The Ex Chronicles

Having taken a cab together, Bella and Precious are the first to arrive at Hope’s. When she opens the door they’re holding two big bags from Dean and Deluca. Smiling, Hope hugs them, then ushers them into the hallway, where they leave their coats in the closet. Bella pulls out a bottle of Belvedere and hands it to Hope.

Hope kisses her on the cheek, glad she’d had time to change into something comfortable. “The glasses are chilling; ’tinis all around?”

“Well, two with Precious and two before Precious.” Bella laughs, as she makes her way unsteadily into the kitchen to deposit her bags.

“Z’s bringing red velvet cake from Cake Man Raven; it’s around the corner from her,” Precious says, following Bella, hoping she doesn’t drop anything.

Hope follows behind them into the kitchen and goes to the freezer, removing frosty martini glasses. Bella gets the groceries and starts to pull things out. When she first drops the cheese and then almost drops the bottle of Perrier, Precious banishes her to the seat under the bay window overlooking Hope’s backyard.

Hope goes through the shopping bags, pulling things out. “Perfect—alcohol, cheese, olives, pâté, bread, salami. Just what I need after the day—no, the week—actually, the last year I’ve had.”

When Bella pulls out a cigarette and looks pleadingly at her, Hope nods and goes in search of an ashtray. Bella smiles gratefully and lights the cigarette, blowing the smoke out the window.

“I can only imagine. I can barely get through the day, with my freelance work. Meanwhile you’ve got a media franchise to deal with, and you’re taking care of your nutty mom from—what, eighty miles away?” Precious says. “How far is Princeton, anyway?”

“Not far enough—right, Hope?” Bella laughs. “If I had a drink, I’d raise my glass to you. Hint hint.”

“Just a minute, Bell.” Hope eyes Precious; her answering look says, “We’ll talk later.” “Let me get the bottle open first.” As Hope fills the martini shaker, her buzzer rings.

If there were a picture of model chic in the dictionary, it would be of Zenobia. She’s effortlessly chic in her skintight, dark blue jeans, lizard pumps, and black silk tunic cinched at the waist and falling just so off one shoulder. She is holding a white box tied with red and white string. “Guess what I’ve got,” she sings.

Hope claps her hands. “I don’t have to guess.” She puts the box on the marble counter, then gives Zenobia a big hug.

Z comes out of the embrace and does a slow walk around Hope. “You’ve lost weight, sweetie.” She looks at her eyes and sighs, “And those bags—dreadful. There must be some products floating around Shades that’ll take care of them.”

“She forgets to eat. Looks like she forgets to sleep too,” Bella says, knocking her bag off her lap. When she reaches over to pick it up she spills most of the contents on the floor.

Coming from behind the counter to hug Zenobia, Precious inhales deeply. “You smell so good. What is that?”

Precious smells a fragrant lock of Zenobia’s hair. “Is that why you have such a gorgeous complexion?”

Bella snorts, “You guys are deluded; she’s got great skin because she’s got great genes. It’s just not fair.” She lights another cigarette. “I get monthly Accutane treatments to look halfway decent and she slathers some nut butter on her face and looks like a million bucks.”

“At least you’re rich, Bell,” Zenobia says, giving her a hug. “And very sexy—so busty in that ridiculous little T-shirt.” Zenobia fans the smoke away. “Do people still smoke socially?” she asks, looking pointedly at the cigarette.

Bella is wearing a tight black T-shirt emblazoned with REHAB IS FOR QUITTERS, a body-hugging zebra pencil skirt, black tights, and black platform sandals. Bella sits down. “Forget about it,” she says pointing to her chest. “Read the shirt, I’m no quitter,” she finishes, then smokes the cigarette down to the filter. After crushing it out in the ashtray she scavenges in her enormous bag for another one.

“Give it a rest for a minute, Bell—let’s have a toast,” Hope says, handing out martinis. “At this rate I’ll have to fumigate when you leave.” Bell puts the pack away and takes the glass.

