Lipstick Jungle

A month ago, when her assistant had tracked

down that first-edition copy of The Art of War, she’d gone to Victor Matrick himself to ask for special permission to expense the book, which cost over a thousand dollars. Naturally, she’d had to explain why she needed the book and what her efforts had been so far, and Victor had complimented her on her “creative approach.” The irony was that if Mike hadn’t left her off the list of speakers for the corporate meeting, she probably wouldn’t have considered going behind his back. But not including her had been an open insult that people had talked about for weeks before and after. If Mike wanted to crush her, he should have been more clever about it, she thought.

But Mike had made a mistake, and now all she had to do was play along with him. If the Huckabees meeting went badly, it would be Mike’s fault. And if it went well, and Mike did go to Victor, Victor would know immediately what was going on. Nothing got past Victor’s terrifying blue and yellow eyes, and Victor wouldn’t like the fact that Mike had stooped to such petty behavior.

These thoughts, coupled with the looming skyline of the city, combined to make her feel like her old fighting self again. As the helicopter swooped low, past the tall buildings that resembled a forest of lipsticks, Nico felt a frisson of something close to sexual excitement, which she experienced every time she caught sight of the familiar concrete-and-steel landscape. New York City was still the best place in the world, she thought, and certainly one of the few places in the world where women like her could not only survive but rule. And as the helicopter swooped low over the Williamsburg Bridge, she couldn’t help thinking, “I own this town.”

Or in any case, she intended to, and soon.

* * *

THE COFFEE MACHINE EMITTED the satisfied gurgle of a creature emptying its bowels as it spat water through the filter and into the container.

Even her coffeemaker was happier than she was, Victory thought disconsolately, pouring the bitter liquid into a simple white mug.

She peeked at the clock on the wall, not really wanting to remind herself of the time. It was eleven a.m. and she was still at home, still in her Chinese blue silk pajamas imprinted with humorous drawings of small dogs. Which might in itself be some kind of insider Chinese joke, she thought, because there was nothing the Chinese loved more than eating man’s best friend.

Which was also ironically appropriate, she thought, spooning three heaping teaspoons of sugar into her coffee. In the last three weeks, she felt like she’d been eaten herself, except that in her case, she’d also been spit out.

She had tried something new, and her efforts had been rejected. The world was a very cruel place.

She picked up her mug and wandered out of the kitchen, through the den with built-in bookshelves and flat-screen TV, through the foyer, and down the steps into the sunken living room with a working wood-burning fireplace. The apartment was what real estate agents referred to as “a little gem,” and looking up at the twelve-foot arched ceiling, from which hung a gorgeous antique Baccarat crystal chandelier, she wondered how much longer she’d be able to afford to live here.

Her company was now officially in crisis.

A long window seat ran the length of the French windows that looked out onto the street, and she sat down wearily. She’d been traveling for the last two and a half weeks, leaving town three days after her disastrous show, and the small mahogany dining room table was still piled neatly with the newspapers that had reviewed her show. The critics were not kind. Nearly a month had passed, but she could still remember every scathing word: “No victory,” “Lost her way,” “Disappointing,” and worse, “Who would ever wear these clothes, and if they did, where would they wear them?” and then the kicker: “Victory Ford is an entertainer more than a fashion designer, a truth that became abundantly clear with her latest collection in which she attempted to do high fashion . . .”—words that kept haunting her like a bad smell. She knew that lots of artists didn’t read their reviews, but Victory couldn’t do that; she couldn’t allow herself to turn away from the unpleasant reality. It was better to know the truth, and to deal with it. She probably should have thrown the reviews away, but she would file them with all her other press, and someday she would read them again and laugh. And if she couldn’t laugh, it wouldn’t matter, because she wouldn’t be a designer anymore. And if she wasn’t a designer, it wouldn’t matter, because she would be dead.

She looked out the window and sighed. She was probably getting too old to see the world in black and white, to still believe that if she couldn’t be a fashion designer, she’d rather be dead. But that was how she had felt her whole life, from that moment when she was eight years old and, sitting in the waiting room at the dentist’s office, had picked up Vogue for the first time (her dentist, she later realized, must have been more chic than she gave him credit for). And looking at the pages and pages of fashion, she was suddenly transported to another world—a place that seemed to have unlimited possibilities, where anything you imagined could happen. And then the receptionist had called out her name, and she had looked up and was startled to find herself sitting on a green plastic molded seat in a small room with peeling, mustard-colored walls, and every detail in the room became magnified and she had an epiphany. She suddenly saw what she was meant to do. She was going to be a fashion designer. It was her destiny.

She was a freak, of course, but she didn’t know it back then. Back when she was a kid, and for years afterward, she had assumed that everyone was just like her—and like her, they knew exactly what they were meant to do with their lives. Even when she was ten, she could remember boldly telling the other kids that she was going to be a fashion designer, even though she had no idea how to get there or what fashion designers actually did . . .

