Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
I called Barbara over the weekend to tell her what happened with the Bentley guy, expecting outrage and sympathy. Instead, the line was so silent, I finally had to ask if she was still there.
“Yeah, I’m here, trying to figure out why you’re so freaked out that you would call me on Saturday morning after the party of the year,” she griped.
“Hang on.” I could make out a woman’s voice in the background, then Barbara whispered a reply, her hand clearly over the receiver to muffle the sound.
Then she got back on the phone. “Okay, Nikki, seriously, what is the issue?”
I was almost too stunned to answer. “I just … feel threatened by what happened. Clearly Alonzo is telling people stuff that could put me in a dangerous position.”
I heard dishes clanking and the low whirring of a coffee grinder in Barbara’s background. “It was probably Leo Roberson. He’s bald and has a white Bentley. Leo runs the promotions department at Too Loud Records.”
“Wait, you know this guy?
“Everyone knows Leo.” Barbara blew out a long breath.
“The whole Too Loud crew is notorious for their aggressive womanizing. Shit, the whole music industry is known for womanizing. Alonzo may have whetted their appetite, but you’re the new pretty young EIC, so lots of thirsty guys in fancy cars are going to roll up on you after industry parties. ”
“Barbara, I did not sign up for rape-y dudes dripping in diamonds threatening me when I turn them down.”
“Actually, that is exactly what you signed up for, Miss StyleList. You signed up for it when you abandoned your common sense to mess with Alonzo and then when you left your ivory tower to slum it with me at NuVoices.”
“Are you saying that it was my fault?”
“Jesus, Nikki. Of course not. But urban music is chock-full of a certain type of guy who wants what he wants and is used to getting his way. You obviously know this from personal experience, so you shouldn’t be so surprised.
” Barbara slurped her coffee. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go enjoy my day. ”
“But what am I supposed to do?”
“You’re supposed to act like you didn’t just fall off the turnip truck and toughen the fuck up. And you should do a write-up on the Red Party for the magazine.”
Before I could say anything else that Barbara would clearly interpret as whiny, she hung up, leaving me feeling vaguely stupid and totally na?ve for being upset.
Apparently, Barbara’s exasperation with me did not dissipate over the weekend. She stormed into my office early on Monday, closed my door with a loud thud, and demanded, “What is this I hear about you putting Soleil on Sugar’s August cover?”
Soleil was a neo soul singer who’d released a critically acclaimed album a couple years prior, and her sophomore effort was coming out in July. Soleil was pretty, talented, and all her songs were empowering to women.
“Her CD comes out the week the August issue hits newsstands,” I explained.
Barbara rubbed her temples, then made herself comfortable in one of the chairs in front of my desk.
“Nikki, let me school you,” she said, like she was explaining fractions to a kindergartner.
“Sugar is a magazine. Magazines can make a lot of money from newsstand sales. To do that, you need to put someone on the cover who appeals to a lot of people who will buy a lot of copies.” She paused and I waited for a second to see if Magazine 101 was over before responding.
“And I take it you do not think Soleil will sell a lot of copies,” I replied slowly as Barbara put her index finger to her nose: bingo. “But why? She’s like the ideal Sugar woman.”
Barbara stared at the new rug I had laid down that week and pressed both index fingers on the innermost corners of her eyes.
Finally, she looked up. “Nikki, Soleil’s first album sold like three hundred thousand copies.
That’s not even gold. She might be the ideal Sugar woman to the crystal-gazing, incense-burning, head-wrap girls in Brooklyn, but the rest of the country, i.e.
, ninety-eight percent of Sugar’s potential readership, doesn’t have a goddamn clue who she is. ”
“But Soleil is so positive. You don’t think she’s a good role model?”
“Of course she is. So give her an inside story, profile her, review her album or something,” Barbara said firmly, standing up. “Just don’t put her on the cover, for god’s sake—that is, if you want to reach anyone west of Philadelphia and east of California.”
My instinct was to push back, because I loved Soleil’s vibe. But Barbara had a point. Sugar was not only for me and my friends. “Okay, Barbara, I get it. You know what sells better than I do.”
“Yes, I do. And you had better learn quickly. We don’t have time for me to hold your hand while you get this right,” she barked. “You’re coming up on two months here. A little over four months left…”
I said nothing, my thoughts drifting back to my last conversation with Marie. She did warn me. Barbara’s lessons were valuable, but she was not a natural teacher. She had no patience and clearly preferred to manage me like a mouse, using electric shocks versus cheese rewards.
Barbara eyed me appraisingly. “One more thing, newbie. I heard that Alonzo hired Luna to work on Groove. This might turn into a dogfight.” With that, Barbara stomped out of my office to administer more electric shocks across the NuVoices floor.
Pulling Soleil off the cover broke my heart, and I hated having to call her publicist. After I apologized profusely, the publicist graciously accepted a six-page inside profile.
But now I didn’t have a clue what newsstand sales–generating star I could book for a cover ASAP.
I’d already shot Sinclaire for July, but the August issue needed to be finished in a few weeks.
In the magazine world, we ideally worked on three issues at a time: assigning stories for one, editing the stories for the next, while putting the third issue to bed.
