Lipstick Jungle

  After the luncheon it was cold and raining outside, typical early February weather. Victory realized that she’d forgotten to order a car, and all the other women were getting into cars with drivers lined up like carriages outside of Lincoln Center. There was something so eerily glamorous and rich about it—all those women who made their own money and paid for their own clothes (except the Prada wives, who didn’t pay for anything) and had their own cars and drivers and even decided supreme court cases. It should have been inspiring, but Victory “felt” nothing. Luckily Muffie Williams came along and took pity on her and offered her a lift in her car. Victory got into the back of the luxurious Mercedes S 600 Sedan, literally biting her nails with fear about her future. She realized her nail polish was chipped and she hadn’t had a manicure in four weeks. She wondered if Muffie noticed that her hair was dirty.

  “What are you feeling for fall?” Muffie asked. She meant to be kind, but the question caused a trickle of bile to travel up Victory’s esophagus and nearly choke her. She still wasn’t “feeling” anything for fall, but she said confidently, “I’m feeling pants.”

  Muffie nodded wisely as if this made sense and said, “Everyone else is feeling leopard.”

  “The leopard moment is over.”

  “Skirt lengths?”

  “Too many skirts. Pants, I think. No one knows if the economy is going up or down.”

  “Good luck,” Muffie whispered, and her ancient hand clad with cocktail rings containing precious stones of at least ten or twelve carats clutched Victory’s hand for a moment and squeezed. Muffie got out of the car in front of the gleaming, rich B et C building, allowing her driver to take Victory on to her own office . . .

  . . . Where everyone was basically standing around waiting for her to come up with the final designs for the fall show, or at least some kind of vision so they could get on with their jobs. Worry and concern were subtly indicated on their smooth young faces. Victory understood that they had probably heard the rumors on the street that she was about to go under, even though she was dating the billionaire Lyne Bennett, whom, they suspected, she had sought out in desperation to beg him for money to keep the company going. I will slit my wrists before I ask that man for a penny, Victory thought. “What about the ballet?” someone asked.

  “Tutus? No. Everyone did tutus for spring.” Except me, Victory thought, and that’s why the company is in trouble to begin with. But the ballet reminded her of the luncheon and the luncheon reminded her of a cheesy movie called Center Stage, where the teacher told a ballet student to go back to the barre. To go back to basics. And zombie-like she went into the sewing room and stared at the fabrics again. She picked up a bolt of vintage fabric that was orange and brown, covered with tiny clear sequins, and sat down at one of the sewing machines. She started sewing a pair of pants for the hell of it, because that was the only thing she really knew how to do. Most designers didn’t bother sitting down and sewing anymore, getting back to how they started out, where it was safe, where you were unknown and had nothing to lose, and you were nothing more than a freaky teenage kid with a dream . . .

  And then somehow it was the next day at just after noon, and Victory was standing on the subway platform at the West Fourth Street subway station.

  She hadn’t been in the subway in years, but she’d been walking down Sixth Avenue after a nearly sleepless night of still agonizing over her collection, and she’d spotted a girl in a jaunty green swing coat. The girl looked interesting, so Victory followed her down the dirty cement steps leading to the subway, and into the lunchtime crowd of frenzied and annoyed subway riders. The girl went through the turnstile and Victory stopped, looking after her, wondering what it would be like to be a girl in a jaunty green coat, twenty-five years old and completely carefree, without the dizzying weight of having to pull it off again, of having to desperately reach down inside yourself, to get it up, to risk failure . . .

  It was a ridiculous job, being a fashion designer. Two collections a year, with barely time to breathe in between, having to come up with something “new,” something “fresh” (when there really wasn’t anything new under the sun), again and again, year after year. It was a wonder any of them managed to keep going at all.

  She took a few steps forward. People were pushing past her, looking at her with suspicion—a woman with no place to go, directionless. That equaled death underground, where the trick to survival was to always appear as if you were on your way somewhere, somewhere better than this. Her cell phone vibrated in her hand—she’d been clutching it unconsciously like a lifeline. Oh, thank God, she thought. Connection.

