Lipstick Jungle

  “Thank you, Clare,” she said.

  Across from the receptionist’s desk was the elegant showroom where buyers and celebrities were shown the line. The walls and carpet were a dusky pink, and the ceiling was hung with two small Baccarat crystal chandeliers. It had taken weeks to get the color just right. The idea of pink was brilliant—women had a natural attraction to it, and it was flattering to nearly every complexion—but the reality of pink was usually a disaster. Too bright, and it was juvenile; while the wrong shade reminded everyone of antacid. But this pink, mixed with an undertone of beige, was perfect, creating an atmosphere that was sophisticated and soothing.

  In the front of the showroom, however, was a jarring note: A nearly full rack of samples from the spring line. The clothes had been sent to Neiman Marcus in Dallas just three days ago, and they weren’t scheduled to return until the end of the week. Victory’s stomach dropped to her knees.

  “Clare?” she asked. “When did the line come back?”

  “Oh,” Clare said, looking up nervously. “It came back this morning . . .”

  “Did Neiman’s call?”

  “I don’t think so,” Clare said, adding hopefully, “but I had to go out to the drugstore. Maybe Zoe took the message.”

  “Thanks,” Victory said, trying to maintain a nonchalant demeanor. She started down the long corridor to her office, passing the large pattern and cutting room, where four women were sitting behind sewing machines; two more rooms divided with cubicles where various publicists, assistants, and interns sat; another small office belonging to her corporate and media liaison; and finally, a small office in the back in which sat Marcia Zinderhoff, the office manager and accountant. Marcia’s door was, as usual, closed, and was adorned with a beware-of-killer-cat sign. Victory knocked and went in.

  “Hi,” Marcia said, matter-of-factly, looking up from her computer. Marcia was only a couple of years older than Victory, but she was one of those women who had probably looked middle-aged since high school. She lived in the same Queens neighborhood where she’d grown up, and had had the same boyfriend for the past fifteen years. Marcia was dull but brilliant at numbers, and Victory considered herself lucky to have her. “You could get a job at a big accounting firm on Wall Street, Marcia,” she’d once said. “You’d probably have more job security.”

  “My best security is making sure your books are done right,” Marcia replied. Marcia didn’t like change, and Victory knew that she could probably get away with paying her less. But she was a firm believer in the fact that when it came to employees, you got what you paid for, and that people deserved to be paid what they were worth. Marcia made a hundred thousand dollars a year, plus five percent of the profits.

  “I think we’re going to have a problem,” Victory said, sitting down on the small metal folding chair in front of Marcia’s desk. Marcia could have had a bigger office with nicer furniture, but said she liked her office like this—cheap and messy—because it discouraged visitors.

  “Yup.” Marcia nodded, taking a piece of gum out of the top drawer of her desk.

  “Shit,” Victory said. “I was hoping you were going to tell me that it was all in my head and not to worry and everything was going to be fine.”

  “It is all in your head,” Marcia said, chewing vigorously. “You know this stuff as well as I do, so, well, you know.” She hit a couple of buttons on the computer. “If the Japanese licensing comes through like last year, we should be okay. But the sales from the department stores are down fifty percent from last year.”

  “Ouch,” Victory said.

  “Hurts, doesn’t it,” Marcia said, nodding. “Bastards. That puts us back to where we were about three years ago.”

  “And if Japan is a disaster too . . . ?”

  “That wouldn’t be so good,” Marcia said. “That was two million and seventy thousand dollars last year in profits. We don’t really want to lose that.”

  “Bastards,” Victory said. Marcia looked at her questioningly, and Victory felt sick.

  “There’s some good news, though,” Marcia said. She swallowed her gum and took out another stick. Marcia ate gum like it was actual food, and Victory shuddered to think what her insides must look like. “The accessories you did last spring, for the duty-free shops? They’re doing really well. Those umbrellas and rainboots and gloves? So far, we’re showing a profit of five hundred and eighty-nine thousand dollars, and it’s going to be lousy winter weather for at least five more months.”

  “Rainboots and umbrellas,” Victory said. “Who would have thought?”

