Face Value (35 page)

Kate sat up and stared at him. He really was crazy.

“Kate, I’m on to something big here. I know it. Julian Schnabel will love it. Nan Goldin will be crazy about it—it’s so like the work she did with the rock-and-roll AIDS portraits, about life itself as art form. And you know, there was that guy a couple of years ago, won the Beck’s Futures prize? Jamie someone. Did something called . . . It’ll come back to me!” He rubbed his hands backward and forward over his hair. “I’ve got it!
Lustfaust!
How ace is that? Jamie Shovlin! That was his name. Genius! Re-created all this memorabilia and fanzine stuff about a band that had never existed. Put it in little glass boxes, amazing stuff! Talk about lightness of being! I could take things from this apartment, put them in glass vitrines, and exhibit them as fragments from Jean-Paul Suchet’s life! Portrait of the Artist. Hang his paintings, again, Jean-Paul, the artist, all the while asking, ‘Who is Jean-Paul? Is he real?’ It’s about appropriating an identity, and I’ve gone further than anyone, I’ve done it, lived it, been it, for over fifteen years! Genius!”

She had lost him to his art. And that was no bad thing. She’d never really had him to lose him, nor he, her.

A couple of hours later, she stood again by the door, this time to say good-bye.

"So what do I call you? I don’t even know your name,” she said.

“John Sutch,” he said, grinning. “From now on I’m plain old John Sutch. From Croydon.”

Kate gave him one last kiss, then stood back and looked at him.

“John Sutch from Croydon? It was a pleasure to meet you.”

thirty-one

Eleven a.m. By the time Kate arrived through the great swing doors at the entrance to Nouvelle Maison Editions, they had calmed down from their whirling dervish rush hour of a few hours ago to a more sedate waltz. The doors were like guards to this monstrous building, threatening in some ways, with its lumpy, gray gargoyles on the roof, and its clean, empirical, Art Deco lines everywhere else, but in spite of these stony-walled attributes it had never seemed frightening to her. Gargoyles made her think of the Hunch-back of Notre Dame. The Disney version. And Art Deco was Edward and Mrs. Simpson, wasn’t it? Quite what the two styles were doing together she didn’t know. She entered the building and drew a deep breath, marveling at how Manhattan’s most attractive people always seemed to be assembled in the lobby area, waiting for who or for what she never knew, but at least ten model types, clean-cut young men, and smartly groomed twentysomethings seemed to be hovering there now.

She remembered the first time she had swung through these doors. She had been full of confidence, bravado, enthusiasm for whatever challenges lay before her. She’d known no one! Back then, she’d asked to see Alexis, and had actually had to look her surname up in her diary, momentarily forgetting the name of her new boss in her unique state of jet-lagged disorientation. She was not sure she could do that now, again. Start over in a strange city. She cringed at the thought of her cheap outfits, which she’d hoped to pass off as . . . she hadn’t even known the names of the labels she was aping.

Cynthia met her outside the lift. She looked apprehensive, awkward.

“Hi,” she said, staring at her for an instant before air-kissing her cheeks. “I’m—I’m sorry it all . . .” Her words petered out. Kate could have tried to fill them in with something appropriate but she didn’t know what to suggest beyond “went wrong” and then again, what had gone wrong? She wanted to tell Cynthia that she planned to resign; wanted to encourage her, praise her for her work, which had improved infinitely since she’d arrived. But to do that would imply that she knew she was leaving, and she couldn’t tell Cynthia before she’d told Alexis.

“How have you been anyway?” she asked Cynthia. They hadn’t had a proper chat for ages. She’d been in L.A., then barely caught her breath in New York before going back to Maidstone.

“Oh, you know. Fine. Actually not fine. Since you asked, my parents are insisting I return home and get a proper job, you know, one with a half-decent salary in a law firm or something. So, I’m stalling!”

“Gosh, I’m sorry about that.” She was sorry, too. Cynthia had shown potential, had ideas, and with the right training and experience could develop as a writer. There was an awkward silence. If they had been in the lift still, this would have been the bit when they would have looked up at the ceiling or straight ahead at the door, in order to avoid conversation or even eye contact. They walked toward Alexis’s office, eyes bowed to the floor, straight ahead, around, anywhere except at each other.

