Lipstick Jungle

Victor gave her one of his penetrating looks, and Nico had flushed, wondering if he was somehow referring to her secret affair with Kirby. But Victor couldn’t know about Kirby . . . could he?

“Thank you, Victor,” she said in her soft, low voice. She didn’t, of course, tell Victor Matrick that her “cool persona” had arisen years ago only out of a terrifying shyness, which she’d spent her whole life battling, ever since she was a kid.

And now, thinking about that item in the Post, she thought she saw Victor’s subtle hand all over it. The juxtaposition of the words “cool” and “hot” was eerily reminiscent of what Victor had said to her. Victor might have allowed the information to leak out in order to bring things to a head with Mike. On the other hand, if he hadn’t, he might suspect Nico herself of being the source—and that could mean trouble. Victor wouldn’t like the idea of her taking over the reins and trying to race to the finish.

“Katrina, darling,” she called encouragingly, walking back to the staircase.

“In just a minute, Mother,” Katrina shouted back.

Nico paced across the worn antique Oriental carpet. If she took over Mike’s position, her title would be chairwoman and CEO of Verner, Inc. Each time she allowed herself to think about it, she was filled with excitement and pride—it would be a huge amount of work, but she knew she could do it. It was getting the title and the position that was the tricky part.

During that weekend in St. Barts, she and Victor had spent hours talking about the magazine division. Victor felt that Mike Harness was too “old school,” still trying to come up with titles to interest men. They both knew that men didn’t read magazines anymore—at least not in the way they used to, in the so-called heyday of magazine publishing in the fifties, sixties, and seventies. The big audiences were younger, female, and celebrity-obsessed, Nico explained. Out of Splatch-Verner’s thirty-three magazine titles, only fifteen were making money, and Bonfire was leading. This fact alone ought to have been enough for Victor to fire Mike and replace him with her, Nico thought. But Victor wasn’t going to make it that easy.

“Anyone who takes the position could have the same track record,” Victor said. And Nico wasn’t sure if he was challenging her or telling her that he wasn’t sure she’d be able to do a better job.

“I’m quite sure I could increase profits by ten percent,” Nico said smoothly, in a voice that neither invited challenge nor sounded egotistically chest-pounding.

“You’ve got some good ideas,” Victor said, nodding thoughtfully. “But it’s more than having ideas. There’s a lot of strategy. If I kick Mike out and install you, there’s going to be an outcry. You’re going to have a lot of people working against you, saying you don’t deserve it. Do you really want to start your first day of high school with half the class hating you?”

“I’m sure I can handle it, Victor,” she murmured.

“Oh, you probably can,” Victor said. “But I’m not sure I want to.”

They were sitting on the deck of Victor’s house in St. Barts, having just finished lunch. Victor had cleverly dispatched Seymour and Mrs. Victor (after fifty years of marriage, Victor’s wife was so devoted to him, she insisted people call her “Mrs. Victor”) to town, where Mrs. Victor had promised to show Seymour the best place to buy cigars. The deck, constructed of a dark and expensive mahogany (it had to be replaced every three years due to the salt air, but Victor considered it “worth it”), swept across fifty feet to a pool, filled with clear blue water that spilled over the far edge into nothingness. Sitting on the deck, one had t

he sensation of being poised in the sky, or perched at the edge of a high cliff. “How do you suggest we handle this, Victor?” Nico asked.

“I think it’s for you to handle, and me to admire,” Victor said enigmatically. Nico nodded, concentrating on the view to hide her frustration. What the hell was he talking about? “People like to understand,” Victor continued, tapping his fingernails on the inlaid marble table. His hands were large; the skin a parchment grayish-white and dotted with liver spots. “They like to be able to point to events and know the reason for them. If, for instance,” Victor said, staring out at the view as well, “Mike were to do something . . . egregious, or at least seemingly egregious, it would be so much more pleasant for everyone. ‘Aha,’ people will say. ‘That’s why Mike got fired . . . and that’s why Nico O’Neilly has taken his job.’ ”

“Of course, Victor,” Nico said coolly. But inside, she found that even she was a bit horrified. Mike Harness had worked for Victor for probably thirty years; he’d been loyal, always putting the best interests of the company first. And here Victor was, plotting Mike’s downfall as if he were enjoying it.

