M.O.B.R., Part II
May
Miranda enjoyed the smell of the daily papers. She fell in love with the slightly acidic tang as a child, absorbed in the workings of the huge machines in her father's printing office. It was then, while surrounded by the almighty boom of the presses, that she decided she'd be part of the business. Even now, forty years later, the sharp odor brought back the comforting memory of her father's ink-stained hand on her shoulder.
Runway had never elicited a similar response: the smell was all wrong.
Perhaps fittingly, there was a saccharine note to its glossy paper.
Her life, her habits, even her husbands may have changed throughout the years but the instruments of her morning ritual persevered: a cup of hot coffee and the untouched, crispy paper on her desk.
For the next twenty-five minutes, just like she'd always done, she would trust an Emily to keep the world at bay while she decimated the papers in her preferred method.
She'd leaf quickly through the politics, because anything worth knowing was certainly not being printed. She'd check, thoroughly, the business section.
She'd suffer through the gossip pages, since more often than not she was mentioned there. (She was a firm believer in the know-thy-enemies approach.)
She'd skip the Sports altogether.
And then, giving herself one last treat before the workday started, she'd devour the Arts with gusto.
Therefore, turning to a supposedly safe Exhibitions page, she found it utterly unfair to be blindsided by her photo. It wasn't a huge picture and she wasn't alone in it. There was an African-American woman in the center, beaming with pride, and a morose looking young man at her left. And Andrea on her other side, her right shoulder ruthlessly cut out, sporting an asinine smile of someone not used to being the center of attention. Andrea, the dense, ungrateful girl who had walked away from her, only to write obituaries - for God's sake! - in that rag.
She looked beautiful.
Miranda studied the caption. The quirky Museum of Broken Relationships opened its door last night at the Walsen gallery. In the Photo: The custodian Lily Donovan with friends.
She sniffed dismayingly and turned the page. But the coffee suddenly tasted bitter and the sharp smell of the paper was not comforting anymore.
She could already tell it would be a horrible day.
Obviously, she was wrong. It wasn't horrible.
It was a disaster.
At noon, out of options, she called for an emergency meeting of the editorial staff.
"As you have probably heard," Miranda said gravely. "Pier Giacomo has filed for bankruptcy this morning."
Judging by their pale faces, yes, they've all heard. No wonder. News like that tended to spread like fire. Milan to New York in two minutes time.
"Unfortunately, my obviously inadequate sources," she glared at Nigel. They should have known about it, "inform me that nobody seems to be picking up the label."
"Why weren't we informed about it sooner?" Blindsided seemed to be the word of the day.
Nigel shrugged helplessly. "Pier has always been tightlipped, you know that, Miranda. And these days…"
…it could happen to anyone, anytime. She grimly finished the sentence for him.
"It is horrible, just horrible," said Jocelyn, with tears in her eyes.
"It is a great loss for the fashion world," Miranda agreed.
"It's so nice we are having his spread in June. Like an homage." Jocelyn was pregnant. Benevolently, Miranda decided to attribute her stupidity to the raging hormones.
"What a lovely thought, Jocelyn." Miranda rolled her eyes. "However, we are not in the business of running obituaries."
She considered it for a moment. "Unless the designer passes away, of course."
There was a gasp somewhere down the table.
"Having a spread dedicated to the label which has just," she waved her hand abstractly, "perished is completely unacceptable."
"But the layout is already done!" Paul blurted, horrified.
"Apparently, it isn't. I will not have this magazine a laughing stock of the fashion world. Not to mention that half of the public is already on the edge. I'm not pushing them over to anti-depressants by forcing another failure in their faces. We are selling dreams, people." Miranda sent them a sharp look. "Not nightmares."
She stood up.
"Jocelyn, find me a replacement. A solvent one. Nigel, find me …" She twisted her lips with distaste. "…an inexpensive shooting location."
"I want the suggestions on my desk first thing tomorrow morning. That's all."
June
Miranda skimmed unenthusiastically through her advance copy of Runway. The truth was she abhorred this first look at the finished product; she found it the worst kind of torture. Too late to catch any oversights, she could only glare helplessly at all the previously unnoticed typos or color leaks.
Looking through this issue was particularly harrowing. She actually liked the Pier Giacomo label, and wonder of wonders, she had found the original spread quite lovely. Giving it up was difficult, so difficult she let Nigel take the helm of the new shoot. She had her plate full enough dealing with Irv, trying to justify the hundred thousand dollars worth faux pas.