I was already behind deadline and dangerously close to missing my printer deadline, which would mean missing my newsstand date, which would be certain death for that issue—and for me.
As I was typing a panicky message to my entertainment editor, an email from Barbara flashed on my screen.
It read: “I’ve called Jerome Jermaine, the producer you met at the Red Party.
He’s taking you to dinner this week and schooling you some more on what constitutes hot.
JJ’s got his hands in everything, and he’ll get you up to speed fast.”
When I called Kiara to get her take, she chuckled into the phone. “He is a playa, love,” she cautioned me. “Have fun, but don’t get caught up or caught out there.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve got a man,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure that was still true.
After the Red Party, I was too shaken to be alone, so I’d gone to Joseph’s apartment instead of home.
He’d taken one look at me and kindly pulled back his bedcovers for me without a word.
Over the weekend, we’d fallen back into a tense coexistence—but it felt like we both knew it wouldn’t last.
“Exactly,” Kiara replied. “Exactly.”
Joseph hit the ceiling when I let him know I was having dinner that Thursday with JJ. I told him casually while I was in his bathroom, washing my face. There was silence for a second, then Joseph appeared in the bathroom doorway.
“How is this cool, Nicole? Even I know Jerome Jermaine’s reputation,” he exclaimed.
“It’s just work, Joseph,” I tried to reassure him. “He’s going to school me on the music industry—who’s out there now and how to identify up-and-comers.”
“Oh, he’s going to school you,” Joseph shot back. “Baller 101.”
“Fine. I get your point. But Barbara set it up so I have no choice, okay?” I squeezed by him to go into the bedroom. Hoping to distract him, I unzipped my work bag. “But take a look, honey. It’s my first issue. Now at least you know what I’ve been killing myself over.”
I passed him the magazine with a huge smile.
My new art director hadn’t finished the redesign, but she and I had labored over the pages and Sugar already looked drastically different.
For my first cover—June’s music and summer style issue—I’d landed an interview with internationally renowned DJ Cassius and his wife, Latika, who was the star of a popular network sitcom that featured five Black women living in Atlanta.
I couldn’t believe they’d agreed, but Tika had a new movie premiering and Cassius was about to head out on a world tour; the timing was perfect.
It didn’t hurt that Barbara had shown a lot of love over the years to Cassius’s Jam Rock music label.
Some people even credited her with the explosive success of their main artist, Sabryna, because Barbara had championed her back when she had a bad weave, a thick Caribbean accent, and zero hit records in sight.
Jam Rock owed Barbara and, therefore, Sugar.
I had to put the June issue to bed within a couple weeks of joining NuVoices, so I didn’t have time to book a photographer and studio.
But I was able to use some never-before-seen outtakes from a photo shoot the couple had already done to promote the movie and tour.
DJ Cassius and Tika were in black tie on the cover; she shone in a gold Dior gown, and he looked clean in a classic tux, his signature diamond C pendant glittering under the studio lights.
I’d done the interview myself and had gotten Tika to reveal for the first time that she was pregnant.
It was a coup that yielded an explosive cover line, sure to make the issue fly off newsstands.
Joseph scanned the cover, then flipped through, reading nothing but taking in every page.
He was the first person who’d seen it other than the NuVoices crew.
When the box of preview issues hit the office, the entire Sugar team had erupted into cheers.
Even the doubters couldn’t hate on the cover or the rest of the issue.
We had tons more work to do, but the shift was already dramatic.
Barbara came out to see what the commotion was about, and the office had fallen silent while she surveyed the cover and carefully turned each page of the magazine.
She’d obviously seen mock-ups, but it was another thing entirely to hold a fresh-off-the-press issue in your hands.
“You’ve nailed your debut, newbie. This is solid work,” Barbara proclaimed, her normally unsympathetic expression relaxing.
It was a brief reprieve as her next words were, “I’ll schedule a meeting with you this week.
We’ll do a page-by-page postmortem so I can tell you where you fucked up.
” My joy had ebbed a little, but then Barbara winked at me.
She turned to my team and said, “You guys all did a great job! Lunch is on me today.”
The office had breathed a sigh of relief, and someone played Nas’s song “If I Ruled the World.” Von high-fived me as the team sang Lauryn Hill’s verse, “If I ruled the world, I’d free all my sons. Black diamonds and pearls. If I ruled the world…”
Now, I was dying for Joseph’s reaction. I waited while he surveyed the ad on the back cover for a little-known beauty brand that specialized in additive-free products for natural hair.
He stared at the model’s glorious locs, and said slowly, “Well, it’s not exactly StyleList …
but I can tell you put in a lot of work.
The cover is great and I’m sure the next issue will be better than this one.
” I must have been visibly frustrated. “Even better than this one,” he amended, then reached out to draw me into bed.
“I’ll read the whole thing tomorrow,” he said, pulling me on top of him.
By the time he unhooked my bra and was gently licking the tips of my nipples the way he knew I liked, my resistance had broken down.
I ripped off his boxers and rode him until I had a dizzying orgasm that blew everything else out of my mind.