Never Too Rich (46 page)

EDWINA G., INC.

That’s me! she thought with a swelling burst of
pride. Part of that company’s mine—thirty percent of the voting
shares, to be exact. Here’s where I get to call the shots, and how
far this fledgling company goes is up to me. Me!

She strode out on seventeen, turned right, and
approached her door down the hall. Giant rainbow letters, sprayed
on sideways, ran from the top of it to the bottom: EDWINA G.

Unable to curb her speedy pace, she entered the
reception area like a tornado, her footsteps brisk, her body vital
and electrified.

Telephones were already ringing. The wheels of
commerce were turning.

“
Edwina G., Incorporated. Good
morning,” the receptionist, who doubled as the telephone operator,
said into her mouthpiece. “Please hold. I’ll transfer you.” She
punched some buttons on the switchboard, looked up, saw Edwina, and
called out, “Good morning, Ms. Robinson.”

“ ‘
Morning, Val,” Edwina returned.
Despite her customary rush, she did an eyesweep of the reception
area, observing with a keen glance the two workmen with whirring
electric screwdrivers who were assembling the first replica of the
in-store Edwina G. boutiques; this one would grace the reception
area permanently.

It was a twenty-by-twenty-foot prefab pavilion, and
would, when assembled, provide four hundred square feet of
high-visibility selling space, and come, as planned, with every
hook and shelf and hanger intact. It was made of clear Lucite, with
tubes of neon outlining every curve and corner. Even the
computerized cash register that came with every boutique was
encased in a clear Lucite shell so that all the inner workings and
colorful wiring were visible.

Young! it seemed to project. Trendy! Vital!
Stylish!

Not bad, she considered; no, the in-store boutique
was not bad at all. Neither were the big LED signs at the top,
facing in all four directions, which would register sales, via
computer, of all the boutiques nationwide as soon as a sale was
rung up at any one of the various locations.

She couldn’t help but smile. State-of-the-art
selling. Clothes adding up like sizzling hamburgers.

The reception switchboard buzzed and lit up again.
“Edwina G., Incorporated. Good morning,” Val answered. “Please
hold; I’ll transfer you . . .”

Edwina went back, past the reception desk, to the
offices. From the open doors she passed, she could hear pencils
scratching on sketchpads, computer printers tap-dancing their
rhythms, the sounds of voices on telephones. All signs that Edwina
G. was alive and well and kicking.

She came to her own office. The biggest room of the
ten-room suite Edwina G. occupied, it was tucked away in the
prestigious northeast corner, and was big enough to swing several
cats in. Unflappable Liz was already at her desk right outside it,
cigarette glued to her lower lip. “ ‘Mornin’,” she rasped.

“
And a fine morning it is, too,
Liz,” Edwina sang, going straight into her office.

The lights were already on and the blinds had been
pulled up on all four windows, just the way she liked. Liz’s doing,
of course.

Garish, snappish, but industrious Liz Schreck,
Edwina thought, whose gruffness hid a heart as big as Manhattan.
Liz, who typed and took steno flawlessly, who faxed and telexed and
kept Edwina’s busy schedule in her Filofax straight, who arranged
for limos and the best tables in restaurants at a moment’s notice,
and stayed late into the night without a word of complaint.

Dropping her portfolio and bag on a chair, Edwina
took off her tailored jacket and hung it on a padded hanger in the
closet. For a moment she looked around, seeking comfort and
strength from her surroundings. The office looked pleasant and
inviting, and well it should: it was her second home—her
first
home if she figured by the inhuman hours she was
putting in.

Overall, the atmosphere was rather like that of an
ultrachic living room where one could kick off one’s shoes, hold a
cocktail party for fifty, or just as easily sit down to discuss a
multimillion-dollar business deal. The only necessary office
intrusions were the high-tech necessities: the sleek red multiline
telephone, the drafting table she sketched on, and the off-white
computer terminal, its screen already glowing, ready for her
commands. It was a state-of-the-art three-dimensional simulator. On
it she could design clothes, see them from all possible angles via
computer imagery, and store, retrieve, and revise them at any
time.

Liz entered with a mug of steaming coffee in one
hand—black, no sugar—and a glass of ice water in the other. She had
a stack of folders tucked under one arm.