Do I really have the stomach for this? she wondered.

But then she reminded herself of the job. The title was heady, there was no denying that, but it was the idea of the job itself that consumed her. She knew exactly what to do with the magazine division; she had to have the job. It belonged to her. It was her fate . . .

“Keep your ears and eyes open,” Victor said. “When you find something, come to me and we’ll take the next step.” And then he stood up, the conversation finished. “Have you ever tried parasurfing?” he asked. “It’s a little dangerous, but great fun . . .”

For the next three months, Nico had tried to follow Victor’s edict. She’d studied the financials of the publishing division for the past three years, but hadn’t been able to find anything unusual. Mike kept things ticking along at the same pace. The division wasn’t, perhaps, making as much money as they could have, but they weren’t losing new money either. But still, something would happen. It always did, eventually. It was just that timing was everything. Being too early was just as bad as being too late. And she wasn’t sure where she was in the continuum.

Glancing back at the newspaper, she stared at it in annoyance. It would have been so much better if there was nothing in the paper—no mention of this at all. Mike Harness would have to take the piece as a tip-off that his job wasn’t secure, and then would do everything in his power to solidify his position. And now, there was no denying the fact that she’d become some kind of threat. It was possible that Mike might even try to have her fired . . .

“Here I am,” Katrina said, running down the stairs. Nico looked at Katrina with relief and smiled, not just because Katrina was finally ready to go, but also from the simple pleasure in knowing that there were ultimately more important things in her life than Victor Matrick and Mike Harness. Like most girls her age, Katrina was absorbed by her appearance, and “the girls,” as Nico liked to think of Katrina and her friends, were into a new designer called Tory Burch. Katrina was wearing bell-bottomed pants in a geometric orange-and-brown design, topped by a tight-fitting brown cashmere sweater, under which was layered a yellow silk shirt. She had Seymour’s gorgeously chiseled face, out of which stared two round, green eyes, and Nico’s hair—that unusual reddish blond the French called verte mort, or dead leaves. (Nico loved that expression; it was so poetic.) Her daughter, Nico thought happily, never ceased to remind her of how lucky and blessed she really was.

“Hello, Kitty Kat,” Nico said, slipping her arm around her daughter’s waist. They were so very, very close, Nico thought, and while she and Seymour weren’t physically affectionate, Katrina still sat on her lap sometimes, and on the occasional evening when they happened to be home watching TV, Nico would scratch Katrina’s back, something she’d loved since she was a baby.

“Mother, did you know you’ve been named one of the Fifty Most Powerful Women in the Universe?” Katrina asked, leaning her head on Nico’s shoulder.

Nico laughed—it was a family joke that when Nico got “out of hand,” Katrina would say calmly, “Oh, Mom. Why don’t you just go and buy your own universe?” “Now, how did you know that?” Nico asked, stroking the back of her hair.

“Saw it online, silly,” Katrina said. Kat spent hours online, in constant communication with a network of friends. In addition to school, horseback riding, cooking, and a variety of other momentary interests, she had an intricate and mazelike social life that Nico imagined rivaled a Fortune 500 company. “Anyway, I’m really proud of you.”

“If you’re not careful, I’ll buy you your own planet,” Nico said. She pulled open the heavy oak door, and they stepped out into the April sunshine.

“Don’t need you to,” Katrina said, racing ahead of her to the Town Car that was idling at the curb. “When I grow up, I’ll be able to buy my own planet.”

I’m sure you will, my darling, Nico thought, watching her daughter slip gracefully into the car. Katrina was as supple as a birch sapling—another cliché, but Nico couldn’t think of a better way to describe her—and Nico was filled with pride. Katrina was so very confident and self-assured; so much more confident than she’d been at her age. But Katrina lived in a different time. Girls of her generation really believed they could do anything, and why not? They had mothers who were living proof.

“Do you think you’ll get the position, Mother?” Katrina asked. “You know, mistress of the universe?”