“Oh, and Jane-Louise is pregnant.”

“She is? That’s brilliant!” She wondered if they even employed pregnant people here.

Cynthia delivered her final volley:

“And Tony in the canteen has put his choc-lattes up to four dollars, can you believe it?”

Alexis sprang up from behind her desk like an overexcited golden retriever, shaking her glossy, blow-dried mane extravagantly. Had it been that soft and flouncy before? Her facial hair had been bleached away, or waxed, or electrolysized off, if that was even a word. And for all that she could still air-kiss like a pro, Kate thought she could detect more than a hint of genuine warmth as she hugged her.

“Kate, darling. It’s good to have you back.”

She sat down, avoiding the other seat, the one where she’d sat for their last, hideous meeting. She sat in quiet confidence, expectantly, as a hushed formality descended.

Alexis brandished a few sheets of paper, triumphantly. She sighed.

“It’s a great story, Kate. I knew you had it in you. And it’ll go in the issue as planned.” She beamed. “I think it’s the kind of piece that will get picked up by the papers, too, syndicated. Of course, it’s far less sensational than that other one, but, my . . . so much more real! It will strike a chord with lots of women, I have to say, it struck a chord with me. I’m really pleased you pulled it off. There was a lot of pressure from us for you to do so, but you did it.”

She put the copy down to the right, and picked up her brown leather notebook, with the gilded edges, the one she used for daily notes and meetings.

“I’ve had a busy week, one way and another,” she continued, “but it’s been productive, and I think you’ll be pleased with the outcome. After you left, Elizabeth Geary proposed a solution to our problems, which I am in agreement with. Obviously we couldn’t risk word getting out about this mistake of Lizbet’s, so we had to make discreet inquiries about the other Kate Miller at
Harper’s Bazaar.
She’s a nice enough girl, Kate, but she’s not you, and I’m convinced that my instincts about you—well, obviously it’s confusing now as to whether my instincts were about you or about someone I thought was you—but anyway, it turns out that she is on maternity leave right now, which is a huge relief as it means we don’t have to offer her any job. Elizabeth has pointed out that we really need to help you a little more, and so with this in mind we’re setting in place a series of training controls that will help you. Getting you to go on shoots more, that kind of thing. And then there’s—”

“Alexis, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“I don’t want your apologies, Kate, I really don’t. I needed you to understand, not to apologize. They’re quite different things, you know. And I have something to tell you, too.” She took a sip from a glass of water. It was a pretty, pale pink glass, with an uneven, handmade quality to its edges that refracted the light so that the surface of the water shimmered delicately, in a diamond pattern. If only they could get that effect on an eyeshadow, Kate thought to herself. Perhaps a little silver metallic shot through it, worn with maybe a black kohl eyeliner to rock it up.

“Kate, you’re a natural at this. I know you’ve made mistakes, but I think we should have given you more structure to work within at first. When I look back at what you have achieved, which was remarkable anyway, I might add, bar those last few incidents . . . it is incredible to think that you pulled it from nowhere. From out of a hat, you might say. I know you’ve had some training, and newspapers, even local ones, are not a bad place to start. But to do what you’ve done—make the transition, and manage staff—well, it can’t have been easy. And now that we both know where we stand, now I know you’re not from the place I thought you’re from . . .” She coughed, a small, fractious cough, as if in memory of the pain of last week’s discovery.

“I can’t do it, Alexis,” said Kate.

Alexis looked up at her, surprised.

“What do you mean?”

Kate drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but I have to resign. My friend’s got cancer.” She’d been fine up to now, but the act of telling someone else about Lise was making her feel emotional once more. “I need to be with her. I mean, I think she’ll be okay, they’ve done the operation, everything, but it’s not right, my being here. I need to be a support to her, need to be doing something to make up for the fact that—” She couldn’t say any more. She felt the tears, another outpouring about to come on. Again! She couldn’t cry any more tears, could she? What was wrong with her?

Alexis stood up to face the windows for a second, then turned around to look at Kate.

“I—I don’t understand. No one has ever . . .”