She handed Edwina the mug, set down the water and
folders, and unscrewed a little plastic jar. “Here.” She held out a
pill.

“
And what,” Edwina asked, eyeing
the little oval white tablet with distaste, “is that?”

“
Ruby called to say you left your
allergy pills behind.”

“
You and Ruby,” she mumbled. “What
is it with the two of you, Liz? Do you both suffer from some
irreversible, morbid maternal tendency?” But she accepted the pill,
popped it obediently in her mouth, took a sip of water, and jerked
her head back to swallow it. “And what is next, pray tell? Are you
going to mark the days of my period off on your
calendar?”

Liz sniffed. “No, but I did do the next best thing.
I stocked your private washroom with tampons.”

“
Gee, thanks, Liz,” Edwina said
dryly. “You’ll go far. Just where, I’m not exactly sure yet, but
mark my words: it’ll be far.”

“
Oh, and while you’re at it.” Liz
unscrewed another jar. “Here’s a Theragram. Ruby also happened to
mention that you missed your breakfast.”

“
Thank you, Dr. Schreck.” Edwina
snatched the vitamin and swallowed it.

“
You’ll need your strength today,
believe me.” Liz picked up the top folder of the stack she had
carried in. “First off, here’s the list you wanted compiled of
every department store in the country. They are listed
alphabetically by state and then broken down further by city. Each
and every chain store is listed individually, just as you
asked.”

Liz put the Velobound folder down on Edwina’s
drafting table and tackled the next one.

“
This one contains the condensed
list of all the chain stores, listing only the flagship store and
the number of stores that chain happens to have. The numbers in
parentheses are stores either under construction or in the planning
stages. It also contains the names, addresses, and telephone
numbers of the presidents, the vice-presidents in charge of
operations, and the buyers in charge of the sportswear
departments.”

Edwina looked amazed. “And you did all this in just
the last two days?”

Liz gave her a steely look. “I delegate authority
and fan out projects.”

“
What’s that?” Edwina nodded at
another sheaf of papers.

“
These are the manufacturers’ bids
for the first ten items you’ve designed. Needless to say, the
bigger the order, the bigger the volume discount. Also, the
Taiwanese put in the lowest bids, closely followed by Hong
Kong.”

“
Good, I’ll look them over later.
Just don’t forget, I’ve got a soft spot for two things: the union
label and quality. Get back to our compatriots and see how much
lower they can go before we even consider the Asians.”

“
Gotcha.” Liz nodded approvingly.
She, too, had a soft spot for things Made in the USA. Next she
produced a stack of message memos. “First off, you had a call from
Liza Shawcross’s secretary.”

Edwina nodded. “Liza probably wants to confirm
lunch. When’s it supposed to be? This coming Tuesday?”

Liz shook her head. “Nope. Her secretary said she
wants to change it to today.”

“
Today!”
Edwina was
dismayed.

“
Today, one o’clock, at her usual
table at the Four Seasons. Sounded like an imperial summons to
me.”

“
Damn.” Edwina drummed her
fingernails on her desk. “Today’s my lunch date with Marsha Robbins
from
WWD.”

“
I know.”

“
Talk about being caught between
the devil and the deep blue sea. I can’t afford to offend either of
them.” Edwina felt formidably cornered, and quickly tried to think
her way out of the trap. “And I can’t plead ill either, dammit,
because both of them lunch at the Four Seasons every day, so
whichever one I do go with, the other will know it as soon as I
arrive.”

“
Well, whichever one of them you do
decide to lunch with,” Liz offered, sighing painfully, “what if I
tell the other that I screwed up your schedule? That way I’ll take
the blame. I mean, neither of them can fire me—right?”

Edwina looked at Liz warmly. Had Liz been this
devoted to Antonio? she wondered. “God bless you, Liz, and bless
your scheming heart. I was right. You
will
go far.” Then her
voice became introspective. “I wonder why Liza Shawcross wants to
move the lunch date up.”

“
Could this have something to do
with it?” Liz unfolded that morning’s
Women’s Wear Daily
and
handed it to Edwina. “You know how Liza hates anyone else but
Chic!
magazine to get a scoop.”