  “That’s the kind of stuff you need when you’re traveling and you always forget to pack. And it’s really hard to find cute umbrellas.”

  Victory nodded, wincing slightly at the word “cute.” Would she ever get away from it? “Victory Ford is just so cute!” her kindergarten teacher had written in her very first report card. The word followed her all the way from Minnesota to Manhattan. “Cute! Cute! Cute!” was the headline from her first interview in Women’s Wear Daily. She’d never been able to shed it.

  Cute, she thought with disgust. In other words, nonthreatening. Pleasant, but not good enough to be taken seriously . . .

  “The spring line wasn’t cute,” she said.

  “Nope. It wasn’t.” Marcia looked right at her.

  “What did you think about it? Really,” Victory asked, hating herself for appearing insecure in front of Marcia.

  “I thought it was . . . different,” Marcia said, noncommitally. “But really, you know?” She swallowed yet another piece of gum. “Long skirts aren’t that practical. Especially if you have to take the subway every day.”

  Victory nodded. She felt a stab of guilt. She’d let everyone down by trying to do something different, and even loyal Marcia was disappointed.

  “Thanks,” she said, standing up.

  “What are we going to do?” Marcia asked.

  “We’ll figure something out,” Victory said, with more confidence than she actually felt. “We always do.”

  She went down the hall to her office.

  Her own workspace was located in a sun-filled corner in the front of the building, overlooking Seventh Avenue. It was noisy, but the light made it worthwhile. The space was mostly utilitarian, containing a large Mission-style desk and a long, narrow library table on which she did her sketching. One wall was covered with corkboard, where designs in various stages of development were tacked up. In the center of the room was the one concession to glamour: four art deco chairs from a mansion in Palm Beach, covered with white leather, sat in front of an ornate wrought-iron-and-glass coffee table. The table was covered with magazines and newspapers, and on top of the pile were two large manila envelopes on which her name was written neatly in silver magic marker.

  She groaned and sat down on one of the chairs, ripping open the top envelope.

  Inside were several drawings done on heavy white sketch paper. She looked through them quickly, then put them back on the pile, leaning back in the chair and pressing her eyes closed with her fingers. As she’d expected, Miss Matsuda’s drawings sucked.

  She removed her hands from her face and stared at the second envelope. The silver writing suddenly appeared ominous. She turned it over so she didn’t have to look at it, and tore open the flap.

  These were worse than the first! She’d spent most of her life looking at drawings, analyzing them, trying to figure out what wasn’t working, and how, by changing the proportions by a few millimeters, she could make something better and more aesthetically pleasing. It took her only a few seconds to see that Miss Matsuda’s drawings were a disaster.

  She put the drawings on top of the pile, and stood up, shaking with anger. This was an insult. The girl had no talent, and in an attempt to copy her style, had taken her trademark details and turned them into a parody. That was it then. Miss Matsuda had made the decision for her. Years ago, Nico had told Victory something she’d never forgotten, and glancing down at Miss Matsuda’
s drawings, she was reminded of Nico’s words: “When it comes to business, you only have to remember one thing. You have to wake up in the morning and be able to look at yourself in the mirror. Of course, the trick is in understanding what you can and can’t tolerate in your own behavior.” There was simply no way she could look at herself in the mirror, knowing those designs were out there with her name on them.

  As if she would ever design anything so awful.

  Mr. Ikito was going to get a piece of her mind. She’d put up with enough of his abuse. He could be supportive and take his chances with her spring line, or he could have Victory Ford shops with nothing in them . . .

  She looked at her watch. It was now about one in the morning in Toyko; too late to call. And Mr. Ikito wasn’t her only problem. The department stores—her bread and butter for the last twenty years—seemed to be turning against her too.

  For a moment, she envisioned calling up everyone she knew in the fashion business and yelling at them, but anger didn’t tend to work if you were a woman. If she let anyone in the business know how hurt and angry and upset she was at the lousy reception she’d gotten for her last show, they would call her bitter and washed up. Only losers complained about their failures and bad luck, laying the blame everyplace but where it belonged—on oneself.

