FIC: "MODE: Final Issue!" (Ugly Betty, B/D and lots more pairings besides, PG13), part 3 of 4
12. December 2010
Wilhelmina is in the Christmas spirit. Although she has reasons enough to celebrate, mass firings just add that extra little sparkle to the season.
She hums “Silver and Gold” as her car drives southward along Eighth Avenue. A light, fine snow is falling - not enough to snarl traffic, just enough to look pretty when it dusts her sable coat. A set decorator couldn’t have presented the scene any more perfectly.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she withdraws it. “Daniel, darling. Welcome back.”
“Since when did I become darling?”
“Since you gave me the control of Meade I so long deserved and got the hell out of my way.”
“Fair enough. Listen, we need to coordinate the layoffs day; both of us are going to have to speak to the press, so we should present a united front. Final deadline here. Does January 3 work for you?”
“You insisted we wait until after the holidays,” Wilhelmina points out. “That’s barely after New Year’s. Are you sure that’s enough to placate your conscience?”
“Gawker and Mediabistro are already sniffing around. If tomorrow weren’t Christmas Eve, we’d be in danger of it getting out ahead of time. The quicker we act, the more we beat the rumors, the kinder it will be.”
“Very well. January 3. I take it you and Betty will be returning to England immediately afterward?”
“A couple of days later, yeah.” Daniel pauses, as if expecting her to say something. When she doesn’t, he says, “Okay, out with it.”
“Out with what?”
“Whatever tacky thing you’re going to say about me and Betty. You’ve had a few months to sharpen your barbs; they ought to be razorlike by now.”
On a lesser day, this reaction might rub Wilhelmina the wrong way. As it is, she snuggles farther down into her fur and smiles. “Oh, ye of little faith. Listen, Daniel, I ought to know: The hardest thing to find in this world is a person who will always have your back. With Betty, you’ve got that, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” Daniel sounds bewildered. Maybe he still can’t believe she’s no longer angry, or maybe the Queens air is starting to affect his brain. “Niceness is a really good look for you, Wilhelmina.”
“It’s like you said in your farewell letter as editor: Love is the only attitude that never goes out of fashion.”
His laughter sounds like amazement. “Did you just quote me?”
“Don’t get cocky.”
She disconnects and considers shutting off the phone. Interruptions are about to become even more annoying than usual. But she scrolls through once, checking despite herself to see if maybe, just maybe, Nico has called or texted.
Of course, she hasn’t.
Wilhelmina snaps it off and tucks it in the pocket of her sable. Someday she and her daughter will face one another again; as long as Wilhelmina allows herself to believe that it could be a happy occasion, that keeps it possible. That’s all she asks, at this point, for it to be possible that one day Nico will come back home.
At least this year Wilhelmina won’t have to spend Christmas alone.
Outside the correctional facility stand half-a-dozen women. They range in age from an elderly grandmother who stands with a cane to the jailbait who probably got her man thrown in here in the first place. Wilhelmina is the only one wearing a fur coat and black pearls. None of them stare at her, though; she’s become a regular fixture in the waiting rooms.
Then the Christmas releases start to filter out. She peers impatiently past their weary, relieved, overjoyed faces until she spies the one she wants. “Connor!”
He runs to her - as hard and fast as he can - and there’s nothing sweeter than the way they collide.
**
A couple of hours later, they lie unwrapped beneath her tree. The holiday decorations glitter in green and crimson, and the fireplace bathes them in warmth. Wilhelmina stretches luxuriously on the white rug beneath them. “Obviously we’ve taken care of the first thing you wanted to do when you got out of jail. So, what’s the second thing?”
“The exact same, but with me on top this time.” Connor nuzzles her neck. “And if you think you’ll enjoy that, just wait until we get to the third thing.”
“I like the way you think.” She kisses him deeply, then strolls across the room to pour them a little more champagne. “But I had some plans of my own for our Christmas Day.”
“Name it, love.”
“We’ll sleep late. Open gifts - and don’t worry, I already bought my presents from you. It turns out you have impeccable taste. Then we lunch on roast pheasant. Attend the Handel concert at St. Patrick’s in the afternoon. Afterwards, I thought we’d drive to Queens to talk with Daniel Meade.”
Connor’s smile slowly fades. “That took a weird left turn.”
“Towards Queens? Yes, I know.”
He sits up, and for the first time she notices how much weight he’s lost in prison - earlier, she was distracted. His thinness brings out his vulnerability as he sits naked on her floor, and yet outlines the whipcord muscles he’s retained, reminding her that he can be a ruthless, dangerous man. “Why the hell would I want to talk to Daniel?”
“Are you still upset about Molly?” she asks quietly.
