Write It Up!. Elizabeth Bevarly
Preface
TESS TRUESDALE, FOUNDER and editor in chief of the ultra-glam, ultra-bad-girl magazine Tess, basked in the glow of diffused lighting. She presided from behind her stainless-steel desk while the two other people in her office squirmed in vintage Arne Jacobsen chairs. Danish modern had never been so industrial, so sleek and so uncomfortable.
Tess smiled, content.
No one else did. Or had been. Both states being morphologically impossible for underpaid and overly cynical magazine writers.
“It was one of those karmic things, really.” Tess waved the tip of an onyx cigarette holder in a large loop. The mint-green cigarette at its tip burned slowly, a testament to her disregard for the no-smoking regulations in the building and her belief in the mantra she preached monthly to her devoted readers: “Go where no mother has been before, and where no father wants to know about.”
“I was enjoying a blissful moment on the deck off the master bedroom of Olympia.” Olympia was the “shack” in Southampton owned by Tess and husband number three, oil tanker billionaire Spiros Andreapolis. “Spiros was giving me a foot massage with the new Kiehl’s lotion that we wrote about last month, while I was sipping the perfect cosmopolitan. The sun was setting over the dunes, and there was silence, absolute silence—except for the occasional beep from the security system, of course. And that’s when the idea came to me.”
“That the social season had switched back to the city one week after Labor Day?” Abby Lewis ventured. One of the three senior writers on the magazine, Abby had just returned from a stint at Tess’s sister publication in Milan, Italy. Jet lag, not a heavy application of Bobbi Brown eye shadow, darkened her eyes.
“That salt air can be ruinous for a girl’s complexion?” suggested Samantha Porter, another of the senior writers. Draped in a chair next to Abby, she wore a golden Versace ensemble, the tight pants hugging her pencil-slim hips and the top negligently open to a bejeweled clasp just above her belly button.
Tess flicked the burning end of the cigarette into the Venetian glass ashtray. “Ooh, I just love it when you girls talk nasty. It means I’ve been the proper mentor after all. Still—” she paused “—I have my moments of inner reflection, and not just after having a colonic irrigation.
“You see,” she went on, “it occurred to me how lucky I was with my marvelous good fortune, and that there must be something I could do—we could do as an organization—to help others achieve some of this kind of serenity.”
“We’re going to sponsor a Fresh Air Fund kid to stay at Casa Olympia next summer?” Abby asked. As if.
“Of course not. I have white rugs. I couldn’t possibly have children. No, I realized that what we needed to do was to help other women obtain my lifestyle.”
Tess sat up straight, all business. “What I’m talking about, darlings, is opportunity. We’re going to show women the quickest, hippest ways to find the right rich mate.”
“You think if we knew the quickest, hippest ways to find the right mate, the right rich mate, we’d be sitting here?” Samantha asked.
Tess placed her buffed elbows on the desk and positioned her chin on entwined fingers. “No one ever really leaves Tess and all it stands for.” She let that pronouncement hang in the air. Then she zeroed in on Abby. “You will delve into the world of ex-dating.”
Abby coughed into her hand. “Do you mean extreme dating, as in tandem hang gliding on the first date or making out on the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro?”
“No, Abby darling, that’s ‘ex’ as in former. From what I’ve gathered, it seems there are women out there who go to great lengths to help hook up their former beaux on this Web site, a kind of online matchmaking service that provides dating recommendations stamped with a type of Good Ex-Housekeeping Seal of Approval. I’m sure you’ll find out all about the particulars.”
Abby nearly gagged. She clutched her thighs tightly, the imprints of her fingers making deep grooves in the gabardine trousers.
Samantha smirked and didn’t bother to hide it.
Tess narrowed her eyes momentarily at Samantha before turning the full power of her LASIK-corrected eyes on Abby. “Now, Abby darling, I don’t want to let that little contretemps with your ex-boyfriend interfere with your ability to do this assignment.”
“Little contretemps?” Abby practically screeched. “The louse dumped me minutes after I’d won the internship to spend six months in Milan.”
“Really, there’s no need to be dramatic,” Tess replied dismissively. “Besides, the only real tragedy in the whole affair ending as far as I can fathom is that you need to find a new place to live now that you’re back in New York.”
Abby turned to Samantha. “And who blabbed all the details of my personal life around the office, huh?” It was an open secret that Samantha viewed Abby as a professional rival. When she’d found out Abby had gotten the Milan internship and not she, Samantha had launched her designer-suited-self at Abby’s throat. The fashion department had buzzed about it for weeks, totally eclipsing the disappointing London shows.
“Abby, there’s no need to point fingers,” Tess scolded. “Everyone knows I take a genuine interest in my staff’s personal and professional welfare.” True, though in Tess’s case, everyone also knew she exploited this information for Machiavellian purposes—lavishing an overabundance of care and attention to instill sufficient guilt so that employees wouldn’t complain about their measly salary and long hours.
Abby stewed for a moment before accepting the inevitable. “So if I’m ex-dating, what do you have in store for Samantha?” Ah, yes, the other shoe had yet to drop.
“Coffeehouse dating.” Tess picked up her cigarette holder and inhaled deeply before taking another breath.
Samantha immediately clutched her nicotine patch. “All those testosterone-impaired, Sartre-spouting losers who are too cheap to spring for their own wi-fi connections?”
“I’m sure some of them read James Patterson,” Tess countered. “Anyway, apparently coffeehouse dating works this way. Patrons provide biographical information and photos to the barista, who makes up these matchmaking binders. Then as you sip your skinny double lattes, you can peruse the offerings. Isn’t that marvelous?”
Samantha answered by grinding her teeth.
Abby