The next month went by in a blur. After shooting the Maggie video, Jenna and Eric became inseparable. They were best friends, excruciatingly platonic partners in crime. They were uninterested in anything not having to do with them. But no one could know.
The workday was spent figuring out sneaky ways to accidentally-on-purpose run into other. Eric always found a way to be in line at the Starbucks downstairs when Jenna went for her 2 pm coffee run. They never went together, and always left separately. But ten minutes later, they’d appear in the office within seconds of each other, Jenna looking zip-a-dee-doo-daa delighted and Eric acting like Jay Z after selling out Madison Square Garden.
All day, they’d hope to see each other in the hallway or in the kitchen or somewhere. When they did, if anyone was around, they’d go through this dance of pretending not to be excited about it. But as soon as they parted, they’d text incessantly about that one brief moment.
Eric: Did you part your hair on a different side today just to fuck up my equilibrium?
Jenna: Jesus, your biceps when you were carrying all that camera equipment to the elevator! Are you TRYING to ruin me for all other men?
Like teenagers, they texted all day and talked on the phone all night. Jenna, a person who, a month before, had found technology baffling at worst and distasteful at best, didn’t enter a bathroom stall without her iPhone. She’d find excuses to get up from her office just to walk by the vicinity of Eric’s cubicle to get a glimpse of him. He’d get a glimpse of her, too, and then he’d have to focus on Chimpanzees and baseball—two things he hated—until he erased the NSFW thoughts from his brain.
Eric and Jenna were in the grips of a full-blow obsession.
The situation drove them to it. If they were two normal adults with a crush, they could’ve gone to the Cheesecake Factory, seen a movie, boned, and been dating by now. But this wasn’t a normal situation—there was Darcy, the job thing, and the age thing. They never saw each other outside of a work situation. They never stood or sat too close, and never touched. After the explosive moment in Jenna’s office, they knew that if they so much as grazed each other, it was game over.
They hid in plain sight. Everybody knew Eric and Jenna collaborated on The Perfect Find, which was StyleZine’s biggest draw. No one batted an eyelash at their lengthy “meetings” in Jenna’s office—they were expected to have a relationship. If anything, the girls in the office assumed that Eric had a hopeless, unrequited thing; and that a much older, quasi media celeb like Jenna would never give him the time of day.
The daily editorial staff meetings were the best because Jenna and Eric got to sit in the same room for twenty minutes. They could text and steal glances while everyone else discussed UTI’s and taking Plan B.
Of course, there was always the element of danger—Darcy. Karen O’Quinn, the executive editor, ran the meetings, but their CEO liked to drop in on all of her website’s daily meetings. She did it to keep her staff on their toes. No one ever knew when she’d show up and blast them into the Bronx with her withering critiques of their work.
But since The Perfect Find, Darcy had experienced a mild personality transplant. She didn’t micromanage as much. She seemed girly, younger. Human. Jinx said she’d even heard faint music playing out of her office—something cheerful, like Bruno Mars. The fact was, Darcy was over the moon at The Perfect Find’s raging success, and it showed.
“So congrats to Jenna, who killed the video with the badass Wall Street banker,” said Karen O’Quinn. A redhead with round hazel eyes, she wore an oversized white T-shirt belted with a gold rope, and brown suede fringed booties (“Robin Hood on Estrogen”).
“Every corporate chick will want her soft leather, tie-neck work blouse that’s ladylike enough wear under suits, but tough enough to wear with jeans,” said Karen.
The sixteen-person editorial staff applauded. Jenna smiled, and did a little chair-curtsey.
“I forgot to tell you guys,” said Jenna, “Rachel Zoe told me she wanted that blouse for herself.”
“I can’t believe you know her,” said Jinx, whose crush on Eric had deepened and, thus, was caught between jealousy and shero worship of Jenna.
“I’ve known her since she was Rachel Zoe Rosenzweig, styling B-list music videos,” said Jenna, feeling her phone buzz on her lap. She glanced down. “I’m glad it got so many hits.”
