Chapter 10
TEN
Friday morning, my stress began to work over my stomach an hour before my alarm was supposed to go off. By my third trip to the bathroom, I was regretting the Mexican feast we’d had for dinner the night before. Joseph finally knocked on the bathroom door.
“You going to be all right in there, Nicole?” he asked.
“Fine. Great. Just getting ready,” I replied quickly, turning on the faucet and the fan.
I had tried not to wake him, but after several visits to his marble-wrapped sanctuary, there was no hiding the situation.
I held my head in my hands and tried to will my nerves-addled digestive system into submission.
But my deepest fears were running like a news ticker across my mind: You’veneverdonethisbeforewhatif theyhateyouwhatiftheythinkyou’reafraud … It was like watching the news in hell.
Finally, with eight minutes left to get dressed, I put on a black blouse and my new pantsuit, grabbed a black Gucci bag—my last score from the StyleList fashion closet—and ran for the door.
I hadn’t asked Barbara about the office dress code, and though my outfit was more stuffy than I would have liked, it did make me feel like a boss.
It was only in the elevator that I realized a cream pantsuit was possibly not the best choice given the time I’d already logged in the bathroom that morning, but it was too late to change.
I headed outside into the chilly morning, praying fervently to the gods of fashion and digestion.
By the time the taxi pulled up in front of the NuVoices office building, I felt a lot calmer.
I’d talked to myself all the way downtown like a coach to his football team before the Rose Bowl.
“You know your shit. You’re a badass. You got this job for a reason…
” I said it out loud with my eyes closed, trying to kill that news ticker of self-doubt still broadcasting in my brain.
Just be a leader and give it everything you have.
Go make Sugar the success you know it can be. Let’s go!
The building was on Fifth Avenue just south of Seventeenth Street, in a neighborhood that was a lot less uptight than Midtown.
A chubby olive-skinned guy whose Knicks jersey could not hide the fact that his baggy jeans were losing a battle with gravity headed into the NuVoices building.
He stopped in the doorway to rub a minuscule scuff from his Air Jordan VIs and pull his wavy black hair into a low ponytail.
“Got to keep it professional for work, right?” he called over to where I had stopped to gather myself. A half smile tugged one side of his mouth up as he looked me up and down with interest. “You need some help, mami?”
“No, I’m fine.” I squared my shoulders and followed him inside.
He and I soon discovered we were heading to the same place: the twelfth floor.
I don’t know what I was expecting when the elevator doors opened, but it sure wasn’t Wu-Tang Clan’s “Protect Ya Neck” blaring at top volume.
While I figured the NuVoices office might be a culture shock, I didn’t expect to be waving my arms in the air like I just don’t care at ten in the morning.
“I got to tell Barbara about this bullshit,” the guy muttered, holding the door open for me while taking note of the empty reception desk. “Tisha’s not supposed to leave her area uncovered or play her music so goddamn loud first thing in the a.m. Damn, that girl is stupid.”
I didn’t say anything—in part because I didn’t know who Tisha was and in part because I was too busy checking out the surprisingly masculine office.
It looked like a garage that had been converted into a man cave, complete with an overabundance of black leather furniture, the requisite steel and red accents, and a pool table that was positioned too close to a large red bookshelf to properly use.
The stark white walls were decorated with poster-sized recent covers of Decode, Bella, and Sugar, including the infamous Charli Baltimore cover I’d seen in CeCe’s Studio.
I couldn’t help wondering how Barbara could have put together this decidedly unsexy space.
“Hey, you know where you’re going?” the Knicks guy asked, as it became increasingly obvious that this was my first time in the NuVoices office.
“Not really,” I admitted. “I’m here to see Barbara Porter.”
His eyes widened and his smile grew. “Wait a minute. Are you the new Sugar lady?”
“Editor in chief. Yes.”
“Oh shit. You’re Nicole Rose.” He put a hand in front of his mouth and looked around, clearly bummed no one was in the area to witness the moment.
“Yo, we have been waiting on this day. I’m Jorge.
I’m your guy if you ever need something delivered or fixed—or a male model for one of your fashion stories.
” He struck a pose then said, “You better come with me so you don’t get lost up in here. ”
As we passed through the reception area into the main room, I realized how different NuVoices was from Park Ave Pub.