And that youthful ignorance was probably a good thing, she thought, standing up and pacing the Oriental carpet in front of the fireplace. It had allowed her to boldly pursue her crazy dream, in ways she wouldn’t have dared to do now.

She shook her head, remembering those early days in New York with affection. Everything was so new then, and exciting. She had very little money, but she wasn’t afraid—there was only one place to go, and that was up. Even from her first days in New York, the city had seemed to conspire in her dream. At eighteen, she moved to New York to attend F.I.T., and one day—it was an early fall day, the weather still slightly warm but with the crackle of winter in the air, a day not unlike today—she was riding the subway and a woman asked her where she’d bought the jacket she was wearing. Victory took in the woman’s highlighted hair and her dress-for-success suit, worn with a shirt with a little built-in bow tie, which was in style back then, and with the arrogance of youth, said boldly, “It’s mine. I’m a fashion designer.”

“If you are a fashion designer,” the woman said, as if she didn’t believe her (and why should she have, Victory thought—she was as slim and flat-chested as a boy, and looked much younger than her eighteen years)—“then you should come and see me.” The woman fumbled in her Louis Vuitton handbag (Victory could never forget that bag—she’d thought it was so chic) and handed her a card. “I’m a buyer for a department store. Come and see me at ten o’clock on Monday morning and bring your collection.”

Victory didn’t have a collection, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her. The miraculous encounter with the woman—Myrna Jameson was her name—had happened at five p.m. on a Wednesday. By Monday at eight thirty-three a.m. (which gave her just enough time to shower and get up to the Garment District by ten), Victory had her first collection of six pieces, including the jacket. She spent the intervening five days and her entire rent money—$200—drawing designs, buying fabric, and stitching up pieces on the sewing machine her parents had given her as a graduation present. She worked day and night, snatching a few hours of sleep on the used fold-out couch she had rescued from the street. The city was different back then—poor and crumbling—kept alive only by the gritty determination and steely cynicism of its occupants. But underneath the dirt was the apple-cheeked optimism of possi

bility, and while she worked, the whole city seemed to throb along with her. She cut and sewed to the background medley of car horns and shouts and the endless beat of the music from boom boxes. The possibility of failure never crossed her mind.

Myrna Jameson was a buyer for Marshall Field’s, the famous Chicago department store, and her office was located in a cavernous building on Seventh Avenue and Thirty-seventh Street. The Garment District was like an Arabian bazaar. The streets were lined with mom-and-pop shops containing fabrics and notions and buttons and zippers and ladies’ undergarments; idling trucks belched exhaust into the air while workers wheeled racks of clothing and furs through the throng of humanity. Purse snatchers, street people, and hustlers lurked near the entrances to the buildings, and Victory clutched the bag containing her six-piece collection tightly to her chest, imagining the irony of having worked so hard only to have it snatched away.

Myrna Jameson’s office consisted of two rooms located in the middle of a long, bleak linoleum-floored corridor; in the first room sat a young woman with a face like an angry bee, whose long fingernails made a clinking noise against the phone. Behind an open door was Myrna’s office; Victory could see a shapely black-panty-hose-clad leg in an elegant black pointy-toed pump. Myrna was the first real career woman Victory had ever encountered, and back then, career women weren’t expected to be nice. Myrna came out of her office and looked Victory up and down. “So you showed,” she said, in a voice with a hard metallic edge. “Let’s see what you’ve got for me.”

Five nights without sleep suddenly took its toll, and Victory nearly burst into tears. For the first time, she realized that Myrna might not like her collection, and the thought of failure was devastating. The shame might cripple her; it might define the rest of her life. What if she kept trying and failing? She’d have to return home and work at the Xerox copier shop, like her best friend from high school who hadn’t managed to make it out of their small town . . .

“These are cute,” Myrna said, examining the collection. The way she looked at the samples, holding them up and turning them over and scrutinizing the fabric, made Victory feel as if she herself were being inspected. In the harsh fluorescent light, she saw that Myrna’s complexion was pockmarked and that she’d attempted to cover it up with a heavy foundation. “Of course, you don’t have any sales record, do you? Or is there something I should know that you’re not telling me?” Myrna said, looking at her suspiciously.

Victory had no idea what Myrna was talking about. “No . . .” she faltered. “I just . . .”

“Have you ever sold in a store before?” Myrna demanded impatiently.

“No,” Victory said. “This is my first collection. That’s not a problem, is it?” she asked with rising panic.

Myrna shrugged. “Everyone’s got to start somewhere, right? It just means I can’t take a big order. I’ll have to start you off small and if you sell, we’ll buy more next season.”

Victory nodded, stunned.