Jenna Jones
iMessages
October 2, 2012, 12:15 PM
Eric: Don’t forget to say you promoted it across all platforms.
“I promoted it across all platforms,” she said. Thank god for Eric’s social media coaching. She thought in hashtags now.
“Fabulous,” said Karen. “You’ve come so far.”
“What about congratulating the homie E on the video?” whined Jinx. “He’s the one that brilliantly included cutaway shots of her pushing through a hustle-and-bustle crowd on Wall Street.”
“Totally remiss,” said Karen. “Great work as usual, ‘The Homie E.”
Everyone laughed. Eric, who was satisfying his midday candy craving by sucking on a Blow Pop, said, “Thanks, The Homie Karen.”
iMessages
October 2, 2012, 12:19 PM
Jenna: Lucky lollipop.
Eric: Stop staring, it’s making me uncomfortable.
“Eric, we need to brainstorm,” said Karen. “You have to infuse some Perfect Find magic onto your woman-on-the-street interviews with Terry. They’re cute, but they’re too easy.”
“Easy?” Eric was offended. Bombarding strange chicks, making them sign release forms, and shooting them droning on about their Zara sweaters—he didn’t enjoy it. But he worked hard on those clips.
“She means that you, with a camera, are a panty-dropper,” said Terry.
“That’s not what I meant,” said Karen with a bored sigh.
“But it’s true,” said Terry. “I’ve literally seen some of those girls grab his phone and type their number in. Tatted up black guys are winning right now.”
“We should do a style series on them,” said Mitchell, the photo editor who Darcy labeled a ‘husky queen.’
“So we’re clear, those girls do that because they want me to text them their outtakes,” said Eric, glancing at Jenna. “For the Gram.”
“You emboldened-by-social-media millennials amaze me.”
She wasn’t amazed, she was jealous. Who were these whores? “I’ve never been that forward with a guy.”
Jenna Jones
iMessages
October 2, 2012, 12:25 PM
Eric: Liar.
Jenna: But they don’t know that.
“Little do those chicks know he’s got a terrible crush,” said Terry, punching him in the shoulder. “Ask Jenna.”
“Uncalled for.” He punched Terry back, lightly. “Jenna, you don’t think I have a crush on you, right?”
“I think you have a crush on you,” replied Jenna, sweetly. “Finally, an accurate description of this person,” mumbled Mitchell, who was unimpressed by the fuss made over Eric.
“Guys, do I look chubby in these jeans?” Jinx wanted to move on. All this discussion of Eric liking Jenna was hurting her feelings. “I took a selfie today and I looked like Hannah Horvath.”
“Jinx, you don’t need to lose weight. Your ex was a dickhead for making you think there was anything wrong with you.” Eric was fed up with the emotional fallout from her toxic relationship with that roly-poly, bearded brogrammer. “Especially when he looks like furry button. Let him show up here again.”
“Thank you, Eric,” she said softly, cheeks reddening. Mitchell rolled his eyes. So did Jenna, internally.
“You need a new man,” said Terry. “I’m setting you up with my cousin Julian. He’s a Tinderoni, but he loves Latinas.”
“I’m Persian.”
“Close enough.”
“Nah, you can’t date a Tinder dude,” said Eric. “Their right swipe finger is on thirst at all times.”
Just then, Darcy walked through the door. She slapped down a folder, her phone, and took a seat next to Karen.
“I am the smartest, savviest, most genius media mogul in Manhattan, and each of you bitches will bow down,” she announced to the room with a triumphant gleam. “Want to know why? Because I had the foresight to know that our Homecoming Queen and Eric would create magic together.” Darcy looked at both of them. “I just had lunch with the editor-in-chief of New York magazine. Their Power 25 issue comes out in early Spring, and they’re finalizing their list. Not only did we make the top five, but we’re also one of the few getting an interview. With a photo shoot. They’re calling it ‘Fashion Phenomenon: StyleZine Lands The Perfect Find.’”
