may be Black after all.”
“I doubt that it’s Cristal—” I started, but Barbara waved away the end of my sentence.
“First of all, newbie, always say it’s Cristal.
No one’s got to know you’re drinking Moet or prosecco or whatever.
” Barbara sat on the stool next to me. “I didn’t know what to make of how stiff you were acting at Lucinda’s party.
But when you told me off over the phone, I figured you might have some latent flavor.
Which is why, by the way, I decided to meet with you today. ”
“And I was worried I may have offended you.” I hazarded a half smile.
“Please, child. I’ve been screamed at by three-hundred-pound rappers surrounded ten deep by trigger-happy gangsters armed to the teeth.” She pulled out a thin cigar, clipped the end off, and lit up. “You literally cannot scare me.”
“I believe that.” I sipped my champagne, trying not to look too impressed.
“I can’t say that I’ve ever been screamed at by any musical artists, much less rappers with rap sheets.
” Since that corny comment would not reenter my mouth no matter how much I willed it to, I knew that I deserved Barbara’s snort of laughter.
“Miss Nicole StyleList Rose, I would be very surprised to hear that you’ve ever encountered any rappers, with rap sheets or otherwise.” Without having to order, a short glass of caramel-colored liquor over ice appeared in front of her. She took a long drink, still chuckling into her glass.
“Well, I did work at Revolutions for a year,” I said, realizing my mistake as I watched surprise flicker across Barbara’s face.
“I knew that, at the very least, this meeting would be interesting.” Barbara examined the liquid in the glass in front of her.
Apparently dissatisfied, she handed it back to the bartender and said, “Hana, let’s do the Courvoisier XO today.
” A fresh snifter appeared before she could turn to face me again.
“Yes, I am pretty curious about your time at Revolutions.” Since I was already chewing on my tongue, I said nothing, so she continued.
“I have to say, you don’t look at all like what I expected.
” Her sweeping gesture toward my outfit managed to convey both curiosity and contempt.
“How do you mean?” I was confused because this wasn’t the first time we’d met in person.
“Well, I thought maybe your prim little outfit at Lucinda’s lovefest was a fluke.
After my last chat with your boy, Alonzo, I half expected you to show up today in a pleather catsuit and Lucite heels.
” She clicked all five right-hand fingernails on the bar twice, ignoring my frozen expression.
Finally, she extended her index finger toward the bar.
“Look, our bartender is not especially solicitous to me because of my sparkling personality. Alonzo and I used to meet here all the time—that is, until he cornered Hana outside the ladies’ room. ”
She paused for effect, but I had stopped listening as the possibility of running into Alonzo took hold.
Barbara must have noticed my head on a swivel because her tone softened.
“He freaked her out so badly that she threatened to call the cops. I had to quietly pay for a semester of Hana’s NYU tuition so I wouldn’t lose my publisher. ”
“Look, I don’t know what he told you, but…” I stopped talking because Barbara was shaking her head and wagging her index finger from side to side.
“Alonzo isn’t special. I know at least ten other equally stupid assholes in and around the music industry.
They mostly don’t fuck with me for a few obvious reasons, but I see everything.
” She looked deep into my eyes. “Not excusing dumb behavior, just saying that there are choices. You make bad ones, and we have annoying conversations in cigar bars about your judgment. You make good ones, and no one has to worry about tarnished reputations in these streets.”
Barbara’s declaration was vaguely protective—even though it was clear that she didn’t trust me. I couldn’t blame her; I wasn’t sure I trusted myself. “Barbara, I—”
She stopped me again. “There’s nothing you can say to make it better. The details won’t help, so let’s skip to the part where you tell me why we’re here.”
I took what I hoped was a subtle breath. “Urban culture has taken over mainstream pop culture,” I started. “Hip hop music is all over MTV, high-end designers are looking to the young urban for inspiration—”
But before I could continue with the speech I’d rehearsed so much I could envision it scrolling like a teleprompter in my mind, Barbara cut me off for what seemed like the tenth time.
“Newbie, I started Groove on my living room coffee table. If anyone is aware that rich white kids in the suburbs all want to be the next Jay-Z, I am.” She took a sip from her glass while I processed that information.
“You have five minutes to tell me why we’re actually here. ”
Trying hard not to dwell on the fact that I could not seem to string two sentences together that Barbara didn’t mock, I tried again, abandoning my stiff pitch for a more direct approach.
“Young Black women are the hottest thing out there. We drive culture, but we don’t have a voice—Sugar could fill that void.
But that audience is very savvy—they won’t buy bullshit. I know that I wouldn’t.”
“So, you think Sugar is bullshit?”
How did I keep putting my foot in my mouth?
“Not necessarily,” I hedged, “but Sugar could truly represent the style and the perspective of smart women of color who grew up with hip hop, are into fashion, who want to do something with their lives, and who still like to hit the club.” I paused before delivering my pièce de résistance.
“And since you know everyone follows what we do, there’s no reason Sugar couldn’t appeal to all women—Black Latina, white, anyone who loves urban culture.
The brand could cross over multiple demographics and open NuVoices to a whole new audience. ”
Barbara took a thoughtful puff on her cigar. “And why are you the person to run Sugar? There are other female journalists with more experience covering music and fashion who have more … urban style.”
She cast another skeptical look at my tame outfit, which I chose to ignore, “run Sugar” echoing in my mind.
I had a moment of panic as I realized that I really did want to leave my swanky new gig at StyleList, the biggest fashion magazine in the world, to be editor in chief of a brand-new title at a tiny publishing company almost no one had heard of.
As it sank in, I tried not to think about Marie, who had always looked out for me at Park Ave Pub.