Putting the masculine décor aside, the office was already humming with energy.
All three magazines were on one floor, and, with the open design of glass-walled offices surrounding a thick tangle of cubicles, I could see every bit of chaotic activity.
Music was playing in all corners. Folks were laughing loud and shouting to each other from cubicle to cubicle.
Racks of clothes and shoes filled every vacant space.
There was even a small dog barking its head off in one corner.
Letting the image of StyleList’s serene, perfumed halls waft through my brain, I had a fleeting thought: Well, Dorothy, you’re definitely not in Kansas anymore.
The commotion subsided as everyone turned to watch Jorge walk me into Barbara’s office.
I tried to look calm and confident, but I could feel every eye on me, probing my silk press, makeup, bag, shoes, and—oh, yeah—ridiculous outfit.
Everyone was wearing jeans or a tracksuit.
Every. Single. Person. In my tailored pantsuit, I looked like an IRS auditor coming to bust them for faking taxi receipts or something.
“Thanks, Mom,” I grumbled under my breath.
Despite the scrutiny and mayhem, I liked the environment—mostly because the office was straight out of a United Colors of Benetton ad. I had never worked somewhere where I wasn’t the minority, but here, it seemed as if almost every ethnicity and shade were represented.
Jorge, who clearly enjoyed shepherding me across the floor, handed me off to Barbara with a little flourish, then ran off to enjoy his privileged status as the only one who had firsthand info about Sugar’s new EIC.
Barbara, resplendent in a royal-blue leather outfit with enormous shoulder pads, stood to shake my hand, then closed the door firmly behind me.
“So, how does it feel to be working in the ghetto?” she asked, motioning for me to sit on her black leather sofa. What the hell did this woman have with leather? I wondered, settling in with a loud squeak as Barbara perched on her desk.
“Great!” I exclaimed, falling right into the trap. “I mean, not like this is the ghetto, of course.”
“Not exactly. But closer than you’ve ever been, I’m guessing,” Barbara replied.
I started to remind her that I grew up in Harlem, but she went on.
“Don’t get defensive, Nikki. I obviously wouldn’t have hired you if I didn’t think you could hang.
The question is whether you think you can hang because that’s the only way you’ll ever relax enough for the folks in this office to get to know Harlem Nikki instead of StyleList Nikki. ”
Barbara let that hover in the air between us for a moment, while I wondered again why it was my fate to deal with women whose insults and compliments sounded exactly the same.
But I was glad that Barbara at least remembered where I grew up.
And she was right: I’d spent so long repressing my Harlem upbringing at StyleList that I had no idea how to be myself at work.
Again, I regretted walking into that office looking like I’d just climbed out of a Park Ave Pub town car.
“Well, I’m looking forward to getting started,” I told her. “I’ve got ideas for my first issue and the cover, plus a few special packages I think I can pull off quickly.”
“I’m sure you do, Nikki, but you might want to focus on your staff first. They’re a little burned out from producing issues under Lunatic.”
“What’s Lunatic?”
“Not what, who. Lunatic is Luna Baxter, Sugar’s about-to-be-former editor in chief.
” Barbara plopped down on the sofa with me, seemingly exhausted by merely mentioning this woman’s name.
With a peeved sigh, she continued, “You probably know that Luna modeled for a while. When she aged out, she talked her way into running Hot Hair magazine. I decided to overlook that Hot Hair was a hot mess and made the mistake of thinking the skills she’d developed as a fashion model were transferable.
” Barbara closed her eyes and pressed her fingers into her temples.
“But you don’t make the mistake of underestimating her.
She may not be the strongest technical editor, but Luna knows the urban market like the back of her hand, and she has shrewd editorial instincts.
Most of all, Lunatic does not care what she has to do to succeed.
” Barbara rose and brushed off the front of her pants.
“You’re going to need to make a few staff changes, but there are some good people on that masthead.
Luna just made it hard to tell who is who. ”
“Maybe she and I can meet to discuss the magazine’s direction and who on staff was performing the best,” I replied, trying for diplomacy. Kofi Annan would have been proud, but Barbara just laughed.
“Puleeze. Luna Baxter is a serious handful,” she said, striding back to her desk. “You need to be careful with that one ’cause she’s going to try something.”