Connor considers that for a moment. “I’m still upset that Daniel lied to me about their romance,” he finally says. “But he’s not the reason Molly and I ended. From the moment I met you - Willie, it was only a matter of time.”
That’s more like it. “You certainly matched Daniel lie for lie before the end. So let it go, will you? I’m hoping he can.”
“Is this your version of a Christmas miracle or something?”
“Excuse me, have we met?” She gives him a mock-scowl as she strolls back toward him, champagne fizzing in the flutes she carries. “Listen. Eventually you’re going to want to do something other than make love. Granted, it may be a while - and that’s fine by me - but you’re a dynamic man with a lot to offer. And I think you should return to Meade Publications.”
“Oh, my God.” Connor’s face pales. “The coma. They said you’d made a full recovery, but - love, you’re not thinking clearly -”
“I’m as clear as Oshi’s Plexiglass corset for spring. Connor, you’re an expert in the very fields where we need help. No, they’re never going to give you full access to the accounts again, but that doesn’t mean we can’t call on your considerable skills. I was thinking perhaps an advisory role.”
He studies her as though he’s able to see through her; he’s not the only man who’s ever done that, but he’s the only one who ever made her like it. “Is this part of a larger plan?”
“Believe it or not, no. Meade Publications is my baby now, as much as it is Daniel’s.” She knows the Meades understand that; if they don’t trust Connor’s intentions towards them, maybe they will trust his love for her.
“What makes you think the Meades would even listen to this?”
“Daniel handed the reins over to me, and I’ve framed members of his family for murder. I’m fulfilling my end of the bargain, even though I got shot by that youngest Meade, whatshisname. We’re getting pretty good at bygones.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “That’s between you and them. Not between Daniel and me.”
“Then we’ll just have to give him a chance,” Wilhelmina says. “Or, if you prefer, you take part in one of the ‘re-entry’ employment programs. What was it the parole paperwork said? There are usually offerings in custodial services.”
“I suppose we could talk to Daniel.” Connor looks more cornered than convinced; either will do, as long as he falls in line. “If Santa was especially good to him, maybe he won’t punch me out, at least. Wait - you said Queens. Why would we be going to Queens?”
“That’s where Daniel is spending Christmas with his new girlfriend. You remember Betty Suarez, right?”
He considers, remembers, and obviously talks himself out of it. “I’m thinking of someone else.”
“His assistant?”
“The pudgy one with the insane outfits and the glasses? You’ve got to be kidding me.” When Wilhelmina shakes her head no, she’s on the level, Connor has to take a deep quaff of the champagne. “God. It’s got to be like making love to Carmen Miranda’s hat.”
“The heart has its reasons, which reason cannot know.” To her astonishment, Wilhelmina feels the need to stand up for Betty. Thank God nobody but Connor will ever hear it. “And Carmen Miranda’s hat has a very soft heart - which means if you win her over, you’re halfway back to Meade.”
“She’s the way in, huh?”
“And she won’t be faked or bought,” Wilhelmina says firmly as she kneels by his side. “You’ve got to mean it. So you’re walking into her home on Christmas afternoon with a flan and a smile.”
Connor sighs in wonder as he clinks his champagne glass against hers. “Feliz Navidad.”
13. March 2011
It’s natural, Daniel tells himself, for any relationship to hit a rough patch, particularly when you first move in together. Becoming a couple isn’t easy. It takes work. He’s willing to work.
But ever since Betty gave up her own place and moved in with him, it has definitely felt like work. They’re tripping over each other constantly, and little habits that used to be cute are less so when you see them eight times a day.
She feels the same way; he can tell. And naturally, this has hit right when his real work, and hers, have both gone insane.
“Dunne wants to have another budget meeting,” Betty says as they walk along the street with a shopping bag each, with more errands yet to run. “This is only six weeks after I thought we had it nailed down for a while.”
“Don’t freak out,” Daniel begins, but then his cell starts chiming with the ringtone that means Ailes. “Dammit. Hang on.”
Betty shoots him a look, but she lets him take the call. The first month after Crave launched, the app hardly twitched, and non-Meade fashion magazines left it severely alone in revenge for the exclusive MODE and FM tie-ins. Then it hit. Crave lit up over the holidays, and now they don’t have to beg for coverage anymore. It’s only March 15, and they’ve already beaten Daniel’s optimistic growth projections for the year. The larger online accessory stores, rather than get beaten at their own game, want to partner up - which will give Crave a worldwide delivery network. Interest from bargain stores like Target has been avid; instead of giving them time to come up with their own version, or of removing Crave’s luster by going downmarket too early, they’re going to launch a low-cost sister app this summer. (“Grab.”) Of course, at this point, they don’t have nearly enough users to actually turn a profit; they’re still more of a catchword than an enterprise. With the huge amount of money Daniel staked on this bet, he can’t swear that they’re out of the woods yet - but the future looks bright.
