Chapter 22 #2
“But these are not normal circumstances, Nikki. I hired you despite your damaged reputation and fractured relationships. And now I have to deal with an August issue that is DOA on the newsstand, plus the fact that the industry is abuzz with not only our Betty cover humiliation but also my new EIC who thought it was a good idea to do a striptease at a cover party.”
“It wasn’t exactly a striptease…” I trailed off as Barbara’s eyes widened.
“You are so consumed with fairness, newbie. When are you going to realize how weak that makes you sound? Everything you do will be judged behind the filter of your past transgressions. It is what it is.”
All the fight in my body was replaced by fatigue. “What do I do, Barbara?”
“This August issue is going to cancel out the strides you were making. So, you fucking focus on doing your fucking job in the time that you have left, Miss StyleList,” she replied slowly, carefully enunciating every word.
Then she walked back around her desk and sat down.
Without looking up, she told me, “You can go. In fact, go home. You look like hell.”
I crept out of the office, into a cab, into my apartment, and under my covers. Another day that should have been victorious had turned to shit. I tried to call Teresa, Denyse, and Sofie to vent, but none of them picked up.
I got week-two sales figures for the August issue on the day that Serge visited the office to discuss a September fashion issue collab between Reine and Sugar.
The numbers were predictably dreadful. It didn’t matter how cool the design looked; most people won’t buy a magazine if they don’t recognize either the brand or the cover subject.
Sugar was new and Betty Brown didn’t even have a single out yet.
At least the June and July issues had sold more than anyone thought, so we had a little wiggle room for August. But it was still a blow to my team’s mojo; they’d been the darlings of the office for a couple months but were now walking around with hangdog looks as Bella and Decode’s August sales surpassed ours by a huge margin.
The one bright spot was the bales of mail addressed to me that had been delivered every day for a week.
Those who had bought the August issue loved it, and many of them were writing in because of my editor’s letter.
I got mail about my readers’ breakups, their scary new beginnings, the adventures they were having, and how much my message inspired them.
The reaction was beyond anything I’d expected—which helped bolster my confidence at a moment when I needed it most. And that made what I wrote in Nikki’s Notes even more true; I needed Sugar as much if not more than my readers did.
I tried to channel that energy as Serge breezed into our reception area like the embodiment of a sunny summer afternoon.
His sky-blue linen shirt was unbuttoned to the waist to expose layers of gold and diamond chains; his white linen pants were oddly crisp, like he hadn’t sat down all day; his long, straight hair was loose and flowing as if a fan were trained on him at all times; and the scent of bergamot and sage trailed him as he and his assistant walked down the hall.
“Salut, Serge. Welcome to our office.” I double-kissed his cheeks in the French style.
As he cast a critical eye across our floor, I was grateful that I’d strategically placed several oversized arrangements of pink and white peonies to break up the man cave décor, and that I’d had a caterer prepare a pretty lunch in the conference room.
“Merci, Nicole.” Serge batted his eyes at me. He was wearing more mascara than I was. “I’ve been looking forward to our meeting, especially after I saw your August issue. I love how you styled that random girl. It was quite interesting. And Tyger is a fabulous photographer.”
Von had asked Imani, Freddy, and Sondra to join us in the conference room for lunch to chat about the collab. We winced in unison at Serge’s characterization of Betty as “that random girl.”
“Betty Brown is going to be a huge star when her album comes out,” Sondra started, but I put a hand on her arm.
Serge clearly didn’t care, and I could see that his attention was already wandering toward his assistant, who was piling blackened salmon and grilled vegetables on his plate.
To get Serge’s attention back, I motioned for Von to pour him some of the crisp Sancerre I’d put on ice.
“Très jolie.” Serge sighed as the glass was placed in front of him. “How did you know that I simply cannot eat fish without white wine?”
“A lucky guess,” I said, hoping the wine would relax him. “We’d love to show you our idea for a September issue spread for Reine’s fall line.”
Freddy pulled out a mood board that we’d worked on until the wee hours the night before.
Serge’s fashion line, Reine, featured edgy silhouettes in classic, quality fabrics.
Each piece had a distinctive crown logo embroidered somewhere visible yet inconspicuous.
Our idea was to do a shoot where we used models of all sizes to showcase how Reine would make every woman look like a queen.
We would build sets with elaborate floral backdrops, and we’d have a few diamond crowns and tiaras on hand to mix in with the accessories.
The detailed mood board reflected the lush regal vibe we envisioned for the shoot.
Freddy explained the concept, then proudly placed the mood board on the table in front of Serge. As a size-fourteen fashion stylist, this concept was especially close to her heart.
Serge’s face contorted, then he squinted and tapped on an image of one of the plus-sized models. “What is that?”
Freddy thought he was indicating the flowers. “That’s a representation of one of the oversized floral backdrops we would create.”
“No, this woman.” Serge tapped the board a little harder. “What is that?”
Imani sat up and frowned, clearly displeased at his use of the word that to describe the model. “That’s a beautiful Black woman, Serge, who would look gorgeous in your designs,” she explained patiently.
He rolled his eyes at her and took an audible gulp of his wine. “Yes, I can see it’s a woman, but why on earth do you think that she”—more loud tapping—“would look good in my clothes?”
Freddy’s face crumpled. “These are your customers,” she said through slightly trembling lips. “They, I, love Reine, and we thought that all women would like to see themselves represented as the queens that they are.”