“I’m really sorry, Alexis, but I have to get back to Maidstone. Tomorrow. I mean, I’m flying back tonight. I have plans. And I need to follow through, with Lise. Look, it’s been fun, really fun here—”

She looked around her, taking it all in. She saw the view once more from Alexis’s windows, the big, wide green of Central Park, with its trees, now wearing their big bright early autumn leaves. People walked briskly, their bare arms cloaked in a host of lightweight but warm jackets from Banana Republic, the Gap, Club Monaco, Target, all made in factories in far-flung places like Portugal, Mexico, India, China. When she turned her chair slightly, she could see the office behind her: Jane-Louise and Cynthia at the water fountain; faces huddling over computers; chatting, hardworking beings enjoying their work. There was a camaraderie, a professionalism, a slickness about this office that she would never find in Maidstone. The art department was a proper art department. Mario Testino, world-famous photographer, was sitting perched on the edge of the desk of the art director, laughing, and it was no big deal! The subs station was surrounded by thick volumes of reference works, dictionaries, thesauruses, just like the Department of Factual Verification in Jay McInerney’s
Bright Lights, Big City
! Tracy was returning with a trayful of Starbucks coffees, no doubt in protest at the hike in prices at Tony’s canteen. They had a man called Tracy working here!

Alexis looked at her, as if reading her thoughts.

“Let me tell you something, Kate. It’s sink or swim here. And you’ve swum. More than any of us, you came from nowhere. I don’t mean to be horrible about small towns—but in this world they count as nowhere. It’s a well-kept secret that people who do well in this business come from small towns. Or Texas. Now, I know what you’re thinking, you can’t be yourself, you can’t support your friends and family, and hold down a job like this. But you’re wrong, Kate. You can keep your own life.”

From a drawer she pulled out a picture of herself, next to a man.

“I haven’t shown anyone this, but this is my fiancé. Frederick Wallner. He’s a poet. We got engaged last week! I’m marrying a poet! And thank God I can get rid of the damn facial hair at last!” She made a strange little “whoopee!” type of noise, and then composed herself quickly, continuing, “I do my job, but I keep my life, too. I go to poetry readings, imagine that! You’re hungry for work, and that’s no bad thing. I used to be like that. Am like that. It’s very American in a way. You’re a writer at heart. You won’t be doing this job forever, but for now, I see someone who’s come so far, she can’t stop. Look at how you’ve helped Cynthia blossom. Her copy’s improved no end! And your ideas are rich and vibrant. You inspired our leading plastic surgeon! Sparked a national craze! And so, you dress a bit differently now than when you first came, you’ve gotten rid of those crazy highlights, but what I love about you, and people like you, is that you’re no clone. If I’d wanted a clone, I’d have employed . . . I don’t know, Kate Miller from
Harper’s Bazaar
!”

Kate wiped her nose on her sleeve. Didn’t Tom Ford come from Texas?

“Does your friend . . . does she actually want you to move back to Maidstone?”

Kate thought hard. Of course, she knew Lise had said she shouldn’t come back, but what if she hadn’t meant that? She needed to make up for everything she hadn’t done, somehow, some way. She needed to spend the time now that she hadn’t spent before. They would have fun together, nights out, as soon as Lise recovered. She would help Lise and Steve move in somewhere bigger together, watch them be happy together. She would be there for Lise as she . . . as she what?

“She hasn’t insisted on it; quite the reverse,” Kate said.

Alexis paused to look closely at Kate’s face. She could see the pain behind the brave-face smiles.

“You need to be there for her. As much for yourself as for her,” said Alexis, “but, and I know this will sound like a platitude now, you need to remember you’re no good to her unless you’re happy and fulfilled in your own life. You can’t put your life on hold for her. Or for anyone. Do what you can for her. Spend some time with her. Let her believe that life goes on. She needs to know that right now. Then come back.”

Kate looked at her. In just that short time of working with her, she suddenly felt that she had found a true ally, a mentor, somebody on her side. Alexis was giving her a dream ticket—the ticket of the open door. She could go back to Maidstone, look after Lise, and see how things went!

“Kate, there’s something else I need to run by you.” Alexis frowned, turning again to face the window. “I’m not happy with the way Clarissa’s working out. Sloppy copy. Too many ‘appointments’ in work time—where, God only knows.” She faced Kate. A broad smile spread slowly across her face.