The room broke out in whooping applause. Jenna and Eric looked at each other, astonished and delighted, while staff members attacked them with hugs.
“It’s my interview, but they’re also talking to Jenna, and some of our Perfect Find girls. Eric, I’ll fight for you to get a quote, but don’t get your hopes up. New York is only interested in bold-faced names for the piece.” Darcy stood up, posted her hands on her hips and surveyed Jenna and Eric.
“I’m consistently blown away by what you’ve done with this series. You two really tapped into something.” She smiled a real smile. “My dream team.”
Eric busted into Jenna’s office and sat down hard in the chair across from her.
“Did I hallucinate that shit? My mother has complimented me maybe three times in my life. She’s such a tricky asshole, though. It’s like the witch luring Hansel and Gretel to her house with candy to fatten them up and eat them. We can’t eat the candy, Jenna. But…yooo. Did you see that reaction?”
“Yes! New York magazine! Can you believe it?” Jenna hopped up and down in her chair, clapping. “You did that, Eric!”
“No, you!”
“Us.”
“I wanna kiss you so bad, it’s giving me a headache.” He shook his head, trying to process what just happened in the meeting. “I was so embarrassed to be working at StyleZine, so scared the festival committees would guffaw when they found out. But The Perfect Find? It has integrity. And the fact that it’s getting press… I’m like…I can’t even…” He stopped. “I’m speechless.”
“Which also deserves press,” joked Jenna.
“Don’t try to play me, Homecoming Queen.”
“I need Darcy to stop calling me that.”
Eric paused a beat. “You know what I need?”
“What?”
“To see you. Alone. Tonight.”
She flinched. “We so cannot go down this road.”
“So what do we do?” He looked at her challengingly. “Keep pretending to be BFFs?”
“We are best friends.” Jenna was trying to find a way to get out of this conversation, though, more than anything, she wanted to be alone with him, too.
“Okay, friend. You gonna keep fucking with me?”
“What do you mean?”
“You lean over my laptop and let your skirt slide halfway up your ass,” he said. “You take those long sips of Evian and then lick the water off your lips and pretend you don’t know I’m seeing the whole thing in ‘80s soft porn slow-mo. You walk by my cubicle, slow, so I get a glimpse of you and smell your perfume and hear your heels clicking on the goddamned floor—driving me crazy when you know I can’t do anything about it but sit there and obsess over you.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Yes you do,” he said, laughing a little. “That dress you’re wearing with the…what do you call the side of your….”
She glanced down at her chest. “Side boob.”
“You’re gonna tell me you didn’t put that on this morning thinking about me?”
It was unnerving, the way he saw right through her. “It’s a dress, Eric.”
“You get off on it,” he said.
It was true. She did.
“What do you want from me?” asked Jenna. “Just one date. That’s all I need.”
“To do what, exactly?”
His expression was wicked. “To ruin you forever.”
“Little boy, your confidence is staggering.”
“Should I shut the door and remind you why?”
“No! And stop smirking. You know we can’t go on a date,” she whispered, even though no one could hear them. “Where would we even go?”
“Does it matter? I just need to get you alone outside of this building. We could sit in Thompkins Square Park and commune with the rats and methheads.”
Jenna shuddered. “Eww. What would I wear?”
“I’m kidding. Okay, let’s focus. We can’t go to any of your places, because your places are…”
“…probably her places, too.”
“Right.” He scrolled through his phone. “Hmm, it’s Friday night. I know! Home.”
“Home? That’ll go over well with Darcy.”
“No, not my home. Home. It’s a random dive-bar-slash-sushi-spot on Ludlow. It’s dark, anonymous.”
Jenna thought about this and then threw up her hands. “Why am I allowing you to lead me down a path of chaos and destruction?”
Eric’s expression was victorious. He had her.
“You realize,” said Jenna, “that we both know better than this, right?”
“You both know better than what?”
It was Darcy. She’d just appeared at the door.
“Hiyeee!” said Jenna, too brightly. “Nothing important.”
