2. Hildy
Hildy
TWO WEEKS BEFORE THE PRESCOTT-SCHAFER WEDDING
NEW YORK—Sometimes Hildy liked to pause in the middle of a staff meeting to pat herself on the back.
Not literally, because she didn’t want to pull focus from junior members of the editorial team.
This was more of a quiet inhale of satisfaction.
I fucking did it. Built my own magazine from the ground up.
Maybe their offices weren’t on the top floor of a skyscraper with million-dollar views, and their bottom line could be more robust, but you had to savor your victories.
This sage advice came directly from a guest columnist in one of the first issues of Life, Styled.
What was the point of winning if you didn’t enjoy it?
Or pretend to be happy just to be nominated, if the occasion demanded.
Hildy shook off that unpleasant memory. Nothing but blue skies from now on. Total domination of the lifestyle journalism market was almost within reach.
Good luck stealing this prize, Walter. Hildy was about to checkmate him so hard he’d be seeing stars.
The thought of scoring the ultimate victory after all this time was like turning her face up to the sun following a decade of winter.
Was there a greater feeling in the universe than being in possession of a hot scoop?
Especially when the intel was this juicy—and you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt your nemesis didn’t have a clue.
This time, Walter Burns was going down for the count.
She fought to contain a smile as she made a note for a future listicle (Better than Sex: Feelings We Wish We Could Bottle), earning a sharp glance from her managing editor.
Corinne would find out soon enough. The only thing more delicious than holding on to a secret this big was blowing someone else’s mind with the reveal.
Plus they needed to pack, so time was of the essence.
“Thank you,” Hildy said when the last report had been delivered. Ordinarily she would have had follow-up questions about the concept of vegan ceviche, but today there were bigger fish to marinate. “Corinne, could you hang back for a minute? I need to pick your brain.”
Judging by the speed with which her features, fashion, and food editors fled the room, they must have assumed the discussion was about to turn to data and metrics, aka Corinne’s domain.
“Spill before your head explodes,” Corinne said as soon as they were alone. Her refusal to pander to Hildy’s moods was both her best and worst quality as a co-worker.
Hildy propped her elbows on the table, leaning forward to make intense eye contact. “Guess who’s going to France?”
“You know I hate guessing games. And rhetorical questions, if that’s what you were going for.”
It occurred to Hildy that she could have found a more receptive audience for her headline news, but she couldn’t risk the information leaking beyond this room.
“You and me,” Hildy informed the curmudgeon in the charcoal wool dress.
Corinne’s frown deepened. “We don’t have time for a vacation.”
“Good thing this is work.” Which would strongly resemble a vacation, but that was a fringe benefit.
“What kind of work?” Corinne asked, still wary.
“We’re changing up the August issue.” Hildy made a show of looking over both shoulders. “I have a hot lead for Turning the Page.”
“Who’s getting married?”
“How do you know it’s a wedding?” The entire point of their most popular monthly column was to commemorate all kinds of major life events, from weddings to graduations, house buying to divorce, childbirth to empty nests, with a lavish full-color photo spread and accompanying feature.
Part of the Life, Styled mission was to show there were many chapters in a person’s story, including ones that didn’t come with presents and cake.
“Wild guess,” Corinne deadpanned. “Unrelated to your general obsession with wedding coverage, which I’m pretending not to notice.”
“Fine. It’s a wedding. But not just any wedding.” She let the pause expand until Corinne looked up, then treated her to a double-barreled brow lift.
“Fiona Freaking Prescott’s wedding.”
Corinne stared at her for several beats. “Are you fucking kidding me. You got it?”
“One hundred percent in the bag.”
“Hell yes.” Corinne savagely ripped off a bite of bagel with her teeth, chewing like it was the flesh of her enemies. “What kind of clambake are we talking?”
“The social event of the century.” As she spoke, Hildy imagined the words in bold type, splashed across a two-page spread.
Maybe they’d do a bleached-out effect, give it a retro feel.
Or saturate the whole thing with a golden glow.
“An American take on the royal wedding. The most hush-hush, closely guarded, A-list-only gathering of one-percenters and corporate titans since the Rockefeller era. The Vanity Fair Oscar Party of the business world, only a hundred times more exclusive.”
“Are you going to wrap this up today or should I get more coffee?”
“Do you know how hard it’s been to keep this inside?
I’ve been bursting to tell someone.” Hildy spun her chair in a quick circle, releasing some of the pent-up energy.
“This is the culmination of months of scheming. The lunches, the brunches, drinks and DMs, hitting up friends of friends, the aunt of a cousin’s roommate’s yoga instructor, working my way closer and closer to the center of the web.
” She held up a clenched fist. “Sometimes I amaze myself.”
Corinne sighed with what Hildy chose to read as affection. “So what’s the deal?”
“The party starts in two weeks, at an undisclosed location in France. Mysterious, no? A full slate of prewedding events, and then the big day itself. Secrets within secrets.” Hildy made woo-woo fingers.