All of this is awesome. Better than awesome. Daniel knows he’s going to feel incredibly proud of himself as soon as he has ten damn seconds to sit down and think about his life, which right now seems like it’s due to happen exactly around never.
While Ailes talks technical mumbo-jumbo about the Amazon algorithm, and Daniel questions whether the company’s just too weird to partner with anyway, Betty walks alongside him, either drooping or fuming. Daniel’s scared to find out which. These have been her default moods lately. She’s no longer bringing her usual verve to - anything, really. Their sex life is at a lull, she hasn’t wanted to get together with their friends for weeks now, and when she gets dressed in the morning … well, there’s been some backsliding. Take for instance today’s sweater. For the most part, Daniel gets pleasantly nostalgic when she wears something “offbeat” again, but he’s pretty sure this yellow and blue sweater, like Mary Hart’s voice, could induce seizures in the vulnerable.
Obviously his mood’s not the best either. He can see it, but he can’t seem to change it. In part he thinks he’s irritated with her for talking him into letting Connor Owens back into Meade - Betty is enormously persuasive when she wants to be - but that’s not enough to explain the rift that’s opened between them since the start of the year.
At last he hangs up. Betty says, “I used to get that many calls a day. My sources have gone really quiet lately.”
“It’s not your fault FM’s struggling.”
“I’m the editor. How is it not my fault?”
“You’ve noticed what’s happening to print, right? The number of magazines that we torched just two months ago? Honestly, I-” Pull it back, Daniel, don’t say it, do not say it -
Her eyes narrow. “What were you going to say?”
This is not going to be good. “I told you leaving MODE was a bad idea.”
“When you burned my release.” Betty’s cheeks flush with long-denied anger, and he could kick himself a dozen times for going here. “When you tried to keep me there regardless of what I wanted.”
“MODE is the Meade flagship! As long as we’re publishing any magazines, we’re publishing MODE, and there would’ve been a place for you there forever. You had to know that a startup was a risk.”
“Yes. I took a risk. I took a chance on something I believed in, and it’s blowing up in my face, and you’re acting completely self-satisfied about it.”
Is he being a jerk, or is she being oversensitive? Daniel’s uncomfortably aware that both possibilities can be true.
“FM means so much in my life,” she says, and her voice wavers. “I wish you could see what this is doing to me.”
“Betty-” And then his damned cell goes off, again, and it’s Wilhelmina, which means it’s not a social call. Daniel answers it, but after seeing the look in Betty’s eyes, he wishes he hadn’t.
When he hangs up this time, Betty isn’t speaking to him. Not in a passive-aggressive way, in a too-depressed-to-talk way. Daniel feels like an ass.
How can he make this better? He ventures, “You know - if Dunne’s not backing FM the way he should - Meade Publications could buy it. FM’s already sort of like the British version of NYW, so it’s a natural fit.”
“I don’t need your charity,” Betty says, in a tone of voice that could bring the glaciers back down for a new Ice Age.
Just as they reach the next store on their list, a group of small children on some kind of outing cut in front of them. They’re all holding hands while a few frazzled parents try to keep everyone more or less in place. At the front of this silly conga line of kids is a young teacher who looks like she loves every second of it.
The last time he saw a teacher leading her class around this way, it was Molly, and she wore brilliantly colored construction-paper chains around her neck. The past slams into the present so hard it almost knocks the breath out of him. Daniel can smell her perfume, hear her laughter, and for an instant it’s as though he could save her if he just grabbed on to her tightly enough right this second.
“Are you just going to stand there and wait for your phone to ring again?” Betty snaps. Then her eyes widen as she recognizes the scene too. “Oh, Daniel. Molly - I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
She lays a soft hand on his arm, but he’s too irritated and unhappy to be grateful. “You know what, you just - head on in. I’ll catch up. All right?”
They look at each other as if from across a great distance. Betty opens her mouth to speak, but then she turns and goes in alone.
Daniel leans against a nearby lamppost and tries to figure out what the hell is happening. He can’t save Betty’s magazine for her, and he doesn’t know any other way to make her not be miserable right now. She’d never ask him to quit Crave, and there’s no chance he’s going to abandon the one thing he’s ever built for himself just as it’s taking off, but at the moment it’s swinging through their life together like a wrecking ball. For the first time since he bought a one-way ticket from JFK to Heathrow, Daniel thinks they’re not going to make it.
Just as he knows there is no way on earth he can feel worse, a woman’s voice says, “Daniel?” And he looks up to see Sofia Reyes.
