It was noon on Saturday as Avery burst into the empty Metropolitan offices. As soon as she woke up from her drunken haze, one thing was clear: She needed to stop the article on Jack from running. But she didn’t know how exactly to do that. It wasn’t like she could call and stop the presses. She was hoping she’d come up with some sort of idea now that she was here, but so far all she’d done was sit in the closet.
“Miss Carlyle?” Ticky wavered by on her infamous sparkly Miu Miu pumps, looking surprised and bemused to see her there. “Aren’t you the eager beaver! I do hope we’re not working you too hard. Especially since you were out last night!” she clucked.
“I need to talk to you,” Avery squeaked, her mind racing.
“Of course, darling. Come with me to my office.” Ticky’s brown eyes flashed in concern and she pressed her red-polished fingernails into her arm as she escorted Avery into her opulent office.
“Sit, talk.” Ticky gestured to a bright pink chair in front of her desk. Avery felt like she had the one time she was called to the principal’s office at Nantucket High. Of course, she’d been called down to be informed she’d won the position of sophomore class vice president, but the initial terror had been the same. And this time, Avery definitely wasn’t going to get any good news.
“The Jack Laurent and Dick Cashman story can’t run,” Avery blurted. She felt like she might throw up on Ticky’s antique Provençal writing desk, bare except for a typewriter. She concentrated on a framed photo above Ticky’s head. It was Ticky, younger but just as skinny, her hair just as high, dancing on a table with Mick Jagger. Avery grimaced. When Ticky was young her antics seemed to have been cool and one-of-a-kind. Not disastrous pseudo-dates with self-centered journalists. “It just can’t,” Avery added desperately.
“But why?” Ticky asked smoothly. She leaned back in her Eames chair and crossed her skinny arms over her chest. “Avery, you’ve been a stellar intern. You remind me of me a little bit.” She nodded encouragingly. “It’s natural to be nervous. It’s your first story! And all New York will be talking about it. It’s exciting.” Ticky smiled benevolently, then waved Avery away with a gnarled hand. “Go, it’s the goddamn weekend! I need you to go out there and find more stories. It’s the only way to get over this hump,” Ticky said grandly.
“Um, thank you.” Avery tried to get her footing back. “It’s just… the story about Jack… It’s not…” She sighed heavily. What could she say? Jack and I both sort of hated acting like adults at the party and instead of going through with the interview decided to drink crappy beer at a dive bar?
“Wait.” Ticky pulled the large proof off her inbox and studied it. Right now, it was just waiting for her swirling initials in her signature Montblanc pen with purple ink. She pushed her delicate Prada reading glasses up on the bridge of her beaklike nose and looked up sharply. “She’s not having an affair with that old man,” Ticky said flatly. Avery nodded in relief.
“I should have said something before. You can fire me if you want, but you have to pull the story. It’s just not true. It’s not true,” Avery said again, feeling even more sure that the champagne and beer swirling in her stomach from last night was going to make an unwelcome cameo appearance very soon. She needed to get out.
“I’m sorry!” Avery squeaked as she fled the room and ran into the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face. In the mirror, she looked red and blotchy and very, very tired. Not Metropolitan material at all. She left the bathroom and stalked over to her desk, grabbing one issue of the magazine and stuffing it into her cranberry-colored Marc Jacobs bag. Scarlett Johansson was on the cover, wearing a plaid Prada skirt and looking in control and confident. Unlike Avery.
Just then, she heard the familiar sound of Ticky’s heels clicking across the tiled floor. Great. Now she’d really lay into Avery. Avery squared her shoulders, sort of wishing she’d thrown up in the bathroom before.
“Avery?” Ticky’s voice wavered as she got closer.
“Here,” Avery squeaked.
“Dear, what are you doing?” Ticky looked at the bare desk. “You’re acting like my goddamn ex-husband. One bitchy moment from me and he’d be packing his stuff. Then, when I actually did kick him out, that bastard seemed so surprised!” Ticky shook her head bemusedly. Avery smiled politely.
“You’re right. Let’s kill the story. It’s based on a salacious rumor, which is simply not Metropolitan. Do you agree?” Avery nodded, dumbfounded. She wasn’t in trouble? “I shouldn’t have put you with James. Although you certainly held your own with him,” Ticky mused. “Now, let’s get you working on a real story. What do you want to do?”
Avery thought. She tried to imagine running around with a tiny tape recorder, asking people what they were wearing and how they liked the party, or even some of the more hard-core questions Metropolitan liked to ask, like their worst childhood memory or their biggest fear. But she couldn’t. In every single image she had of her ideal New York life, she was the one in the spotlight, answering questions.
“Actually…” Avery shook her head. Before, all she’d wanted was for Ticky to accept her and say she was Metropolitan material, as if that’d be her magical key to New York. But it wasn’t really that simple. She didn’t want to become like McKenna or Gemma, desperately clawing their way to the top. “You’ve always been a role model to me, especially after my grandmother passed away,” Avery began shyly. “But I just don’t think this is the right industry for me,” she said, hoping Ticky wouldn’t be offended or ask her to explain further.
Surprisingly, Ticky nodded thoughtfully. “I’d like to think you’d reconsider in a few years. You’ve cut your teeth already. And once you have a taste for magazines, as bitter as it is, you’ll always crave more. Besides, God knows this industry needs some people with real class. I can’t do it alone,” Ticky said ruefully. She rested her garishly polished red fingernails lightly on Avery’s arm. “But guess what? For your work and honesty, I’m going to offer you the Ticky special. Metropolitan won’t write anything nasty about you. Unless you want it, kiddo. Deal?”
Avery beamed, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. Ticky had the ultimate say in what was, and what was not, said about practically everyone in the city. It was a promise that she mattered. Just like her grandmother.
“I don’t know how I can thank you,” Avery began earnestly.
“Just keep this city interesting.” Ticky winked and turned to go.
Avery leaned down and picked up one of the ridiculous sequins that had become detached from her pumps. “Wait!”
Ticky turned mid-step, balancing on one foot like an under-fed flamingo.
“You dropped this,” Avery explained shyly, holding out the sequin.
“Keep it!” Ticky crowed. Even though it was sort of sentimental, Avery carefully shoved it in the never-used change purse pocket of her black Prada wallet.
Well, it’s not like she was expecting a Pulitzer.
Avery sighed in relief and headed toward the elevator. She was looking forward to her last journey to the lobby of the Dennen building.
As the elevator doors opened, she found herself face-to-face with James. He wore blue checked shirt, a plaid bow tie, and a herringbone jacket. Yesterday, Avery would have thought he looked urbane and cool. Today, he just looked like he was trying too hard.
“Oh good, pet, you’re here!” he exclaimed, pulling her over and kissing her on both cheeks. Avery stood stiffly. Pet? “I can’t wait to hear your stories, even though I couldn’t find you at all when I was ready to go. You missed a lot,” he warned.
“No, you did,” Avery countered smoothly. She studied James curiously. She couldn’t believe that she’d fallen for the accent and the job title when all he was was a self-obsessed jerk with a really lame personal shopper. “But let me catch you up to speed: I’m not working here anymore. And the profile isn’t running, because Metropolitan doesn’t do salacious rumor mongering. Can’t wait to read your next story!” she called over her shoulder, just before she exited through the revolving doors.