Lipstick Jungle

one deserved it more.

* * *

SEVERAL MINUTES LATER, AT exactly seven-fifteen, a brand-new black Town Car with tinted windows pulled up in front of the entrance to the tents on Sixth Avenue. A driver in a pin-striped suit with slicked-back dark hair walked around the back of the car and opened the passenger door.

Nico O’Neilly stepped out. Wearing silver pants with a ruffled shirt, topped with a golden-reddish mink jacket that was nearly the same color as her hair, there was no mistaking the fact that Nico O’Neilly was someone significant. From an early age, Nico had been one of those people who exude an air of importance that causes other people to wonder who they are, and at first glance, with her stunning hair and glamorous clothes, one might take her for a movie star. On closer inspection, one saw that Nico wasn’t technically beautiful. But she had done the most with what she had, and as confidence and success create their own kind of beauty in a woman, the general consensus was that Nico O’Neilly was damn good-looking.

She was also extremely precise. Knowing that Victory’s fashion show wouldn’t start until seven-thirty, she had timed her arrival to guarantee that she wouldn’t be late, but would also spend the minimum amount of time waiting for the show to begin. As the editor in chief of Bonfire magazine (and one of the most important women in publishing, according to Time), Nico O’Neilly was guaranteed a front-row seat at any fashion show she might choose to attend. But sitting in those seats, which were inches away from the runway, made one a sitting duck. Photographers and camera crews roamed the runway like pigs hunting for truffles, and any number of people could simply walk up and accost you, with anything from invitations to parties to requests for business meetings, or simply the desire to schmooze. Nico always hated these situations because she just wasn’t good at small talk, unlike Victory, for instance, who within two minutes would be talking to a garage attendant about his children. The result was that people often mistook her for a snob or a bitch, and not possessing the gift of gab, Nico couldn’t explain that this simply wasn’t true. When confronted with the eager, needy face of a stranger, Nico froze, unsure of what they really wanted, convinced that she wasn’t going to be able to give it to them. And yet, when it came to her work and the impersonal, faceless public at large, she was brilliant. She knew what the general public liked—it was the individual public that got her flummoxed.

This was certainly one of her flaws, but at forty-two, she had come to the realization that it was useless to keep battling yourself and far easier to accept that you weren’t perfect. The best thing to do was to minimize uncomfortable situations and move on. And so, checking her watch and seeing that it was now seven-twenty, meaning she’d only have to be in the hot seat for ten minutes, after which everyone’s eyes would be focused on the runway, she started up the stairs.

She was immediately approached by two photographers who appeared to pop out from behind a large urn to take her picture. Ever since she’d become the editor in chief of the venerable (and dusty) Bonfire magazine six years ago, and had turned it into the glossy, pop-culture bible for entertainment, media, and politics, she’d been photographed at every event she attended. At first, uncertain of what to do, she had posed for the photographers, but she’d quickly realized that standing in front of a barrage of flashbulbs while trying to look even remotely natural (or as if she were enjoying it) was never going to be one of her strong suits. On top of that, Nico never wanted to get caught up in the dangerous misapprehension that plagued this town—that you were only someone if you were photographed. She’d seen this happen to too many people in her business. They started thinking they were celebrities themselves, and before you knew it, they were more concerned with being a star than doing the work. And then their concentration started slipping and they got fired and, as had recently happened to a man she knew, had to move to Montana.

Where no one ever heard from him again.

And so, Nico had decided that while she couldn’t avoid the photographers, she didn’t have to pose for them either. Instead, she simply went about her business, acting like the photographers didn’t exist. The result was that in every photograph of Nico O’Neilly, she was always on the go. Walking from the Town Car to the theater, briskly marching down the red carpet, her face usually caught only in profile as she breezed past. Naturally, this made for an uneasy relationship with the press, and for a while, they’d called her a bitch as well. But years of consistent behavior (“Consistency,” Nico always said, “is the handmaiden of success”) had paid off, and now Nico’s refusal to pose was seen as a sort of charming eccentricity, a defining feature of her personality.

She hurried past the two photographers and through the French doors, where more paparazzi were standing behind a velvet rope. “There’s Nico!” someone shouted excitedly. “Nico! Nico O’Neilly!”

It was all so silly, Nico thought, but not really unpleasant. In fact, it was actually heartwarming that they were so happy to see her. Of course, she’d been seeing them for years, and Bonfire had purchased photographs from most of them. She gave them an amused smile as she passed by, and with a little half wave, called out, “Hi guys.”

“Hey Nico, who are you wearing?” called out a hearty woman with short blond hair, who’d probably been photographing the scene for over twenty years.

“Victory Ford,” Nico said.

“I knew it!” the woman said with satisfaction. “She always wears Ford.”

Most of the crowd was already in the Pavilion, the large tent where Victory’s fashion show would take place, so Nico was able to pass effortlessly through the velvet rope. Inside the Pavilion it was a different story, however. A bleacher eight rows high rose nearly to the top of the tent, and directly in front of the runway were more bleachers sequestered by a low metal railing behind which hundreds of photographers stood, jockeying for position. On the runway itself, which was covered in plastic, the scene resembled a giant cocktail party. There was a festive, back-to-school excitement in the air, as people who hadn’t seen each other since the last big party in the Hamptons greeted each other as if they’d been separated for years. The mood was infectious, but Nico looked at the crowd with dismay. How was she ever going to maneuver her way through that?