“What else? To good friends.” Hope raises her glass. “Thanks for doing this. Just seeing you guys makes me feel better.”

While Hope arranges food on serving dishes, Precious pours four glasses of Perrier. Bella waves hers away: “It’ll just dilute the booze.”

“For God’s sake, Bell.” Zenobia takes the glass from Precious and puts it next to Bella. “You’ll drink it, if I have to pour it down your throat. Precious isn’t carrying you home tonight. I’ve been here barely ten minutes and you’re already bloody awful.”

Bella ignores the water glass, taking another sip from her martini, then blows Zenobia a kiss. “Don’t be such a tight-ass, Z. I know you’re fucking Malcolm,” she finishes smugly.

“Hah! It’s true then.” Bella almost chokes on her drink. “Precious didn’t rat you out, but I had my suspicions. You’ve disappeared without a word the last four weekends and don’t return my calls until Monday.”

“Ugh. You’ve nothing to say.” Zenobia grabs the cake box from the counter and hands it to Bella. “Julius takes the cake when it comes to bad boyfriends. Oh wait; he isn’t actually your boyfriend, is he? Just a lousy grubber.”

“Are you sodding mad?” Zenobia yells. “Change the locks straightaway or you’ll go home to bare floorboards.”

Hope runs over to Bella and rescues the cake box. “Oh no—you two can beat each other to a pulp but you’re not taking the cake down with you.”

Changing the subject, Hope asks, “Am I the only person starving?” Precious starts to remove the plastic from a large pepperoni. “Stop massaging the sausage, P. You’re making me horny,” Bella laughs.

Precious finishes the rest of the pickle. “So how long has it been since you’ve gotten laid? And don’t tell me since Terence.”

“I guess I don’t have much to say, then.” Hope shrugs. “What with my dad dropping dead so inconveniently and my mom not-so-slowly going crazy, where would I have found the time to meet someone and actually feel good enough to have sex with him? Isn’t that what your ex is for?”

“Make time, honey,” Bella says. “It’ll help with those dark circles. And that billowing caftan thingy you’re wearing”—she shakes her head—“so not helping. Aren’t you editorial director of a fashion magazine?”

“Shut up, you,” Zenobia says, laughing. “You look like Lolita on crack in that ridiculous outfit, and at your age—for shame.”

“Speaking of horny”—Bella pauses for effect—“Precious is fucking Darius.” Bella looks at Precious. “Not past tense, right, honey?”

“Look, it’s not like I feel good about it. Cut me some slack—I went for almost three months.” She sighs, “I’m just so tired of these crazy-ass, four-minute ‘relationships’ full of nothing but fucking, then bullshit, lies, bullshit, lies, bullshit, bullshit, lies, lies, lies.”

“Not exactly. More like sat on it, and some other things . . .” She points menacingly at Bella with the knife she’s been using to slice the baguette. “And I ran into him because of you.”

Precious busies herself putting food on trays. “I feel bad enough about it, believe me. I haven’t seen him since.”

Precious hands one tray to Hope, and then another to Zenobia. Turning to Bella, she asks, “Do you think you can carry your drink and bag into the living room without spilling either?”

“I’ll take you up on that, Z,” Hope says. Turning to Bella, she says, “Maybe you should take those platforms off first.”

Bella steadies herself on the window seat, straightening with some effort. “Stop hating on me just because I’m the only one who knows how to have a good time.”

Zenobia refills everyone’s glasses from the martini shaker, then sits next to Hope. “I love your new haircut, Hope—so sleek and posh.”

Zenobia ignores her. “Speaking of posh, have you got any swag from that graft-laden job of yours?”

“Actually . . . I do.” Hope goes into her bedroom and returns with a shopping bag. Zenobia claps her hands like it’s Christmas morning.

When Hope spreads everything out on the table, the girls swoop in, grabbing things and trying them on.