“Hi superstars.” Darcy nudged the back of son’s chair with her knee. “Of course you’re in here. Eric, I hope you’re thanking Jenna for letting you monopolize her time. Her guidance is making you look like you know what you’re doing.”
Jenna frowned. “Other way around, actually.”
“Oh, he knows I’m kidding.”
“This is why I never eat the candy,” muttered Eric.
“Eric’s the creative vision behind that whole series,” Jenna said mildly, conscious of defending him too stridently. “It wouldn’t exist without him.”
“To be clear, it wouldn’t exist without me. I greenlit the series,” said Darcy. “Aren’t you glad I’ve been so supportive of your directing career, Eric? I hope you realize what a gem of a mom you have.”
“Appreciate the support. Gem.”
Too high on success to pick up on the sarcasm, she said to Jenna, “I’m taking you to lunch. Delicatessen. Meet me in my office in fifteen.” Halfway out of the door, Darcy called out, “Eric, stop bothering Jenna. Babysitting you is not in her job description.”
Eric and Jenna stared at each other for a good five seconds, a thousand words passing silently between them.
Finally, Jenna whispered, “Are we really doing this?”
“You already said yes.”
Jenna sighed dramatically. “Okay, I’ll be there, though this goes against my better judgment.”
Eric’s face broke into a satisfied smile. “Then we better make it worth it.”
Darcy and Jenna sat across from each other at Delicatessen, a glossy restaurant on Prince Street, at the perennially cool intersection of the Soho and Nolita neighborhoods. Known for it’s upscale comfort food and lowkey celeb-watching, the spot was a favorite of Darcy’s because she always got the star table, the plush booth in the far left corner.
They were picking at their lunches, having a surface conversation about Calvin Klein being way past his expiration date, but in all actuality, Jenna was bristling with anxiety. She felt like Darcy could read everything on her face, loud and clear. I want to fuck your son. I want to fuck your son. I want to…
“So,” started Darcy, stabbing her Cobb salad with her fork and changing the course of the conversation, “you and my kid are like frick and fucking frack, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?” Jenna grabbed a slice of raisin bread out of the bread basket and tore at it.
“Every time I turn around, you two are huddled in your office, chattering like seventh grade girls.”
“Eric’s so good at what he does. I’ve been in the business as long as you, and yet I’m learning from him. You should be proud.”
“I am,” Darcy said, taking a sip of her Chardonnay. “I never noticed how talented he is. It’s stunning, knowing that I made him.”
“I’m sure,” said Jenna, wondering where this capital “N” narcissist was going with this landmine of a conversation.
Darcy scrolled through her phone and landed on a pic. She held it up so Jenna could see. It was Eric around seven years old, dressed in a tiny Knicks uniform and holding a basketball that was triple the size of his head. An irresistible, gap-toothed smile was plastered over his face.
How could that innocent, sweet boy turn into the person who lived in her lustiest fantasies? Feeling pedophile-ish, Jenna smiled politely. “Precious.”
“It’s like he was in second grade five minutes ago. I still see him as a child.” She eyed Jenna. “No doubt you do, too.”
Jenna nodded rapidly. “I do. Spilling wine on me at that wedding. That’s how I see him.”
“Right,” said Darcy dryly. “You know, Eric was always popular growing up. Apparently he’s fun to be around. I get why you enjoy him.”
“Well, everyone does.” Jenna was sweating.
“His father was fun to be around, too. Talented, but wasted it. I worry that he’ll end up like Otis. Sure, Eric had college success, but he’s in the real world now. And his life choices are so foreign to me. His film? If I were trying to break into festivals I’d find out who was on the board and suck and fuck until their dicks were too hard not to let me in. I’d have hustled everyone I knew for cash to hire the hungriest publicist. I would’ve dropped a MAC truck on the competition. All that matters is the end game.”
“He’s serious about his artistic integrity, Darcy,” she said. “I doubt that sucking and fucking are on his agenda.”