  She walked to the corkboard wall and examined her original drawings for the spring collection. Despite what the critics had said, she still thought they were beautiful; daring and original and new. Why hadn’t the rest of the world seen what she had? “Look, Vic,” Wendy had said at lunch. “I’ve seen this happen a million times with directors and actors and writers. Once you’ve had some success, the world wants to put you in a box and label you. When you try to do something different, suddenly you’re a threat. The critics’ first instinct is to kill you. And since they can’t literally murder you, they do the next best thing—they try to kill your spirit. It’s easy to handle success,” Wendy continued, chewing on a piece of lettuce. “The real test is how you handle failure.”

  Victory had had failures before, but back then they hadn’t mattered. There weren’t so many expectations, nor had her failures been so public. “I feel like everyone’s laughing at me behind my back.”

  “I know,” Wendy had said, nodding. “It sucks. But you have to remember that they’re not. Most people are too wrapped up in themselves to really pay attention . . .”

  “Hey!” Her assistant, Zoe, skittled into the room. “Sandy Berman from Neiman Marcus is on the phone. Clare said you were here, but I couldn’t find you.”

  “I was with Marcia,” Victory said.

  “Should I tell her you’re out?” Zoe asked, sensing her hesitation.

  “No. I’ll take it.”

  She sat down behind her desk. This was going to be an unpleasant conversation, as difficult for Sandy as it would be for herself. She’d been doing business with Sandy for ten years and they often said that they’d grown up in the business together. She braced herself and picked up the phone. “Sandy! Hi,” she said, as if nothing were wrong.

  “You must be exhausted,” Sandy murmured pleasantly. “You were traveling, right?”

  “Japan, Dallas, L.A., the usual,” Victory said with a shrug. “But I’m fine. How are you?”

  “Better now that Fashion Week is over.”

  They chuckled knowingly, and then there was a pause. Victory was tempted to fill it, but decided to let Sandy do the dirty work.

  “You know we love you at Neiman’s,” Sandy began.

  Victory nodded silently, a lump of fear forming in her throat.

  “And I loved the spring collection. Personally,” Sandy said. “But the general feeling is that it’s not as salable as your other collections.”

  “Really?” Victory said, feigning surprise. “Honestly, Sandy, I thought it was the best collection I’ve ever done.” She frowned. She hated having to sell herself to department store people. It felt cheap. But she couldn’t just roll over. “It’s a little bit different . . .”

  “I’m not saying it’s not beautiful,” Sandy broke in. “But there was a sort of general worry about who was going to wear it. If it were only up to me, it wouldn’t be a problem. But Neiman’s customers are more conservative than you think.”

  “I understand why they’re scared,” Victory said sympathetically. “But people are always scared of something new. I really think you should give the collection a chance. I think you’ll end up being surprised.”

  “I know how talented you are—that’s not the question,” Sandy said soothingly. “The good news is that we’re still going to take ten pieces.”

  “That’s so much, out of thirty-six . . .”

  “Well, it’s not our usual order,” Sandy agreed. “But the spring season was a tough sell. Frankly, Vic, I had to fight to get them to even take ten.”

  The lump traveled painfully down Victory’s esophagus, lodging itself in the middle of her chest. “I really appreciate your efforts, Sandy,” she said bravely.

  “Listen, Vic, we have a great history with you at Neiman’s, and I know we’re going to be working together for a long time in the future. We’re all looking forward to your fall collection,” Sandy said, obviously relieved at having delivered her bad news.

  If I’m still in business, Victory thought grimly, and hung up.

  For a few seconds she just sat there, trying to absorb what Sandy had said to her and what it meant for the company. The message was pretty clear: She’d better go back to what she was doing before, back to what was safe, or she was toast.

  “But I don’t want to,” she said aloud.

  “There’s some woman on the phone,” Zoe said, poking her head around the door.

  Victory looked at her in exasperation.

  “Ellen something? From some woman’s office. Lynn maybe?”

  “Lyne Bennett?” Victory asked.

  “Could be,” Zoe said.