“Which we will exclusively share with Life, Styled subscribers one month postwedding. They get privacy on their big day, we get a massive circulation boost.” And permanent bragging rights over their main competitor for wedding coverage.
She wasn’t going to let anyone forget that part.
“I’m going to need maps, flight schedules, weather data.
” As the tiny calculator that lived inside Corinne’s brain whirred to life, Hildy zoned out.
She was picturing Walter’s face when he realized she’d beaten him to the punch.
The tight jaw, flushed cheeks, hands digging through that thick dark hair in frustration …
if only she could see it for herself. But that would be hard to swing without surveillance, and she’d promised Corinne not to do anything legally compromising.
It was the high road all the way: making him cry for mercy from a safe distance.
“Earth to Hildy.” Corinne snapped her fingers. “Are we talking vineyard? Riviera? Cathedral? Shit, is it Notre-Dame?”
“Country, not city,” Hildy corrected. “I’m thinking remote and private. Secluded yet lavish. Apparently it’s going to be very Sleeping Beauty–core.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
Neither did Hildy, but she was willing to roll with a vague aura of fairy-tale magic, presuming tiaras would be involved.
She gave Corinne the few establishing details she’d managed to wheedle out of the bride.
“We fly into Bordeaux, and then they transport us to the destination. That’s all they’re telling us so far. ”
“Are we going to be blindfolded?”
“The vibe I’m getting is less ‘sex cult’ and more ‘European refinement.’ The word ‘terroir’ was used.”
“Wines of the Bordeaux region,” Corinne voice memoed herself. “Should we start researching tonight?” She mimed tipping back a glass.
“I booked a hot oil treatment.” Hildy fluffed her curls.
“Might do a little shopping on the way home. I’m thinking linen everything, definitely a new straw hat.
” She shivered with anticipation. “This is a major turning point for us. It’s going to put Life, Styled on the map. You want to know the best part?”
“Securing the financial future of our magazine?”
Hildy shook her head. “Fiona said I’m the only one she trusts to do the story justice.
Which means no Walter Burns lurking around like a fox, or—a wolf.
No, a weasel.” Because foxes and wolves suggested a certain level of charisma, and the only thing Hildy wanted to imply was that Walter was underhanded.
“The point is, he may have won a stupid award, but that doesn’t mean anything except the judges are probably misogynists. ”
“In your unbiased opinion.”
“As a journalist,” Hildy agreed, hand to heart.
“Let’s hope you’re right.” Corinne rapped her knuckles against the surface of the table. “Knock on fake wood. We can’t afford another episode of the Walter and Hildy show.”
“That was not my fault. You know I never back down from a challenge.”
Corinne blinked in mock confusion. “What exactly was the challenge? ‘Hildy, I bet you can’t lick my tonsils.’ Or no, ‘Hildy, I dare you to show up at the awards ceremony in an itty-bitty silk dress that leaves nothing to the imagination.’”
“It’s called cross-promotion. We feature the designer in Life, Styled, I wear their work at a high-profile public event. Representing our brand is part of my job description.”
“What’s our brand again—eat your heart out, Walter Burns?”
“Presenting a glossy package so alluring and fresh no one can look away.” That was the genius of a bias-cut slip dress with a daringly low scoop in back, if you knew how to move.
Feast your eyes on this, journalists of the tristate area!
And yes, that list happened to include Walter, but as far as Hildy was concerned, her only mistake had been letting him get close enough to touch.
Corinne shook her head. “I guess it was na?ve of me to think we’d finally hit the statute of limitations on this situation.”
“De-escalation takes two.”
“Does it, though? Seems to me that as an adult woman you are fully capable of letting go of a grudge from high school.” Corinne lowered her voice on the last two words, like they were too embarrassing to say at full volume.
“It doesn’t matter how old we were. That was the starting line of my professional career.”
“What some might call your villain origin story.”
“Thanks to Walter!” Hildy closed her eyes. He wasn’t going to dim her shine today of all days. “Fine, yes, I’m partly responsible for what happened at the banquet. Like twenty-five percent.”
“And Walter is the other seventy-five?”
“No, at least forty percent of the blame belongs to the tequila. The rest is Walter. You know how ruthless he is. There’s no limit to how low he’ll stoop to sabotage me.”
“He certainly looked like he was ready to get down and dirty. Right there behind the coatrack.”
Hildy pretended to inspect her cuticles, even though she’d had her nails done three days ago.
If she didn’t replay the memory, maybe she wouldn’t betray herself with a blush.
“Like I said, that won’t be an issue. Walter Burns can read about the wedding of the century at the same time everyone else does—on the pages of Life, Styled. ”
“I expected an evil laugh at the end of that monologue. But I appreciate the restraint.”
Hildy flicked her hair over her shoulder. “I am a classy bitch.”