I’m in hell, he thinks. I died in my sleep, and this - Betty’s moods, Sofia, that sweater - this is all hell. It makes so much sense.
Sofia looks uneasy, as well she might, but she’s smiling. She’s as gorgeous and chic as ever in a silver trenchcoat and a bouncy bob. “Well,” she says. “You haven’t thrown a punch yet. I think that counts as being happy to see me.”
“I guess.” This is not exactly the kind of withering comment he wanted to have ready when they met again. “What - what are you doing in London?”
“Pleasure, not business. My husband surprised me with a weekend away. It’s our first time alone since the … I don’t know if you knew that we-”
“I read about the twins in the papers,” he says heavily. “Congratulations.”
“You’re doing big things yourself. Everyone in New York is talking about whether a Crave IPO is the next step. But don’t tell me. Insider trading charges are so 2007.”
And then Betty emerges, bags in hand. Daniel has almost never been so glad to see her. Betty’s attention, at first, is only on the shopping. “They were totally out of - Sofia!”
“Betty!” Sofia lights up, more genuinely happy to have run into her than into Daniel. If he felt any more confident in her presence, he’d swear Sofia looked relieved not to be alone with him any longer. “Are you in London too? Don’t tell me you’re still working for this one.”
“Uh, no.” Betty gives him a look he can read perfectly: What are the odds?
I know, right? he sends back. “Actually, Sofia, Betty and I live together now.”
Sofia stands there, hands in pockets, weighing that for a second - as if she has to translate it from some other language. Finally she says, “You mean, like roommates?”
Betty frowns. “We’re dating. If you can still call it that after you move in together.”
“Sure,” Daniel says. “Why not?”
“… living together!” Sofia looks less convinced than before. “Forgive me - Daniel, I honestly never thought you’d have it in you.”
“To move in with someone? Really commit?”
“To appreciate Betty.”
Which translates to her believing that Betty is ugly, or that he’s a dimwit, or both. Daniel turns to Betty. “Which one of us should be more offended?”
“It’s a toss-up,” Betty says, and there’s the glacier voice again. It sounds a lot better directed at someone else.
But Sofia looks so stung - not by his disapproval, but by Betty’s - that Daniel remembers how she did appreciate Betty’s intelligence and drive, a long time before he did. She’d tried to provide a meaningful boost for Betty’s career within weeks of their meeting, something Daniel himself took way the hell too long to do.
It’s reason enough to let her off the hook.
“Let’s be fair, Betty,” Daniel says, feeling the tension melt from his body as he finally sets that old weight down. “This kind of caught us by surprise too.”
Slowly, Betty relaxes. “I guess it did.”
Sofia looks almost as relieved as Daniel feels. “I’m very happy for you both. I mean it.”
“Thanks,” Betty said. “And congratulations on the twins.”
“The reason I said hello - I wanted to thank you, Daniel. For keeping NYW off the chopping block. Before the last round of layoffs, my staff was truly frightened. Poor Ruthie was using her entire lunch hour to cry in the restrooms. It was such a gift to tell them everyone could stay.”
“No thanks necessary. You guys are staying afloat on your own.”
Betty interjects, “How are you doing that, by the way?”
They make plans to talk, and Sofia gives Betty her card, and they all wave politely as she walks away. As soon as Sofia’s out of earshot, Betty turns to Daniel, still disbelieving. “There are eight million people in London at any given moment, and you run into-”
His cell goes off.
Just as Betty’s face falls, Daniel pulls out his phone, drops it onto the ground and stomps it until it breaks into so much metal and plastic. A few passers-by gawp, but to hell with them. Betty stares at him - more delighted than astonished - and Daniel says, “I’ll get another one on Monday.”
They go home, make dinner, make love. Daniel’s not sure exactly why things are so much better all of a sudden, but he thinks running into Sofia reminded them of how far they’d already come. Whatever it was, he’ll take it.
Afterwards, as they lie in bed together, Daniel says, “I was thinking - probably the last thing you want to do is move again so soon, but this place isn’t working for us. When my lease ends, we should rent another flat. One that’s not mine, you know? One that’s ours from the get-go.”
“You called it a flat! I get one more square on assimilation bingo.”
Daniel laughs. “Seriously, what do you think?”
“It’s a good idea. A new place would give us a fresh start.” She wrinkles her nose. “Also, honestly, I never knew why you picked this place. It’s pretty small.”
“It’s bigger than your old place.”
“So are some handbags.Seriously, Daniel, why here? You could have moved into a mansion.”
“I didn’t want a mansion. I thought - you know, you wouldn’t be impressed if I was just living off my family money. I wanted to be more down to earth.”