She chuckled. “Oh, Homecoming Queen. When you grow up with nothing, integrity gets you nowhere. Do you know how gothic my childhood was? When my dad caught me drinking at fourteen, he sent me to this off-the-grid Catholic reform school for a summer. The nuns ran the place like a lesbian S&M porn horror show,” she said calmly. “When he found out I was pregnant, they shipped me back, and the nuns tried to beat Eric out of me. And when I managed to run away, I came home to no home. My family was gone, no return address. I had Eric to spite them. My life was fucked, but I grinded to make opportunities for myself. Eric’s life is golden, but he behaves like he’s starting from nothing. He grew up with the children of movie execs. Why won’t he reach out to them? His mother could pay off those board members. I have no patience for his integrity.”
“I had no idea your childhood was so tough.” Jenna struggled to find an appropriate response. “And I’m sure it must’ve been really hard for you raising Eric, having to be the mom and the dad.”
“I never thought of it like that.” Darcy pushed away her plate. “I was the father figure working my ass off to provide. But I didn’t have a wife, so Eric raised himself.”
“What does that mean?”
“He was so self-reliant. Why pay for nannies when your kid knows how to use your ATM card to catch a cab home from school, order takeout from Serafina’s, and then finish his homework and put his own self to bed? It taught him to be resourceful, that no one saves anyone else in this world. You’ve only got you.” She took another sip of wine and raised an arched brow at Jenna, daring her to judge her.
“Oh,” said Jenna, quietly horrified.
“You should see your face,” Darcy said, chuckling. “You know, powerful men spend fourteen hours a day lying, cheating, stealing, raping, pillaging—doing whatever it takes to win. Ever asked Brian how he got so rich, so fast? I bet he’d have an interesting answer. Men like him are considered heroes. They’re applauded for it. No one expects them to join the PTA, or chaperone field trips, or have Snickerdoodles waiting on the table after school. I built my company from the ground up. I sit in rooms with VP’s from Yahoo and YouTube—me, the tiniest woman on Earth—and since my cock is bigger than all of theirs, I leave with every dollar in their wallets. Where’s my applause? I don’t get any. Because I’m a mother, I get you looking at me like I should be burned at the stake.”
“I don’t think that.”
“Sure.” Darcy smiled. “You know, I had a mom who knelt on the floor in her room, praying to God, while my dad tried to give me an abortion by pouring mineral oil down my throat. Eric has a mom who broke her back to give him a life full of opportunities. His lips should be glued to my ass, every day.”
“I’m sure he appreciates you,” said Jenna, carefully.
“No, he idolizes his dead, deadbeat dad. Ain’t that some shit.” She threw her shoulders back. “I’m only hard on Eric because I want him to be tough. Cutthroat. Like we were, at that age.”
Jenna chuckled at the ridiculousness of this. “I was never cutthroat.”
“No?” She laughed. “Of course you were. We’re black women in fashion. We’re work in an industry that either thinks we’re invisible, or ghetto savages who don’t know the difference between a peplum and a perineum. Where entry-level PR cunts mistake us for dressers backstage at the shows. Where we have to dress better, write better, and schmooze better than Becky just to be taken seriously.”
“I didn’t get to where I got by being cuthroat,” said Jenna. “I worked hard and I was ambitious. But looking back, I can see that I was charmed. A lot of our peers worked hard but weren’t as lucky. The career, my personal life. It all seemed…ordained. Like it could never fall apart. What I wouldn’t give for the clueless self-confidence I had at twenty-six.”
“Is this the clueless self-confidence that empowered you to steal the Bazaar job from me?” Darcy asked, with slight amusement.
“They hired me after you got fired for selling borrowed Gucci pieces to Barneys. Everyone knows it.”
“Lies. But it didn’t matter, because then I was banished from editorial. I had to start my career all over on the business side, selling ads. Wearing Theory slacks and taking corporate meetings with tampon brands.”
“Where you made history. The first black publisher of Seventeen, and the youngest.”
