Career Girls (22 page)

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didn’t want to take any risks. And neither did Joe.

‘Baby, you could fuck for World Champion,’ was her parting comment to him as she left, wrapped in a garish pink Ungaro suit.

Joe smiled and kissed her hand. He liked Lisa. Girls like her were worth missing sleep for. They were easy to please and fun to screw, and they didn’t insist on beating you up with a big feminist stick. She didn’t want to debate the difference between men and women for five hours, she just wanted to enjoy it. He supposed Topaz Rossi would despise a girl like Lisa. Living off her husband’s money, or whatever it was she’d say.

Goldstein lit a cigarette, annoyed. Even thinking about that woman ruined his good mood. He wandered into the kitchen, spread a couple of bagels thickly with cream cheese and put on a fresh pot of coffee, switching on his IBM. The notes for his presentation to the board flashed up on the screen, the s0eech amusing, well paced and lucid.

That made him feel better. The speech was a killer. It should nail Economic Monthly, if it hadn’t been nailed before. The title had his name on it anyway - a serious new monthly: glossy, upmarket, aimed at men. He ran three magazines just like it for American Magazines already, and he ran them very successfully. And it wasn’t just the circulation of his own titles that he had to offer the group. Since the time he’d been at Wharton and discovered by Nate Rosen, he’d been using his cum laude MBA to American’s advantage, submitting cos-cutting proposals, helping to review supplier contracts, helping out on acquisition titles.

Goldstein was more than a hot.shot editor. He was a businessman. And he saw Economic Montlly as a direct leap to the board.

Topaz Rossi! What made her a goddamn candidate? OK, so after a couple of weeks at American’s New York offices he realized he’d been wrong about her, at least at first. She was a very talented journalist, dynamite columnist, had been a good features editor at US Woman and had done wonders for the circulation of Girlfriend. Fair enough, she

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had more going for her than her physical charms. But still, the girl was in charge of only one magazine. Aimed at teenage girls. And she had no corporate or business experience at all - well, a little MBA work at night school, big deal. God, she’d never been within a mile of running a high-profile men’s magazine.

So why am I letting her get to me? thought Joe angrily. I’m gonna cream her over Economic Monthly. And that’s all. End of story.

But it wasn’t.

Topaz Rossi was under Joe Goldstein’s skin, and he didn’t like it. She annoyed him and she bothered him and she made him mad. Usually, when he met a woman he couldn’t stand, he put her out of his mind. He had better things to do. Annoyance was a futile, pointless emotion, and Joe Gold stein didn’t indulge in time-wasting.

But Rosi refused to get out of his mind.

Maybe it was the harsh feminism, but he met a lot of feminists. Maybe it was her personality. That brash, bold, in-your-face way Topaz had about her. She seemed to be everywhere he went, shouting encouragement to the Girl’friend staffers, carrying great stacks of layouts past his office to her own, greeting everybody in the goddamn building like they were her bosom buddies. And it seemed most of them were, which made it worse. In meetings, she was polite and courteous to him, but that was as far as it went. She was curt. Blunt. Almost dismissive of him. In the LA bureau where Goldstein had been operating, people compromised from time to time to let something get done. Not Ms Rossi, though. ‘Compromise’ was not in her dictionary. That girl would argue for two hours rather than concede anything.

She was fucking relentless.

Maybe it was her dress sense, Joe thought, moving back into the kitchen to finish off his bagel. He glanced at his Rolex. Eight forty. He’d have to get a move on; lucky the Brooks Brothers suit was already pressed and ready to go, the white shirt hanging on the back of his closet..Yeah, her

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dress sense. Totally inappropriate for the working environment, he thought severely. Always showing offher figure. Bright colours. Designer names. Rich fabrics. By rights, she should come over as vulgar, but her innate self confidence and sense of style enabled her to carry it off. He’d never met another redhead who could wear a shocking-pink suit by Vivienne Westwood and get away with it. It was just so - so - off-putting, this bold, brassy, ballsy Italian girl storming round the place like an ongoing nuclear explosion.

Joe dressed quickly, without fuss or undue worries about his reflection. He never thought about that stuff.

Of course, he’d fantasized about Topaz. Or tried to. Hell, she was awesomely beautiful and she had the best body he’d seen outside the covers of Playboy.