Even before he’s done speaking, Betty’s entire body is shaking with laughter. “You got this place to impress me?”
“It’s not so bad,” he protests, but he starts to laugh too.
“No girl is ever impressed by a guy taking his clothes to the Laundromat! I would have been a lot more impressed if I could have brought my laundry over here.”
“It’s -- honest and - authentic.” Daniel manages to get all of this out before losing it completely.
Betty shoves at him with her feet. “You dork.”
He has to wipe tears of laughter from his cheeks before he’s composed again. By then, she’s looking more serious.
For a few moments, the only sound is the rustle of sheets as she props herself up on one arm. Betty covers his heart with one hand, as if to shield it. “I’m sorry that you - that you still miss Molly so much.”
“You know it doesn’t mean I love you any less.”
She nods. “Just like I know loving me doesn’t make losing her hurt any less.”
Daniel combs his fingers through her dark hair. “She wanted me to find somebody else. Somebody like you. Wherever Molly is now - she’s happy about this.”
“I’m glad.” She kisses him, and even before their lips part, he can feel Betty start to smile again. “God, I feel so much better than I did this morning. When I woke up, I hardly wanted to get out of bed. I even put on my sunshine sweater to try making myself less gloomy.”
“Sunshine sweater?” It has a name.
She points to it on the chair by the door. “The yellow and blue diamonds sort of look like sunshine in the sky, see?”
“Yeah.” Daniel presses his lips against her hairline, mostly to keep himself from laughing. “It’s beautiful.”
“You really think so?”
“Really.” And somehow, he does.
14. August 2011
Hilda heads for the last seat on the A train, but a teenaged boy plops down in it the second before she gets there. “Excuse me, I was going for that,” she says.
The kid obviously can’t hear her over his headphones, but he gets her drift; he shrugs, an exaggerated move, so there’s no way she can miss how much he doesn’t care.
In response, Hilda pulls her floaty shirt flat over her belly so he can see the baby bump. It’s still small, but it’s finally past that stage where it just looks like a few double cheeseburgers too many. “You’re gonna steal a seat from a pregnant lady? Not THIS pregnant lady, buddy. Move it!”
He shambles off - less out of shame, Hilda thinks, than out of the fear that she would otherwise rant at him for the rest of the half-hour trip to Midtown. Well, he’s not wrong. Hilda plops down and stows her heavy-ass backpack under the seat. Sure, it’s touching the train floor, but it can be disinfected later.
**
“I’m here!” she calls at the photo studio. “I know I’m kinda early - the A ran on time for once.”
“No problemo!” Amanda is going through racks of clothes for the shoot. “See, I’m learning your Mexican language.”
“That’s very impressive. Miss Thing here yet?”
“Please. Once they win a Grammy or two, they never show up early for anything ever again.” Amanda sounds as jaded as if this were her thousandth superstar client instead of her first.
“Good. Gives me a chance to rest.” Hilda dumps her backpack and collapses into the nearest chair. “Ay, I’m getting too pregnant for this.”
“Speaking of? I went into a Barnes & Noble to use the bathroom and I snuck a baby-names book in there with me. Wanted to pick out some hot, edgy names, so this kid will be even sassier than her Aunt Mandy. If that’s possible. Which it isn’t. Anyway, I think you should go with Veronique, Nash or Dresden.”
Hilda wrinkles her nose. “I was thinking maybe Stephanie.”
“Throwback chic. Huh. It could work.”
Back aching, Hilda leans forward in the chair to try and stretch those muscles. She should’ve rented a salon back when they first moved to Manhattan. But then Marc offered her a gig doing hair for a MODE shoot, and the photographer liked her work and called her for other stuff, and now she’s all Have Brush, Will Travel. It’s good money, and she likes the variety; the flexibility will help, too, after the baby’s born. But this thing where she’s hefting around 30 pounds of styling crap? That’s got to change.
An idea comes to her - one that, to anyone but a native New Yorker, would seem obvious, but breaks over her like a revelation. “We should - Bobby and I should buy a car.”
Also a New Yorker, Amanda stares at her, not comprehending. “Buy a car,” she repeats, as if sounding it out phonetically. “Like - a taxi that’s just for one person?”
“Yeah. Up where we live, you can actually find parking. Austin seems to get a good spot every time he comes in from Jersey to see Justin-”
At the door, they hear an ear-splitting scream. Hilda and Amanda leap up to see Miss Thing’s manager stumbling in the door, clutching her heart, face so pale that Hilda’s first thought is to wonder if she’s been stabbed.