  “Where r u?” the text read. It was from Wendy.

  “in subway?”

  “u!!!!!!!”

  “srching 4 inspiration”

  “inspiration @ mike’s? 1 p.m.? big news.”

  “whaaaa?”

  “going 2 romania i thnk. + took shane bk.”

  Victory nearly dropped the phone in shock.

  “r u there? cn u make it?”

  “Yes!!!!!” Victory pressed.

  She grimaced. What did this mean—Wendy taking Shane back? She couldn’t imagine . . . but it meant she suddenly had something more important to think about than her goddamn fall collection. Wendy needed her, and thank God she could go to her. She stood impatiently in line at the vending machine and bought a Metro card, swiping the card to activate the turnstile. A rush of damp, tired air rose up from the subway tracks and a train roared in, shaking the cement platform. She was filled with sensations that were disturbing but oddly comforting—for years, before she’d made it, she’d ridden the subway every day, everywhere, and she remembered all of her old tricks, moving quickly to the side of the crowd at the edge of the open doors where it was easier to slip into the car and pushing into the middle, taking a position on the side of a pole. It suddenly struck her that the critics were right about her last collection. You couldn’t wear long skirts in the subway. You needed pants and boots. And the right attitude. She looked around at the faces in the crowded car, expressions blank and unengaged, strangers packed too close together for comfort, in which the only solution was to pretend that no one else existed . . .

  And then the unthinkable happened. Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  Victory stiffened, ignoring the tap. It was probably a mistake. Hopefully the tapper would get off at the next stop. She pressed herself more closely to the pole, indicating, if necessary, that she was willing to move.

  The tap came again. This was annoying. Now she would have to deal. She swung her head around, anticipating a possible fight.

  “Hey girl.” The tapper was a dark-skinned young woman in glasses.

  “Yes?” Victory said.

  The girl leaned slightly forward. “I like your pants. Sequins during the day. That’s cool.”

  Victory looked down. The pants! She’d completely forgotten she was wearing the pants she’d stitched up yesterday afternoon and evening. The words “I like your pants” echoed in her brain like a suddenly cheery slogan. “Hey girl, I like your pants.” It was about more than just pants, though. It was Fashion with a capital “F”—the international language of girlspeak, the icebreaker, the compliment and soother, the automatic membership to the club . . .

  “Thank you,” Victory said kindly, feeling all warm and fuzzy toward this young woman who was a stranger, but not so strange anymore now that they were united in the common ground of liking her pants.

  “Oh God,” she almost cried out, experiencing a sudden burst of inspiration that nearly knocked her off her high heels.

  The train came to a stop and she ran off, running up the steps and bursting out of the station onto Sixth Avenue like a rocket.

  Her cell phone was still in her hand, and she dialed the number for her office.

  “Zoe?” she said to her assistant. She paused. “I’m finally feeling fall,” she announced.

  She began walking briskly up the sidewalk, expertly dodging the cro
wds. “I’m feeling Wendy as in Peter Pan. Grown-up women like Wendy Healy—women who have it all and pay for it all; CEO’s, women who can take care of everything . . . travel, children, maybe even baby-sick. I’m seeing tomboy: glasses and not perfect hair. Suits in peacoat material and white shirts with tiny rhinestone buttons and new shapes, slightly baggy, nothing nipping in the waist because an unfettered midsection is a sign of power. Billowing shirts paired with subtly sequined pants, and shoes . . . shoes . . . satin mules with kitten and three-inch heels, Louis XIV-style with rhinestoned designs . . .”

  Continuing on in this vein for another six blocks, Victory Ford reached Michael’s restaurant, and, finally disengaging her cell phone, she composed her face and opened the door, feeling a rush of warm air on her face, and a sense of relief and triumph.