But something was wrong with that picture. Every time he tried to imagine her naked on a rug, he found himself remembering something annoying about her, like the last time she’d shaken his hand at an editors’ meeting with all the warmth of your average iceberg.

He ran offa new copy of his speech notes and put them in his custom-made briefcase. No time to think about that now. There was only one day to go before the board got to pick the first editor of Economic Monthly.

Joe Goldstein had worked hard on the construction of his speech for this presentation, harder than he’d worked on anything for some time. Possibly he was being underconfident. After all, he was meant to be a dead cert for this job.

But he wanted to polish this speech till it gleamed. There was no way he was gonna lose out to Topaz Rossi.

‘I wanted to break it to you myself,’ Josh Oberman said, spearing a stuffed mushroom with vigour.

He was meeting Rowena Gordon for breakfast at the Pierre. When back in New York on business, Oberman always stayed at the Pierre and he always had the same suite. He knew what he liked. Elegant dcor, impeccable service and a nice view of Central Park. The Royalton or the

Paramount were the music-industry hotels of choice right now, with their futuristically equipped rooms and ultra-hip atmosphere, but Joshua Oberman sneered at that. Hotels were somewhere you slept when you were doing business. Period. He couldn’t give a damn about how good-looking the bellboys were.

‘Break what to me, boss?’ Rowena asked, picking at her fruit salad. The New York body fascism was already starting to get to her, but she didn’t mind. How could she? Her slim, naturally blonde figure seemed to be the American ideal. And she wanted to be perfect for Michael, absolutely perfect. Her desire for him was fast becoming obsession.

‘The reaction Wamers had to the first Atomic Mass single,’Josh said gravely.

Rowena stiffened, little prickles of fear rising on the nape of her neck. Warners were going to distribute the first Atomic record in the States, just like they packaged, shipped and sold all the Musica records out here. Rowena’s little talent-scout outpost of a label notwithstanding, the company had no real presence in America. So they did a deal ‘with a major, like every other semi-independent, and took a royalty payment on each of their CDs sold out here.

So if Warners hated the single, forget it. Her band were sunk.

‘What reaction?’ she demanded. ‘“Karla” is brilliant! It’s brilliant! How could they not love it?’

Josh let her hang for a second, savouring the moment. He admired her outfit again, a shaped black suit by Anna Sui, legs tapering down in sheerest ‘black nylon to stack-heeled mules from Chanel. Her long hair, shaped with a soft new fringe at the front and precision cut at the back, swung behind her like a shining golden curtain.

‘Relax,’ he said. ‘They did love it. More than that, even.’ Rowena leant back in her chair, feeling relief flood through her. She smiled at her boss. Capricious old bastard! She shouldn’t have risen to it like that, but any teasing about Atomic Mass hit straight home. The first single was about

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to be released, the record was nearly done, and everyone connected with the band was wound up as tight as a bedspring.

The boys themselves, naturally, were completely at their ease, just glad to be wrapping up Heat Street and going back on the road. And they were still getting to know New York. The bars. The clubs. And the women. Especially the women. Christ, they weren’t even known here yet, and they were getting snowed under with girls. She’d never seen anything like it. No, the band weren’t uptight, the band were in seventh bloody heaven.

‘I wish I could draw you a picture of Bob Morgado’s face when he heard it,’ Oberman said, smiling broadly at the memory. ‘Oh, they thought Christmas came early this year. If the rest of the album matches up to “Karla”, we’re looking at the top of the priority list.’

He attacked his cheese omelette, cackling. ‘Know how I really know they loved it?’ he asked. ‘They wanted to renew the Atomic contract. Separate from the general Musica deal. I guess they must realize we plan to get our own distribution going sooner rather than later, and they still want a piece of Atomic Mass.’

‘What did you tell them?’ Rowena demanded.

‘I said we’d think about it. Depending on how good a job they do with Heat Street,’ Oberman grinned, thoroughly pleased with himself. ‘And how are you settling in, kid?’

‘Oh, fine,’ said Rowena vaguely. She wasn’t about to belabour her boss with her business problems. The office. The overwork. The commercial fucking Siberia she found herself in as a. lone gun.