“She told me,” the manager gasps, “she told me to meet her here, and she didn’t say - she never said -”
Miss Thing walks in, her trademark golden curls uneven. Specifically, they’re now only a couple of inches long on one side. The other side is untouched. Her steps are unsteady, and she doesn’t seem to remember how to stop; instead she simply runs smack into one of the walls. “I mighta had too much tequila last night,” she slurs. “I just wanted to give it a li’l trim.”
“A wig,” Hilda says. “I don’t have one in my bag, but I know where we can get some Sheinharts out in Queens. I’ll just call Papi -”
“No.” Amanda stands up slowly, a look of wonder dawning on her face. “We don’t need a wig. You want edge? I’ll give you edge.” Amanda grabs one of the shirts off the rack and rips it in half. Then she whispers, “You can sew, right? I should’ve asked that first.”
“Yeah, I sew, but - what about her hair?”
Amanda flips her head around dramatically. “Got a razor?”
**
A week later, Justin has all the magazines spread out on their living room floor. “People AND Us Weekly AND inTouch, and you can believe the major fashion mags will have it next month. Amanda’s the new Rachel Zoe, and you’re totally her guardian angel.”
The headlines all talk about “The New Asymmetry,” and the photos each show Miss Thing with half her head shaved, half fluffed up more than ever - backcombing like Hilda’s never done before, nor even seen except on the likes of Gina Gambarro. Every one of the outfits are amalgamations of two or more pieces of fashion thrown together, breaking sharply in the middle. Kinda like those dancers in “Victor Victoria,” Hilda thinks, but apparently it’s the look of the moment.
“I got jobs booked out the yin-yang because of this,” she says, carefully lowering herself onto the hardwood beside her son. “At this rate, we’ll have a down payment on some wheels before August.”
“You better. If this family is finally buying a car, I want to ride in it at least once before I move out.”
Hilda leans her head onto Justin’s shoulder. “How am I gonna deal without having my little boy at home?”
“My little sister is going to keep you plenty busy.”
“One in college, one in diapers. I must be nuts.”
“You’re not nuts. Not in a bad sense, anyway.”
Nobody says anything for a few seconds. She’s missing him before he’s even gone, and though she knows he’ll never admit it, he’s feeling the same way. Hilda’s proud of him, getting the credits together to go to college early. He hated high school so much; the change can only help. Her son is racing toward the future as fast as he can, and she wants that for him. But it was hard enough having Betty move to England. Now Justin’s going to California? It’s going to be much too quiet in her life.
Well, she thinks, putting one hand on her belly, not too quiet. At least not for long.
The moment passes. As she sits up, Justin seizes another of the magazines, the better to examine his mother’s handiwork. “Do you think Amanda will get her own reality show? If she does, Marc and I should be, like, the gay Greek chorus.”
“Beats anything they got on cable.”
15. October 2011
“You’re finally going to let me make you a dress.” Christina beams at Betty like she’s just seen the Christ child. Her design studio, a whirl of activity, seems to slow as seamstresses and tailors look up at their visibly energized boss. “Took you long enough to get around to it.”
“I didn’t want to take advantage.”
“You’d think we’d never worked at MODE. The fashion industry is built on taking advantage, my dear. What’s the occasion?”
“It’s our friend Gareth’s sister’s birthday, so obviously we all have to get together.” When Christina gives her an odd look, Betty says, “Okay, Gareth is from Daniel’s rowing club, and his sister Fiona turned out to be friendly with Billie from FM, who I was already starting to hang out with, and then we fixed up Billie with Maureen from Daniel’s business class. Now Maureen wants to fix up Fiona with her best friend, Clive.”
Christina holds up her hands in surrender. “Tell me all this again when you have the flow chart. I still don’t see where the dress is coming into it, though you’re welcome to it even for a Tesco’s run.”
“Well.” Betty feels a little awkward mentioning it. “Somehow we’ve already got too many friends to fit in any of our apartments, and everybody else thought it would be a great idea to go clubbing -”
“-and you feel like you’re venturing into alien territory.”
“Nightclubs aren’t usually my scene. Sometimes that kind of thing can make me … let’s say defensive. So at first I was feeling weird about it, but then I thought - you know, I’m going to wear something awesome and dance all night and have fun.”
“Tackle it head-on. A very Betty solution if I ever heard one.” Christina takes up her tape measure. “Right, then. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
As she shimmies out of her clothes in the changing tent, Betty thinks again about the phrase “tackle it head-on” and smiles. It turned out to be the very Betty solution for FM, too. Aggressively expanding their nightlife presence, the way Sofia Reyes did with NYW, helped a great deal; moving more and more content to the online portal, Betty’s own idea, did more. FM is now a more-uplifting mixture of Jezebel and HuffPo through a British lens, but with increasing worldwide reach.