“So, you really are proposing that you put my clothing on this … this fatty?” Serge looked incredulous, then waggled his index finger. “Absolument pas! Absolutely not!”
As he calmly picked up a fork and speared a piece of salmon, the rest of us froze, only our eyes darting toward one another’s, making contact then skating away before we could convey more than collective disbelief.
I was seething but thinking of the advertising dollars Reine had already contributed to Sugar’s coffers. “Your clothing is sized up to sixteen. Don’t you want all of Reine’s potential consumers to see themselves in your clothing?” I asked carefully, keeping my expression neutral.
“T’es fou? Why would I want that? And who even wants to see that?” Serge downed his wine and motioned to Von to pour him some more. “No, I am selling them fantasy, not reflecting the sad reality of their undisciplined lives.”
I could see the tears forming in Freddy’s eyes and Imani’s fists balling up. Sondra hadn’t said much until that moment, when she muttered, “The nerve of this mofo,” under her breath. It came out much louder than she must have intended because Serge swung toward her and slowly asked, “Excusez moi?”
I shook my head at Sondra before she could reply.
Von was about to pour more wine into Serge’s glass, but I motioned for him to stop and stood up.
“Serge, we are done here. I’d be happy to make you a to-go plate, but I’m not going to sit here and let you insult my team or my readers,” I said, much more decisively than I felt.
“Suit yourself.” Serge gathered his things and stomped out of the conference room without a backward glance.
I expected him to walk toward the reception desk.
Instead, Serge marched across the NuVoices floor and right into Barbara’s office.
None of us spoke as we watched him through her glass wall, clearly relaying his umbrage-filled version of what had just happened via cartoonishly animated gestures.
I sat heavily back into my chair, contemplating the gravity of what I’d done.
Suddenly, I heard snapping behind me, then light clapping, then thunderous applause.
I turned to see Von, Imani, Freddy, and Sondra giving me a standing ovation.
Even though I hadn’t considered this when I was kicking our biggest fashion advertiser out of the conference room, I hoped the pendulum of office opinion about me might briefly swing in a positive direction again.
I tried to hold on to that optimism when Barbara beckoned me into her office.
She pointed to her sofa, so I sat down and watched her pace back and forth, her long legs covering the length of the room in a few steps.
Finally, in a low, even voice that I now understood indicated the depths of her fury, she said, “Please consider yourself to be officially on thin ice, Nikki. Serge pulled his ads from both Sugar and Bella. So, you just cost us hundreds of thousands of dollars, at a time when the company cannot afford to lose a single penny. And your August issue is circling the drain.”
Barbara stopped in front of the sofa, but instead of looking down at me, she closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with the palm of her hand. “The only thing saving you is how much your June and July issues exceeded our sales projections.”
I started to say something, but Barbara shook her head. Her last words to me that day were: “Thin ice, Nicole Rose. Very thin fucking ice.”
I trotted to the ladies’ room as fast as I could without attracting attention.
My tears flowed the minute I locked myself in a bathroom stall, the sting of Barbara’s words as sharp and unexpected as stepping on a piece of sea glass on a New York City sidewalk.
My responsibility was to defend and represent my audience, or so I thought.
I hadn’t known that, as the EIC of Sugar, I’d still be getting caught between my values and my job.
I stayed in the stall for a long time, at a loss about what to do.
What finally got me out of the bathroom was remembering the promise I’d made to my readers in my last editor’s letter.
Wasn’t this a moment to be transparent? I decided to rewrite the September Nikki’s Notes while the emotions were fresh, so my eyes were still red and puffy as I sat at my desk, scribbling my internal monologue into a notebook.
Hey, girlfriend. I used to be a senior editor at a mainstream fashion magazine that almost never featured women who look like us on its pages.
Most of the models were white, six feet tall, and not over size two.
My editor in chief wouldn’t even consider putting Tyisha on the cover—which is partially why I’m extra honored to have the host of America’s Next Cover Girl be on the cover of Sugar’s first September fashion issue!
Sure, I occasionally succeeded in getting stories about Black women into the mainstream mag.
But more often, I’d pitch ideas that would be shot down.
When that happened, I’d protest, then give up.
When I became the EIC of Sugar, I decided that, no matter what, I would create a magazine that represented us—and that I would defend this audience of dope, fun, goal-oriented women of color without compromise.
Well, today I was asked to compromise that vision by none other than the designer of a popular women’s fashion brand.
I was told that beautiful Black women with real curves aren’t good enough to be photographed in their clothes.
I’m so freakin’ tired of people imposing beauty standards on women of color that don’t jibe with how we feel about ourselves.
So, girlfriend, this time I risked it all to protest—even though I knew the designer was a major advertiser, which meant our business could lose a lot of money.
Although it was scary to anger the bean counters at my company, it felt amazing to finally stand strong for what I believe in—and to defend the right of every woman to see herself looking like a queen.
I hope you feel the love that I and the entire Sugar team put into this September issue.
And I hope you keep your integrity intact and walk your talk this month. I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine.
Love, Nikki
Although writing the letter had calmed my nerves, I knew I was done for the day. As if he had read my mind, I heard a light tapping at my door, then Von peeked into my office.
“Ready to get the fuck out of here, boss?” he asked softly. “Your team wants to buy you a drink.”
Anything in which friendly faces and tequila were involved sounded good to me. I grabbed my bag.