Knitting her brows, Edwina stared at the
WWD
headline:

THE NEWGIRL LOOK—fevered, kooky, bright, stylish,
snazzy, funny, modern, snappy, girlish, devil-may-care, and young
young
young.

And under that, a second bank of headlines read:

UPSTART FIRM TO TACKLE UNDER-THIRTY MARKET

Quickly Edwina skimmed the two-column story.
Basically, it covered the press releases William Peters Associates,
her press agency, had sent out, and touched upon the established
mass-market manufacturers Edwina G. was preparing to battle for a
share of the lucrative sportswear market—namely the Gap, Esprit,
Liz Claiborne, and others like them. But what William Peters
Associates certainly hadn’t sent out, and what accompanied the
article, were two sketches—
her
own sketches of two of her
designs
—sketches that were supposed to be in-house trade
secrets!

“
Dammit!” She scowled at Liz. “How
the hell did they get hold of these?” She shook the paper
angrily.

“
You know better than to look at
me. Obviously, someone here must have smuggled them
out.”

“
That’s all we need—our designs
circulating and being copied before our clothes even get to the
manufacturers! We’ll lose our shirts for sure. And our pants and
underwear,” she added gloomily.

“
WWD,”
Liz said reasonably,
“has spies everywhere.”

“
That I know,” Edwina said testily,
and heaved a sigh. “All right, tell you what. Spread the word among
the staff that spies won’t last long at Edwina G. Also spread the
word that Edwina G.
herself
will not hesitate to take legal
action against the culprit.”

“
Will do. But that still doesn’t
take care of Liza Shawcross.”

Edwina pursed her lips and tapped them with an index
finger. “Oh, yes, it does. Whether by hook or by crook,
WWD
has gotten their scoop. Call Liza’s secretary and tell her . . .
tell her Ms. Robinson would be absolutely delighted to meet Ms.
Shawcross for lunch. Since
WWD
got their paws on my
sketches, it’s only fair to give
Chic!
some scoop or other
in order to balance the scales. Yes. Arrange for the car to pick me
up at twenty to one. And since you offered, call Marsha Robbins,
beg her forgiveness for having screwed up my schedule royally. Tell
her I threatened to fire you, if you must. Also, call around to
some of the security firms. In the future, we can’t have our
designs walking out like those two did. Oh, and check with Leo
Flood’s attorneys to see whether or not it’s legal for a security
guard to search employees’ belongings when they leave the
premises.”

“
Anything else?”

“
Just get started.”

As Liz left her office, Edwina kicked off her shoes
and sank down in her swivel chair. Picking up the phone, she
punched out the number for Diamondstein Garment Manufacturing on
Thirty-seventh Street. As soon as she got Bernie Diamondstein on
the line, her voice turned hard and accusing. “Bernie? Eds here.
Listen, what kind of shit are you trying to pull? Those quotes for
the prototypes of those ten outfits? They’re way outta line, buddy.
. . . When d’you think I was born? Yesterday? . . . What do you
mean, as God is your judge, you’re losing money? You’ll lose money
all right if Taiwan or Hong Kong gets the business. . . . Damn
right I’m serious. Dig out your calculator and go over those
figures again. . . . Sure we’ll have lunch one of these days.
After
you quote me some realistic prices, you thieving
gonif. . . . That’s right, you have a good one too.”

Liza Shawcross, the fashion editor of
Chic!
magazine, had an overabundance of everything—right down to her
English rose complexion, top international connections, and an
enviable education at one of Switzerland’s finest finishing
schools.

She was beautiful, well-groomed, fashionable, and
eminently proper-looking—for those who didn’t know better, the
perfect role model for twenty million career-hungry women. But what
Liza Shawcross was definitely
not
was a lady. Her heart was
tungsten steel, her blood equal quantities of high-octane ambition
and superhuman energy, and her mind was a machine with but three
distinct motivations— the glorification of herself, the substantial
increase in circulation of whatever magazine she worked for (at the
moment
Chic!,
the world’s number-two fashion magazine), and
a hunger to wrest the position of editor-in-chief of American
Vogue
from Anna Wintour, who recently had wrested it from
Grace Mirabella, who, in turn, way back when, had wrested it from
the late Diana Vreeland.