Chapter 12 #2
During a magazine issue’s production process, editors hang miniature versions of finished stories on the Wall, according to where they fall in the magazine, to review the overall layout.
So, every month, we’d literally see the magazine coming together in front of our eyes.
The first week of production, there would be a page or two of the FOB (front of book, the beginning section of a magazine with all the ads) on the Wall.
The next week, most of the FOB would be there, along with maybe one feature.
By week three, we’d really get going and most of the well (the section with style spreads and longer articles in the middle of the magazine) would go up.
Week four was for the last couple well features, the cover story, the BOB (back of book, the last pages of a magazine where the features in the well spilled over), and the cover itself.
Miniatures of at least half the June issue’s stories should have already been hung up by now.
I would have to put together a table of contents and figure out a cover subject that the team and I could deliver in two weeks.
The only thing I was totally sure of at that moment was that I didn’t have a second to spare.
While I hadn’t expected an extravagant Lucinda-esque setup, I was unprepared for the grimy, cramped, rectangular space that assaulted my eyeballs when Von unlocked the door of my office after the Monday staff meeting: a hot-pink leather swivel chair peacocked behind a scratched desk; matching magenta guest chairs were artfully placed in front of the desk to hide the scuffs and grooves pockmarking its fading black paint; a dusty plywood bookcase was filled with gossip and hair magazines in front of which lay a threadbare floral-print rug spotted with stains whose origins I did not want to contemplate.
Two of the walls were painted bright fuchsia and covered in framed posters of Dru Hill, Jodeci, and Boyz II Men.
The décor was obviously Luna’s handiwork.
With a master yogi–level exhalation, I turned to Von, who had been waiting for my reaction. He couldn’t take it any longer. “I know, boss lady. It’s tragic in here.”
“Von, it’s so much worse than tragic.” I tried to channel the two pranayama breathwork classes that Sofie had dragged me to before she’d finally processed that I was more of a kickboxing girl.
“We need paint and upholstery and a new rug, stat,” Von insisted, pulling out a notebook.
“What we need is to burn some sage,” I replied, running my hand over the top of the desk, then examining the thick dust on my fingers. “And cleaning supplies. Lots of cleaning supplies.”
Of course Luna left the place a mess. I kept finding evidence of her presence everywhere, like mouse droppings: nail clippers, a curling iron, tampons. I located some rubber gloves in the kitchen closet and got to work alongside Von, much to his surprise.
“I have this, I swear,” he protested after I kicked off my boots.
I motioned to his monochromatic cream-and-gray outfit anchored by cashmere sweatpants and a matching knit jacket. “Are you serious? I want to wrap you and that fabulous outfit in plastic wrap. If anything, you’re the one who should be sitting out this gross cleaning session.”
“I’ll take that as the highest compliment, boss.” Von did a little twirl. “My last girlfriend used to work at Ralph Lauren and scored this fab fit.”
“Well, your last girlfriend had killer taste,” I said, trying to keep my surprise that he liked women out of my voice.
“I know, right?” Von shot over his shoulder as he removed all the copies of Hot Hair from the bookcase. “She was so stylish, I probably would have stayed with her forever. But we broke up when I accidentally spilled cranberry juice on her white Shabby Chic love seat.”
My hoot of laughter startled the Sugar staffers, who were finding reasons to walk by while we were cleaning.
It was hard to tell if the incredulity on their faces meant they were impressed or horrified by the sight of me on my knees, scouring the underside of the desk.
It took Von and me a few hours to scrub the office enough so that I would even sit in the desk chair.
We were both spattered in so much dirt that the undersides of my nails turned into black crescents, and it became hard to distinguish between Von’s freckles and dots of grime.
I sent him to buy new pillows and an inexpensive rug, and we planned on painting the next weekend.
I was determined to make the space mine.
In stark contrast to the unglamorous spectacle of me plucking hairballs out of drawers, deliveries from local florists were arriving almost every hour.
Sugar, while obviously in need of a reboot, had still made waves as the only magazine for urban women, and there were apparently tons of folks interested in its future.
Congratulatory flowers came from record labels, beauty companies, streetwear fashion lines, and even a couple former Park Ave Pub colleagues.
When Von brought me an arrangement of sunflowers so tall we had to place it on the floor, I was surprised that they were from Joseph.
I’d sent him an email that morning to apologize and to ask how the dinner went.
Joe’s curt reply told me that he was still mad, but the flowers implied that he wanted to forgive me.
Tucked in among the bouquets was an enormous vase filled with calla lilies in a purple so deep that they appeared almost black. I wondered who had sent me something so original. Then I read the card:
Well, well, Nikki, aren’t you the surprise contender? Congratulations on becoming the newest target in a world predisposed to hate you. Watch your back, and your front. And watch out for Barbara …
All my best,
Alonzo
Von was watching as I read, so instead of freaking out, I said, “From L’Oreal,” and excused myself to go to the ladies’ room.
I was hyperventilating as I locked the stall door.
It was a full twenty minutes before I was ready to face anyone.
As I turned to walk out of the stall, I realized that my hand was still gripping Alonzo’s card.
I ripped it up and flushed it down the toilet.