“Lovely, it’s like Selfridges in here,” Zenobia says, grabbing a cashmere sweater from the pile.

“There’s cell phones, handbags, clothes, shoes.” Precious turns to Hope in a pair of Armani sunglasses. “Tell me again how this works.”

“Everybody wants their products in Shades. They send them to the offices hoping we’ll shoot them or that the editors will be photographed wearing or using them. They don’t usually expect them back.”

Sprawled on the couch, Bella pipes up. “Actually that’s not a bad idea, Hope. Precious lost her writing gig.”

“What makes it even worse is I found out just the other day. It’s already almost the end of the month; I don’t know how I’ll be able to pay next month’s rent.”

“Thank goodness my neighbor doesn’t have a password protect on her Wi-Fi or I wouldn’t have Internet either. It’s shameful, I know, hijacking the Web, but if I could afford it I wouldn’t.” Precious hangs her head. “I promised myself that when I make some real money I’ll get Wi-Fi and leave it unprotected for anyone to use.”

Hope sits up. “This is actually interesting timing. There’s an assistant editor position that’s just become available at Shades. If you’re interested I’ll put in a call to HR.”

Precious frowns. “That’s a glorified secretary. Can’t you just give me writing assignments and pay me tons of money? Maybe even a sexy picture on the contributor page of me in a negligee sitting at my laptop?”

“How are things going, anyway—the managing editor hates you, right? Aren’t you two frenemies?” Precious asks, checking out a tube of lipstick.

“I’d leave out the ‘friend’ part of that. Jackie and I’ve never quite gotten along. When I became editor her dislike of me escalated to a whole new level.”

“I can’t see why she’d have a problem with you; you’re so easygoing,” Bella says sarcastically, sinking even deeper into the couch cushions.

Zenobia reaches for her drink. “You’re quite right. It’s like a clique on the contributor page—always the same writers and photographers. It’s not fresh anymore. I read Colors. At least they mix it up a bit.”

Hope throws a cushion at Zenobia. “I get you an editorial spread in Shades and you read Colors.”

Zenobia ducks. “Sorry, love, but they’re cheaper”—Zenobia ducks a second pillow—“and funkier.”

“It’s not like I don’t know that. I’m having almost daily meetings to make Shades less expensive but somehow more visionary.”

Zenobia puts the cushions back on the sofa. “Hmm, you wouldn’t think those two things would go together.”

“If Colors can do it, Shades can. I mean, we’ve got the money and the talent to do anything.” Hope grabs Zenobia’s hand. “Speaking of talent, who can tell me which legendary British editrix just came on board as executive editor?”

Bella and Precious look at Zenobia, who is jumping up and down in her seat. “Fiona Godfrey!” When Hope nods, Zenobia’s British reserve goes out the window.

“Oh my God, Fiona Godfrey at Shades! I grew up reading about her. When I finally did a spread for Marie Claire she was brilliant, styled the shoot perfectly.” Zenobia turns to Hope. “How that’s working out?”

“She questions all my decisions, but I don’t mind that. It’s a great help that she’s a walking reference about everything fashion. And she’s not as openly hostile as Jackie.”

“I’m surprised that Fiona Godfrey would be satisfied with anything but the head position at Shades. Is she breathing down your neck yet?”

“I thought about that the minute the publisher brought her into the meeting. Margot likes to play her editors against each other. I’m safe for a little bit. She’s still trying to get her footing. Plus I think Margot will give me at least a few issues to turn things around before she stabs me in the back.”

“I’ve got an idea—why don’t you sic Fiona on Jackie? That’ll get her off your back. Fiona will show her who’s in charge in two minutes.” Zenobia finishes smugly, “We Brits are good for that.”

“Are you nuts? After listening to you and Z there’s no way I’m getting into the middle of that. It’s positively Machiavellian.” Precious is panicked. “I don’t even know anything about corporate America. And what do I know about fashion?”