  * * *

  THE WHOLE SHANE DEBACLE was probably the most interesting thing that had happened in their relationship in years, Wendy explained, seated across from Victory at Michael’s. Lots of interesting outside things had happened to her, but, she realized sadly, maybe not to Shane in particular. But that wasn’t her fault, was it? And what the hell did he have to complain about anyway? He had the kids! He was lucky. He could spend as much time with the kids as he wanted. Didn’t he know how precious that was? And he was able to spend that time with the kids because of her.

  Victory nodded knowingly. “Have you seen Selden Rose, by the way? He was going out as I was coming in, and he definitely did something to his hair. It looked like he had it straightened. That new Japanese technique. You have to sit in the salon for hours.”

  At the mention of Selden Rose’s name and especially of his hair, Wendy reddened. “Selden’s okay,” she said. “He was nice about Shane.”

  “Do you think he was . . . interested?”

  Wendy shook her head frantically, her mouth full of lettuce from her salad Nicoise. “I’m sure he has a girlfriend,” she said, swallowing. “And Shane hired a couples counselor!”

  “But what about Romania?”

  “Not sure I have to go anyway. I’ll know in an hour or two. If that damn director ever calls back,” Wendy said. She picked up her cell phone and looked at it suspiciously, then put it down next to her plate so she’d be sure not to miss the call. “Besides, this is therapy, you know? We bark at each other for an hour and then I feel like everything’s okay, and I can survive for another week.” The phone rang and she snatched it up. “Yes?”

  She paused and glanced over at Victory, the expression on her face indicating that this wasn’t the call. “Yes, Angel,” she said, a little too brightly. “That sounds wonderful. She’ll love that . . . No, I don’t know yet . . . Only for a couple of days. I could probably be back Saturday midday.” She grimaced. “Oh, and Angel? Thank you for arranging this. I love you.”

  “Shane?” Victory asked.

  Wendy nodded, her eyes widening as if she couldn’t quite believe what she’d just heard. “He’s planning a trip to Pennsylvania this weekend. To look for a pony for Magda.” She paused, reading the expression on Victory’s face. “It’s better this way, I promise you. Last week Tyler pooped in his pants, and he hasn’t done that for at least three years . . .”

  Victory nodded understandingly. It probably was better for Wendy if Shane was back, even if he was a name-dropping male version of a rich, spoiled housewife. His only interests, outside of himself, seemed to consist of the famous people he and Wendy had met, and the glamorous parties and hot spots they went to on vacation and how much it had all cost, which was made all the more irritating by the fact that he had this fabulous life through no effort of his own. Even when they went to a restaurant, Wendy always paid for him—the apocryphal story was the time someone had asked Shane to put down five dollars for a cash tip, and Shane had shrugged and said blithely, “Sorry, I don’t have any money.”

  “He didn’t even have five dollars!” Nico had exclaimed, incredulous. “Who is he? The queen?”

  They both agreed, however, that Shane’s most egregious behavior concerned an incident at his birthday party last year. Wendy had bought him a Vespa scooter and had arranged to have it delivered to Da Silvano, where she’d organized a birthday lunch for him. It must have taken Wendy hours to plan the whole thing, because it was timed perfectly. Right after the cake arrived, a white tractor trailer with “Vespa Motors” emblazoned on the side had pulled up in front of the restaurant, the back had opened, and out came Shane’s Vespa, tied up with a red ribbon. Everyone in the restaurant had cheered, but it wasn’t good enough for Shane. The Vespa was baby blue, and Shane had had the temerity to remark, “Shit, Wen, I really wanted a red one.”

  But Wendy always said that Shane was a great father (in fact, she sometimes complained that he was too good and that the kids asked for Shane and not her, which made her feel like a loser) and it was always better for children to have a father in the house. So Victory said, “I think it’s great you took him back, Wen. You had to.”

  Wendy nodded nervously. She was always nervous when she was in the middle of a big movie, but she seemed especially on edge. “He’s getting better,” she said, as if reassuring herself. “I really think this shrink might be helping.”