  “Thanks,” Victory said tersely. Normally, she didn’t mind when Zoe couldn’t get people’s names right. But that was her fault as well—she was too casual and nice, the result being that her assistants were never quite on top of things.

  “Is he that old billionaire guy?” Zoe asked, with a look of disgust.

  Victory sighed and nodded. To a young woman like Zoe, Lyne Bennett probably did seem horrifyingly ancient. She suddenly hoped that Ellen was calling to cancel the date, and if she wasn’t, Victory considered canceling it herself. She couldn’t go out with a man like Lyne Bennett now, not when her whole life was falling apart. And even if she were on top of the world, what was the point? It was a waste of time, and Lyne Bennett probably would turn out to be a big old bore . . .

  “Hello, Ellen,” she said into the phone.

  “I talked to Lyne, and he said the Whitney opening would be perfect,” Ellen said. “I’ll call you a couple of days before then, to confirm.”

  “That’s fine,” Victory found herself saying, too weak to object.

  She hung up the phone, knowing she’d made a mistake. She hadn’t even had the date yet, but she could already tell that Lyne Bennett was going to be a pain in the ass. Didn’t his assistant have better things to do than arrange his social life?

  But that was how rich single men behaved. They turned their female employees into wife substitutes.

  She stood up and walked to the long table where she did her drawing. Neatly piled on the right corner were the sketches she’d started for the fall collection. She picked one up and stared at it critically.

  The lines seemed to blur in front of her face, and she began to panic. She couldn’t tell if the sketch was good or not. She put it down and picked up another, one of her favorites. She stared at it, shaking her head. She didn’t know. She just didn’t know anymore. This had never happened before. No matter had bad things were, she’d always been able to rely on her taste and her instincts. If they failed her now, she was dead.

  “Vic?”

  She jumped. Zoe was back in
her office. “It’s that woman again. From Lynn’s office?”

  Jesus Christ, she thought. She walked angrily to the phone and picked it up.

  “Yes, Ellen?” she said sternly.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Ellen said. “But I just talked to Lyne, and he wants to know if Cipriani’s is okay for dinner afterward.”

  “I didn’t know we were having dinner,” Victory said.

  Ellen lowered her voice. “He doesn’t usually do dinner on a first date, but apparently he’s very interested.”

  “Is he?” Victory asked, thinking bitterly that if he was, he was in the minority. But he probably didn’t read the fashion papers.

  “If you can’t make it, it’s okay,” Ellen said. “I’ll tell him you already have plans.”

  Victory considered for a moment. It probably wouldn’t hurt for her to be seen out with Lyne Bennett right now. It would give people something new to talk about, diverting attention away from her disastrous collection. She hated to be calculating when it came to romance, but there were times when you had to do whatever it took to help your business. Besides, she didn’t have to sleep with the man.

  “Tell Lyne I’d be delighted to have dinner with him,” she said.

  * * *

  “ALL I WANT IS love,” Jenny Cadine said sighing dramatically.

  “That and an Oscar,” Wendy said knowingly.

  She and Jenny were sitting on couches in the living room area of the loft, drinking white wine and smoking cigarettes. Jenny was like most female movie stars: Publicly, she insisted that she didn’t smoke or drink, but would do both, given the opportunity to do it in secret. Wendy suspected that Jenny probably smoked pot occasionally as well, but she was not one to judge—she and Shane still smoked a few times a year. She frowned and looked at her watch. It was nine-thirty. Where the hell was Shane . . . ?

  “If you can’t find love, I don’t know who can,” Wendy added, taking a sip of her wine. This comment was merely conciliatory. Jenny was considered one of the most beautiful women in the world, but hadn’t had a relationship for over three years, which really didn’t surprise Wendy. It wasn’t easy to go out with a movie star. It took a special kind of (sick, Wendy thought) person who actually enjoyed being followed by the paparazzi, and then movie stars were traveling all the time. And every set became like its own intense family unit, with intrigues and drama. There wasn’t really room for a spouse in a movie star’s life, and it was something that most men figured out pretty quickly.