“It’s not what I wanted. I wanted to be a creative. Like you.” Darcy took a sip of her wine. “Anyway, I got everything I wanted in the end. I always do. And I’m truly pleased with what you’ve done at StyleZine. Cheers.”
“Cheers,” said Jenna, clinking her water glass with her Pinot Noir glass.
“Being a mother makes my teeth hurt,” said Darcy, apropos of nothing. “Did you ever think about having kids?”
Jenna didn’t know if it was the stress of being confronted about Eric, or the idea that for the first time, Darcy seemed like a real person. But in a move she’d regret forever, she let her guard down.
“I did.” Under the table, she ran a hand over her tummy, an unconscious move she did often. The skin there was taut: no stretch marks, no post-pregnancy loose skin. How she would’ve killed for both. “All I ever wanted was for me and Brian to be married, and be parents. I thought he did, too, but things…changed.”
“Brian motherfucking Stein,” said Darcy, tisking. “I remember when he proposed! He changed his mind? See, this is why a bitch like me keeps a few goons on the payroll. I’d have had him jumped outside one of his high rises.”
Jenna smiled, humorlessly. Had she really just spilled one of the most excruciating parts of her past to Darcy Vale? She wielded insider information like a machete. Certain it would come back to bite her, Jenna took a sip of water and searched for ways to change the subject.
As their waitress plunked the check down on the table, Jenna said, “Thank you for lunch, Darcy. It’s been illuminating.”
“It’s not over,” said Darcy, pulling her card out of her wallet. “I asked you to lunch for two reasons. First, to give you talking points for my New York magazine interview. Stay on message, which is that, under my direct guidance, we’re singlehandedly responsible for breathing new life into the street style genre and revolutionizing fashion ecommerce.”
Direct guidance? Inside, Jenna was raging. Darcy had nothing to do with their success!
“The other reason?” she asked.
“My son has a crush on you.”
“No, Eric’s way too professional to…”
“Don’t embarrass yourself, sunshine. You know he does,” she said, matter-of-factly. “I’m all for you being a mentor, giving him advice. But the ki-ki’ing will stop. He’s a distraction, and I need you present. Plus,” she said, “you know how guys his age are. The slightest bit of encouragement; they fall in love. Don’t give him any hope. Because then he’ll have a broken heart, and The Perfect Find will be compromised—and if you thought 1996 was bad between us, 2012 will blow your wig off. We clear?”
Jenna was clear. Darcy noted her closeness to her son, didn’t like it—and without even knowing the half of how inappropriate their relationship was, she wanted it to stop.
Jenna looked Darcy in her eyes, thinking, in seven hours and forty-one minutes I will be exactly where I’m dying to be: velcroed to your kid. No one will deny me this—the least of all you, you mean girl midget. Fuck you if you think I’m staying away from him.
Jenna favored her boss with her brightest smile. “I hear you, Darcy. Loud and crystal clear.”
Just Jenna: Style Secrets from our Intrepid Glambassador!
Q: “I’m going on a first date with this OKCupid dude, and I don’t know what to wear. We’ve been sexting for a month, so I’m almost certain I’m going to sleep with him. What do I wear that communicates that I’m all for the first date lay, but I’m not a slut?—@LadyBlahBlah1985
A: First of all, kudos to you for finding a guy on OKCupid. (I shuffled through my girlfriend’s account once, and was traumatized by the pics of shirtless “brand managers” posing in state school baseball caps in front of bad cars). You’re right to nix the hooker getup. On a he’ll-be-having-me-for-dessert first date, it’s more about the scorching hot details that might not be obvious to him. What’s happening under your clothes. You could go sophisticated in a wrap dress, or more casual in jeans and a slinky tee—doesn’t matter. Because what he’ll remember is that you weren’t wearing a bra. Or that later, he discovered you had on a garter belt. If he’s already well aware he’s bone-bound—make him sweat all dinner long, dying to peel your layers.
For naughty date underthings that’ll bring him to his knees, head over to Yandy.com!