  Victory was dying to hear more about this shrink business, but at that moment her phone rang.

  “Are you having fun?” Lyne Bennett purred. Victory turned—Lyne was sitting two tables away, with the porky billionaire George Paxton. They both turned around and waved.

  “Hi there,” Victory said, not unhappy to see him. She hadn’t seen him for at least a week, due to both of their schedules.

  “George wants to know if we want to go to his house in St. Tropez,” Lyne said, in his smooth, low voice.

  “And you couldn’t walk over and ask me this?”

  “It’s sexier this way.”

  Victory laughed and hung up. “i m a little biz-e. hello? Fashion show?” she texted. She turned back to Wendy. They talked for another few minutes, and then Victory’s phone rang again. “I just want you to know, I don’t do text messages,” Lyne purred.

  “Technologically deficient, are you? I’m glad to know there are some things you can’t do.”

  “Don’t want to do.”

  “Why don’t you have Ellen text for you?” Victory said, turning her head so that Wendy couldn’t see her smile. She hung up.

  Wendy’s cell phone rang. She picked it up and looked at the number. It was her office. “This is it,” she said grimly.

  She stood up to take the call outside. If it actually was Bob Wayburn, the director, the conversation would probably get heated. “Yes?” she said.

  It was Josh, her assistant. “I have that call for you.”

  “Bob?” she asked.

  “No, Hank.”

  “Damn!” she said. Hank was her production executive. This meant that Bob Wayburn, the director, was probably refusing to speak to her, using this ploy as a power play to get her to go to Romania. “Put him through.”

  “Wendy?” The connection wasn’t that good but she could tell, nevertheless, that Hank was scared. That wasn’t good either. “I’m standing outside his trailer.”

  That would be Bob Wayburn’s trailer. “And?” Wendy said.

  “He slammed the door. He said he’s too busy to take any calls.”

  “Here’s what I want you to do,” Wendy said, stepping outside the restaurant and onto the sidewalk. “I want you to go into his trailer, hold out the phone, and tell him you’ve got me on the line. And that he’d better take the call.”

  “I can’t tell him that,” Hank said. “He’ll throw me off the set.”

  Wendy took a deep breath, willing herself to be patient. “Don’t be a wimp, Hank. You know this goes with the territory.”

  “He can make my life a stinking hell.”

  “So can I,” Wendy said. “Just go up the stairs and open the door. And don’t knock. He’s got to know he can’t get away with this. I’ll hang on,” she said, after a beat.
>
  She rubbed one arm against the chill, huddling against the wall of the building as if that might somehow keep her warmer. Two police cars raced up Sixth Avenue, their sirens piercing the air, while ten thousand miles away she heard the faint clomp of Hank’s work boots on the metal steps leading to a production trailer in the mountains of Romania.

  And then Hank’s labored breathing.

  “Well?” she said.

  “The door’s locked,” Hank said. “I can’t get in.”

  The world suddenly telescoped and she had the sensation of looking into a black hole. She took a deep breath, reminding herself not to explode. It wasn’t Hank’s fault that Bob wouldn’t talk to him, but she wished Hank could manage to do his job. “Tell Bob that I’ll see him tomorrow,” she said grimly.

  Hank hung up. “Josh?” Wendy said, into the phone. “What are the flights?”

  “There’s a five o’clock Air France to Paris, connecting flight to Bucharest at seven a.m. That gets in at ten a.m., and from there, we’ve been shuttling everyone on a helicopter to Brasov. It’s about an hour. Otherwise, for the folks who don’t like flying on a thirty-year-old Russian chopper, there’s the train. But that takes about four hours.”

  “Book the helicopter and tell my car to meet me in front of the restaurant in two minutes, then call Air France and arrange for someone from Special Services to meet me at the curb.” She checked her watch. It was nearly two o’clock. “I won’t be able to get to the airport until at least four.”