They had featured Stella McCartney, instead. Nigel, thankfully, came up with a passable idea: NYC independent galleries. It was cheap, which mollified Irv. It was, by definition, edgy which made it easier to swallow. Sponsoring the alternative culture made Runway look good, the galleries were thrilled with the publicity. A win-win situation, in the end.
Miranda looked at the feature again. Yes, Nigel did well. Stella's ephemeral fabrics looked good in the off beat context. She was particularly pleased with the Suits spread, burgundy coming out perfectly on the dull, flat black and white background. She studied the page more carefully, forcing herself to look beyond the model. A boring white panel printed with overblown Times New Roman lettering and the awkward line drawings of …a rocket? Also a fat snake? And a rectangle with a number on it.
The words on the panel were blurred but still readable. For the first time, she focused on the substance and hoped to God Nigel thought of checking it for inappropriate content.
There was a nice symmetry to the spread. If you tried, you could probably put the most of the story on the panel together.
She checked the caption again. The Walsen gallery. Museum of Broken Relationships. A photo of a silly smile flashed through her mind. Ah.
She squinted and read the author's signature next to the model's booted ankle.
Suddenly, reading the complete story was of paramount importance.
"Janice." Miranda called, forcing her voice steady. "Arrange a private viewing at Walsen gallery tonight."
For six years, it was all about Him.
And then, suddenly it wasn't.
Getting rid of his tattered T-shirt was no trouble at all. Nor were the two mismatched and frankly, stinky socks I found under the bed. The photos were easy as well.
I clicked them away, to a New folder named "Old".
In a bout of benevolence, I sent him the rest of the things he forgot to pack. His treasured Alessi corkscrew, an unused baseball glove, two fancy cookbooks. Well, all except the umbrella, because it was raining and I needed it to walk to the post office.
I don't have anything of His that's worth putting on display. There's nothing left. We did not end up enemies, nor did we promise to stay friends. There's nothing to purge, no pain to cleanse.
-
For six months, it was all about Her.
And it still is.
The funny part? We were not even involved, so there was no relationship to break.
Why is it then, that the only things I could justifiably place here are Hers?
A fancy pen she favored until it failed her.
A scarf that still holds the traces of her smell.
A card key to her hotel room, because there was no opportunity to give it back.
The mementos of my Broken relationship? I could give them away without a blink. Thus, there is no point in giving them to you.
The things I should put here, I find I still can not.
You get the traces, just like I did.
Andy S.
June. A day later.
Across town, Andy sprayed her morning coffee all over the Stella McCartney's Silk Linen Suits Runway spread.
The magazine landed on Lily's desk with a satisfying thump. She gave a startled squeak, looked up angrily then back down to the paper. Her eyes widened.
"Oh, shit."
"I thought you were my friend!"
"Andy,-" Lily gulped.
"How could you?"
Lily raised her hands. "It wasn't supposed to be that way!"
"Oh, really? I can't believe-"
"Just listen, please." She spoke urgently, not letting Andy interrupt her. "A bald guy shows up, and makes me an offer I can't refuse. Andy, my gallery - a setting for a Runway shoot! Do you have any idea how valuable that is?"
"Yes, Lily, I actually do," Andy said through her teeth. "I bet a million of gallery owners would backstab their friends for that opportunity. Like you just did!"
"I did not!" Lily actually had the gall to look offended. "How can you say that? It was not intentional!"
"And that makes it right?" Andy felt tears forming in her eyes.
"No! Of course not!" Lily jumped out of her chair and rounded the desk. She looked at Andy pleadingly. "I didn't realize it would be so…so readable! They were shooting all over the place. Your panel is boring. They seemed so focused on Doug's piggy bank display. And they loved the decapitated teddy bear. I was sure it would be a blur. What could I do? Throw myself over it?"
"Shit, Lily." Andy dropped down on a sofa and buried her head in her hands.
The seat dipped as Lily sat down next to her. She put a tentative hand on Andy's shoulder. "I'm sorry."
Andy shook her head.
"When was that shoot?"
"Two weeks ago." At Andy's outraged look she blurted. "I just didn't want to upset you. It seemed so harmless. Miranda never stepped a foot inside the gallery. It was all about that bald guy. And he had eyes only for the angles and the lighting and his precious models."
"Still, you should have told me."