This means her magazine isn’t exactly a magazine anymore. But that’s the way media is moving, and Betty means to move with it. FM hasn’t undergone a total financial turnaround yet, but signs are good. She’s saved her baby. She’s making it, on her own.
“Coming in!” Christina announces, not even a second before walking in on Betty in her undies. Then she blinks. “Good Lord, why have you been hiding that this entire time?”
Two years ago - before Daniel - Betty would have been covering herself with her hands, and apologizing for the 20 pounds she’s apparently never going to lose. But Daniel’s ridiculously excessive sexual history stopped making her feel insecure a while ago and started having the exact opposite effect. Hers is still not the body most designers work for, but she revels in it like she never did before. “I was thinking - I was thinking maybe something red.”
“I’m thinking something Marilyn Monroe,” Christina says with a wicked sparkle in her eyes.
“I don’t have those kind of legs.” Banishing the old insecurity is a job that’s never quite done.
Christina nods, admitting it, but she adds, “However, you do have those kind of breasts, and trust me, in that case, most men won’t look any lower.”
**
Daniel’s working late as usual, as are a couple of the others, so on Fiona’s birthday they all agree to meet up at the club itself. Betty feels almost naked in the taxi - this dress exposes much more of her body than she usually shows in public - but she’s determined. Tonight she’s going to fit in with the club scene. She’s not going to apologize for herself. She not only looks beautiful, she’s going to feel beautiful. The second one is harder.
As she steps into the club, she takes off her glasses and drops them in her evening bag. This completes the look, but makes the room fairly murky. Betty realizes belatedly that it might have been a better idea to do that after she’d found someone from her party -
“Betty?”
She turns, and even through myopic haze, she recognizes Daniel. “You made it here on time.”
“Yeah, I - yeah. Betty. Wow.”
“Christina made this for me.” Red satin, halter top, bare back, and a middle that hugs her waist before flowing freely down into a wide skirt. “So … you like it.”
“I’m standing here like some stupefied idiot in a ZZ Top video. Any second they’re going to show up and give me the keys to the Eliminator.” Betty starts laughing, and he pulls her possessively close. Daniel whispers into her ear, “The best part of this will be going home afterwards.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Daniel finds the gathering, more people marvel over her dress, and yet - none of them are shocked to see her looking so glammed up. Their lack of astonishment is more gratifying than astonishment could ever be.
“Marvelous dress,” purrs Fiona, sleek in a pencil skirt and a chic asymmetrical haircut. “Wherever did you get it?”
“A McKinney original,” Betty says, trying to sound offhand.
“Love it.”
“Me too,” interjects Clive, who comes across as well-meaning but absolutely too eager to get near Fiona. “McKinney’s a master. Love him.”
“You follow design, do you?” Fiona crosses her arms. “I thought they said you were straight.”
“It’s not going well, is it?” whispers Maureen. “I knew it wouldn’t go well.”
The only person who worries more than Maureen is her partner, Billie. “Shush. Give them a chance!”
“Enough chattering,” Gareth says. He’s a big, broad guy, more muscular than heavy, with reddish hair and an open smile. “Not enough dancing. Come on, you lot, let’s go!” Daniel grabs Betty’s hand, and then she’s out on the floor, part of the crowd. Before long, Betty’s starting to see the appeal of this whole clubbing thing. Yeah, as a lifestyle, it would be shallow and meaningless - but as a night out with friends and the guy she loves, it’s actually kind of fun. Really fun, as a matter of fact.
“The nightlife in London is fabulous,” Fiona says, as they’re sitting around drinking cocktails. “Compared to Paris, anyway. If I never spend another work assignment there, it will be too soon. Don’t you agree, Betty?”
Fiona thinks she’s someone who knows about international nightlife! Betty feels she is totally pulling this off. “Oh, absolutely. Though of course we miss Manhattan, don’t we, darling?”
“We do, darling.” Daniel’s tone of voice tells her he’s in on the joke.
Then the DJ puts on something with a fast-paced Latin beat, and Betty feels the need to salsa so desperately that she practically springs up. “Daniel, tell me you remember how to salsa.”
“It’s been four years since you taught me,” he says, adding, “over the phone.”
She could just teach him all over again, but surprisingly, Gareth offers his hand. “I can salsa. Do you mind, Daniel?’
“Not at all. Enjoy yourselves.”
Betty’s just tipsy enough to feel like the lights and the beat are becoming a part of her, and it’s a joy to dance with Gareth; Daniel can acquit himself well enough, but surprisingly given his size, Gareth has moves, and Betty can more than keep up. She’s aware of other people on the dance floor watching them - admiring them - and she feels like the pretty dress and the jewelry and the smile are shining armor that can keep her safe forever. It’s an illusion, and she’s aware of that, but this is the first time she’s ever felt it. Nobody ever told her it was so exhilarating.