Fix it first, talk about it later.

‘Good. Haven’t seen you since you ducked out of Elizabeth Martin’s party-without saying goodbye,’ Ober man added severely. ‘No, don’t give me whatever excuse you’re desperately trying to cook up. You don’t want to jet to Florida, it’s your problem. Who was that woman you were catting with at the dinner, Rowena? The stunning redhead? Is it something I should be concerned about?’

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‘She’s nobody. A magazine executive I didn’t get on too well with at Oxford, that’s all,’ answered Rowena, her tone going cold. She resented Topaz shoving herself into a conversation she was having with Joshua Oberman. Josh was her mentor. Josh was sacred.

Oberman lifted his fork, warning her. ‘Babe,’ he said, ‘nobody at that party was nobody.’

The sixtieth floor of the American Magazines tower on Seventh Avenue was pleasantly co01, despite the blazing sun that streamed into it through the glass walls in every director’s office. Lower floors in the building were at their normal, mind-melting level, but not this one. The board had the benefit of the latest Japanese air-conditioning systems, silent and effective, so that they could run America’s second-largest magazine empire with total concentration, the freezing winters and baking summers of New York being totally immaterial.

Indeed, to the unwary visitor used only to the rest of the building - editors barking orders, reporters yelling into phones, computers and printers clattering, photocopiers Whirring and the rest - the sixtieth floor could seem like another planet. Chaos and bleeping phones and mundane things like deadlines seemed miles away from the calm, almost churchlike tranquillity of the executive floor.

Nathan Rosen, the company’s young director, East Coast - a mere forty-one years old - sometimes missed the constant hustle of actual magazine offices. But not often. He’d been working up to his current position all his life. He was ready for the big picture work now-acquisitions, sales, disposals. It was busy up here. It was just that y.ou’d never know it.

At least, Topaz Rossi didn’t seem to know it.

‘| can’t talk,’ Nathan protested. ‘Not today.’ He gave a small shrug, the tightness of his movement betraying his annoyance. ‘You and Joe are presenting tomorrow, Topaz, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Why does that matter? I know you’ll be o.bjective,’

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Topaz said, moving towards him.

She knew she shouldn’t be here. But she couldn’t help it. Some innate desire to tease her lover had proved too strong to resist. She loved seeing his face like that, taut with anger and impatience, as though he despaired of her. Topaz knew it reminded him of the difference in their ages, and she played on that mercilessly.. Making him do things he’d sworn not to do. Forcing him to consider all the taboos he was breaking with her. Forcing him to remember why he was breaking them.

Anything to provoke.

Anything to arouse.

Anything to help his passion, his vitality, match up to hers.

Nathan leant across his desk and took her head in his hands, gazing at the soft, tanned skin, the sparkling blue eyes, the wild red hair. She’d picked out a short Mark Eisen suit in brig yellow, set with pretty enamel buttons shaped like large daisies. She was wearing some fresh, summery perfume-Chanel No. 9, he thought. She was sensational.

Rosen pressed his lips down on hers, her riot of colour muted by the sober navy of his Savile Row suit. ‘Think Jewish, dress British.’ One of the only pieces of advice his father had bothered to give him, and pretty good advice too, Rosen had always thought.

He pushed his tongue into her mouth, enjoying her instant response, enjoying her surprise.

The young are so arrogant, Rosen mused.

‘Now get out of here,’ he said firmly as he pulled offher. ‘You’ve got work to do, Ms Rossi. Didn’t you tell me this morning that you were planning a piece on that new girl over at Musica Records? The one who’s just set up here? I thought you were hot on doing some kind of expos6 for US Woman. She’s got quite a reputation already, this girl. What’s her name again?’

‘Rowena Gordon,’ said Topaz, drawing back from him. Her face had-taken on a new hardness. ‘But she’s not important. It’s the band I’m interested in. There has to be a

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story there.’

Nathan looked up, Interesting. Now she was fidgeting, couldn’t wait to get back downstairs. He sighed. The girl was a mystery to him.

‘OK, good,’ he said curtly. ‘Atomic Mass, isn’t that their name? Joe told me you were digging around them, now I come to think of it. Should make a good story. The rumours about them are wild. Apparently they’re the next- ‘