For a second, she considered leaving, but quickly rejected the idea. Victory Ford was her best friend. She was just going to have to battle her way through the crowd and hope for the best.

As if sensing her distress, a young woman suddenly appeared at her side. “Hi Nico,” she said brightly, as if they were old friends. “Can I show you to your seat?” Nico put on her best party face—a stiff, awkward smile—and handed the girl her invitation. The girl began pushing through the crowd. A photographer held up his camera and took her picture, several people she knew waved eagerly and pushed in to shake hands or air kiss. Security men were barking uselessly at the crowd, trying to get people to take their seats. After several minutes, Nico and her escort arrived in the middle of the runway, where Nico finally spotted her seat. On a white card edged with the whimsical border that was featured on Victory Ford’s label was printed her name, Nico O’Neilly.

Nico sat down gratefully.

Immediately, there was a cluster of photographers in front of her, snapping her picture. She stared ahead to the other side of the runway, which appeared to be much more organized than her section—at least everyone had taken their seats. Both seats on either side of her were still empty. Turning her head, she caught the eye of Lyne Bennett, the cosmetics mogul. The sight of him made Nico smile inwardly. It wasn’t that Lyne didn’t have a good reason to be at a fashion show, especially since cosmetics and perfume and fashion were so intertwined. It was just that Lyne was such a notoriously macho businessman, she couldn’t imagine him having any real interest in women’s clothing. He was probably there to ogle the models, a pastime that few major New York businessmen seemed to be able to resist. He waved, and she raised her program and nodded to him in return.

She sighed and looked impatiently at her watch. It was nearly seven-thirty, and the staff still hadn’t removed the plastic liner from the runway—the signal that the show was about to start. She glanced to her right to see who was seated next to her, and was happy to see that the card read “Wendy Healy,” her other best friend. This was a plus—she hadn’t seen Wendy for at least a month, since the middle of summer, before both of their families took their vacations. Wendy had gone to Maine, which was the new summer hotspot for movie people, so designated because there was nothing to do and it was supposed to be all about nature. Yet Nico guessed that no self-respecting Hollywood insider would be caught dead in a house with less than six bedrooms and at least one or two staff even in the wilds of the Northeast. Nico had taken her own family skiing in Queenstown, New Zealand, which Seymour, her husband, had pointed out was as far away as you could get from civilization without leaving civilization altogether. Nevertheless, they had still managed to run into several acquaintances, which was a reminder that no matter how far you might travel, you could never really get away from New York . . .

She fiddled impatiently with the program, guessing that the delay was somehow caused by Jenny Cadine, who was seated on the other side of Wendy. Movie stars seemed to be a necessary evil of modern-day life, she thought, and looking idly at the name card to her left, she suddenly froze.

“Kirby Atwood,” it read.

She quickly turned her head away, feeling dizzy, guilty, excited, and confused all at once. Was this a coincidence? Or deliberate? Did someone know about her and Kirby Atwood? But that was impossible. She certainly hadn’t told anyone, and she couldn’t imagine that Kirby would either. She hadn’t even thought about him for at least a month. But seeing his name now suddenly brought back the memory of that moment in the bathroom at the nightclub Bungalow 8.

That had been at least three months ago, and she hadn’t talked to him or seen him since. Kirby Atwood was a well-known male model, whom she had met at an after-party Bonfire was sponsoring. She’d been standing by herself at the bar, when Kirby had walked over to her and smiled. He was so good-looking, she immediately dismissed him, assuming he’d mistaken her for someone else—someone who could help his career. And then, when she was sitting at the VIP table, looking at her watch and wondering how quickly she could leave without appearing rude, Kirby had sat down next to her. He was really very

sweet, and had fetched her a drink, and after talking to him for five minutes, she’d begun thinking about what it might be like to have sex with him. She assumed that Kirby would never be interested, but it was impossible for a woman to have a conversation with a man like Kirby and not desire him. She knew she was on dangerous territory, and not wanting to risk making a fool of herself, got up to go to the bathroom. And Kirby followed her. Right into the bathroom and into the stall!

It was pathetic, but those few minutes in the bathroom stall had been some of the best moments of her life. For weeks after, she kept thinking about it. The way his dark hair looked on his forehead, the exact color of his full lips (beige cherry, with a darker line where the lip met the skin, almost as if he was wearing lip liner), and how those lips had felt on her mouth. Soft and smooth and wet. (Her husband, Seymour, always puckered his mouth and gave her dry little kisses.) Her whole face felt like it was being enveloped in those lips—her legs literally went weak—and she couldn’t believe she could still feel that way. At forty-two! Like a teenager . . .

Thankfully, nothing had happened after that. Kirby had given her his phone number, but she’d never called. Having an affair with a male underwear model would be ridiculous. Of course, at least half of the married male executives at Splatch-Verner were having affairs, and most of them barely bothered to cover it up. And she made no secret of the fact that she found their behavior disgusting . . .

But what was she going to do now, here in public, on full display in front of half of New York? Should she act like she didn’t know him? But what if he brought it up? Or worse, what if he didn’t remember? Victory, who was still single, would know just how to handle it—she was probably in situations like this all the time. But Nico had been with the same man for over fourteen years, and when you were with one man for that long, you lost your ability to navigate romantic situations with other men.

This is not a romantic situation, she reminded herself sternly. She would say hello to Kirby as if he were a casual acquaintance (which is what he was), and she would watch the fashion show and go home. It would all be perfectly normal and innocent.

But then Kirby appeared in front of her.