“Do you think Fiona and Clive are hitting it off any better?” Gareth shouts over the music as he twirls her.
“Clive’s practically drooling. Fiona - I can’t tell. What do you think?”
“I think she’s mostly here for the free cocktails. But perhaps she’ll eventually get drunk enough to stop seeing Clive’s bald spot.”
“Don’t be mean. He’s sweet,” Betty says, and it feels delicious to be defending someone else’s appearance for a change.
At the end of the song, they make their way toward the edge of the dance floor, and Gareth heads toward the bar to grab club soda. “Lime in mine, okay?” Betty says.
“You got it. Be right back.”
Betty props herself against one of the carved gilt columns in the club and tries to make out what’s happening on the dance floor. She’s pretty sure that Billie is now dancing with Clive (whose bald spot is unfortunately extra-visible under blacklight), and that Daniel’s dancing with Fiona. It doesn’t really matter as long as they’re all having fun.
As she reaches out for the club soda, she says, “I can’t believe I’m enjoying myself at a nightclub. I mean, they’re supposed to be fun, but until now, I always thought they were more like - black holes of fun. The event horizon of fun. Where fun went to die.”
“You’ve obviously been to the wrong nightclubs,” says someone who, although similar in height, build and coloring, is not Gareth.
“Oh!” Betty hands him back the club soda. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else. I usually don’t steal drinks from strangers.”
“Feel free to make an exception in this case,” he says, giving her the club soda again. “After this, perhaps I can bring you a drink on purpose. ”
“My date might object. Though of course he’s currently dancing with a redhead.”
“Then I chose the right time to walk by. Alan Smythe.”
“Betty Suarez.” Is he actually flirting with her? Apparently so. But before she can decide whether this is more flattering or inconvenient, she recognizes the name. “You’re a producer with the BBC. We profiled one of your trend specials for women last week.”
“On FM. My goodness. Your editor’s picture doesn’t do you justice.”
“That special didn’t do you justice.” She gentles the words with a smile. “Honestly, you’re still assuming that women are mostly interested in shoes and handbags. Aren’t we a little past that? And if we aren’t, can’t you at least feature better handbags?”
He studies her, though her vision is too blurry to read his expression. Then he says, “You know, I also produce The Longest Week.”
The Longest Week is one of those unfathomable British shows that has a lot of people sitting around, watching something else on video, then talking about it. It’s one of the ones she’s gotten to like, though. “Fast. Funny. And a lot better than specials about shoes.”
“You should come on as a guest sometime.”
Surely that’s the cocktails talking. “What?”
“We’re always looking for fresh voices. You’re smart, you’re witty, and you’re not afraid to speak your mind.”
“Me. On television.”
“Why? Does it sound so far-fetched?”
Her first instinct is to demur, but then Betty realizes - it’s not so far-fetched anymore.
“They only had lemon,” Gareth announces, walking up to them. “This guy giving you trouble?”
“It’s fine,” Betty hastens to say. She wants to take the drink Gareth is holding out to her, but she still has Alan’s. “This is Alan Smythe, a producer for the BBC. Alan, this is my friend Gareth.”
“I thought you said your date was on the dance floor.”
Betty knows she should explain, but she’s never had the chance to be coy and flirtatious before. She feels like a cat with a piece of string, unable to resist the urge to pounce. “I brought a spare.”
Alan’s smile is evident even through the blur of the club. “Very prudent.”
“Well. I plan ahead.” When Alan laughs, Gareth gives her a look that, myopia or no, she gets as You’re not trying to pull a fast one, are you? And for one instant she feels as if she is perhaps not entirely being herself. But the sensation is fleeting. Betty asks Alan for his card and returns to Daniel’s side, which is all she needed to make the evening perfect.
**
As they stumble into their building at the end of the night, Daniel says, “You’ve got to call this Smythe guy. Seriously. The exposure would be amazing.”
“Even though he’s flirting with me?”
“Let him flirt.” His arm wraps firmly around her shoulders, and he kisses her along her hairline. “I can’t blame a guy for having a crush on you.”
“You’re not even a little bit jealous?”
“Do you want me to be?” As the elevator doors close behind them, he puts his hands on either side of her waist and leans in close. “If you want - upstairs, I can go crazy. Demand that you’re mine. Push you up against the wall.”
Betty never quite saw the thrill of role-playing until now, when she definitely, definitely gets it. She whispers, “Just don’t rip my dress.”
Daniel kisses her bare shoulder. “You’re keeping it on.”
**
Concluded in Part Four--
( Part One
Part Two)