"Yeah." Lily shrugged helplessly. "But your panel is so dull; I really didn't think they'd use it."
"Gee, thanks." Andy slumped back.
"You know what I mean."
Andy just nodded dejectedly. They sat in silence for a while.
"Come on, it's not the end of the world, is it?" Lily leaned back next to her and nudged her shoulder.
"No, but…"Andy shook her head. "Oh, hell. Maybe you're right. It was ages ago in Runway time. Obviously, no one even noticed. But, God, what an irony!"
"Yes," Lily licked her lips. "Very ironic."
"And it's not like anyone actually reads the photos. If no one realized so far-"
"Um."
"What?"
Lily cringed. "Miranda was here last night, for a private viewing."
"Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck!" Andy felt, actually felt, the blood draining from her face. "Why did she come? How did she look? What did she say?"
"She looked too scary to ask anything after the May-I-help- you. The look she gave me…" Lily shivered. "Good Lord, Andy, couldn't you fall for someone cuddly?"
"I had cuddly. Didn't work," Andy said distractedly. "Then what happened?"
"She walked straight to your panel."
Andy's shoulders sagged. There goes a brief but uplifting notion Miranda's visit was a pure coincidence.
"And stared. And stared some more. By the time she was done, I think the letters were melting."
"What did she look like?" Andy gulped. "Did she purse her lips?"
"Huh?" Lily shook her head. "I don't know. I was sitting here, hiding behind my screen, pretending as best as I could that she wasn't there and that I wasn't here."
"Then?"
"Then she turned on her heel, marched towards me, and looked at me down her nose, like this." Lily attempted the look. In Andy's opinion, she pulled it off terrifyingly well. "She said the whole exhibition was very contemporary, as it was a monumental display of self-absorbed wallowing."
"She would," Andy snorted.
"You know," Lily said, her voice full of wonder, "she has an amazing insight. Only a few people..."
"Huh?"
Lily shook her head, pushed up from the sofa and walked to the desk.
"And then she gave me this." Lily passed Andy a white envelope. "For the sad, little collection."
Andy stared at the white rectangle, her stomach churning. She glanced at Lily, who shrugged. "Just read it, will you?"
While opening the envelope with trembling fingers, Andy tried to guess at the most probable content. For the collection? Yeah, right. She had no doubt it was aimed at her, whatever it was. At least, she could be certain it wasn't a horse head.
Perhaps, an eviction notice for the gallery? No, Lily appeared too calm for that.
A restraint order for the psycho ex-employee?
Or the long expected You'll-never-work-in-this-city-again?
Finally, Andy unfolded… a sheet of standard office paper. It looked like a photocopy of an abused, crumpled letter. She read the first line.
This is my formal notification that I am resigning from Elias Clarke...
Andy's own signature was scrawled at the bottom. A photocopy of Andy's letter of resignation.
She stared for a minute, incomprehensively. Then she gave a bitter laugh. "My god, she really knows how to twist that knife."
"Yeah." Lily said. "That was my first thought as well, but…"
"No buts about this, Lily. Trust me." Andy took a shuddering breath. "This is a very pointed reminder that I deserve all my wallowing."
"Hmm." Lily perched on her desk and scrunched her nose. "I wouldn't be so sure."
"No, you're right." Andy gulped. "It could be a threat as well. Something like, quit before I have you fired-"
Lily rolled her eyes. "That's so not what I was implying."
"You don't understand!" Andy wailed. "That's the way she operates. Open insults and thinly veiled threats."
"Be that as it may, this is a copy, Andy."
"So?"
Lily studied her with a patronizing smirk. "Even you should know by now that in arts, the technique is as important as the subject."
Andy stared, mouth half opened. Good God, was the snootiness contagious? And what the Hell? Was Lily trying to elucidate her in intricacies of Miranda's mind?
She narrowed her eyes. "Lily,-"
"She kept the original. She's using your own method, Andy." Lily said slowly, as if speaking to a child. "Perhaps, the message is similar, as well."
That Andy was considering it even for a second, showed the level of her desperation. Crazy.
She shook her head.
"Right. And, sometimes, a urinal is just a urinal."
"Whatever." Lily shrugged, her last shreds of guilt used up far too quickly for Andy's liking. "In any case, I invited her to the closing party next Friday."
"You WHAT? Why? Are you insane?"
"It was only right. All of the contributors are invited." Lily nodded towards the letter in Andy's hand.
Next Part…