Hope shushes her. “Not another word. You put that outfit together,” she says, indicating her honey-colored belted cardigan, black tights, and ballet flats. When Precious starts to talk, Hope raises a hand and shushes her again. “You have absolutely no excuses—I mean, you know me and Z.”

“And we’ve been secretly schooling you on fashion for years,” Zenobia adds, returning from the kitchen with a fresh round of drinks.

Precious tries again to get a word in, but Hope covers her mouth. “Listen carefully, when you get home you’re going to e-mail me your résumé.” She pauses. “You do have a résumé, don’t you?”

Hope interrupts her. “Good. I’ll make sure it’s okay and then I’ll forward it straight to Kay.”

“Assistant editor,” Hope corrects her. “Don’t let the ‘assistant’ part fool you. There are some assistant duties but you’ll also get to write, edit, and go to fashion shows, eventually. You’ll get direct access to all this great stuff.” Hope points to the products on the table. Picking up a pair of leather gloves, she rubs them across Precious’s cheek. “So soft,” she coos. “Calfskin, honey, calfskin. And there are closets full of clothes, shoes, bags, and accessories.”

“Forty thousand dollars?” Precious is awed. “I don’t think I’ve made that much money in my entire life.”

“And with your writing and editorial background we can get you in the door at forty-five thousand dollars.”

Hope holds up a hand. “. . . and you’ll get health insurance, three weeks paid vacation, and—wait for it.”

“Bloody hell, you’re putting us on!” Zenobia says. “Assistant editors get clothing stipends?” She shakes her head. “No wonder the mag’s so expensive. I’ll take the job if she doesn’t.”

Bella sits up. “I’m sorry to lose you to the dark side, but you do need some stability. You know I’m the last person to advocate such a bourgeois notion, but it’s either that or I’m going to start adoption paperwork on you.”

“Of course you’ll do it,” Hope says dismissively. She gets her laptop from her desk and brings it back to the sofa. She opens it and starts typing furiously. “I’m sending you our demographic, circulation, and marketing information.

“In the interview, remember Shades is a magazine for women of color; circulation is over four hundred thousand; demo is majority women of color—eighty percent black, brown, beige, red, yellow, and twenty percent white. First issue was published in 2000. Kay eats that crap up. You wouldn’t believe how many interviewees don’t even bother to research this.”

Hope puts her hand on Precious’s arm. “Honey, if you get the job you’ll be able to work on your novel, and you’ll have regular paychecks—remember them, P?” Hope stops. “Oh wait, you’ve never had a real job.”

“As are we, sweetie, but maybe it’s time for plan B. You’re not in your twenties anymore. No savings, no retirement plans, and now no job. Maybe it’s not such a bad idea,” Z says.

“I’d almost expect Precious to go to your folks’ before you, Bell,” Hope says. “Why the sudden trip to hip and happening Dobbs Ferry? I seem to recall you swearing something about never going back.”

Bella isn’t as smashed as she was earlier. The Perrier Zenobia forced on her and the food are helping.

Bella nods. “Yes. I Googled her. She works with him at Masters, teaches literature, has written a bunch of nonfiction books.”

Hope has already brought her up on Google. “I love how easy it is to cyber-stalk.” She turns the laptop around to show them. “A little mousy but certainly accomplished.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Bella says. “I know Miriam’s a hysteric but when she was talking about Annabel she was perfectly calm, preternaturally calm. Gave me chills. In fact I’ve never known her to be so serene about something so upsetting—actually, about anything. Against my better judgment I agreed to come out, check things out, and maybe talk to my dad.”

“She doesn’t really want me to have a job. Without the purse strings it would be so much harder to control me,” Bella says.

“Nope. She comes from money. My grandparents would have been scandalized if she’d tried to get a job. They would have disinherited her if she’d even mentioned it.”

“Imagine Bella twenty years older, twenty pounds lighter, hair in a bun, and a drink in her hand.”

“Should be interesting,” Zenobia laughs. “Well that’s all sorted. What’s next on the agenda?”