Career Girls (16 page)

‘Why don’t you get dressed, Rowena?’ he said. Tll show you New York.’

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‘So it’s between those two, then,’ he chairman concluded,

toying with one of the files on his desk.

‘I would have said so.’

Nathan Rosen stared out of the glass walls of the penthouse office, somewhat uneasily. He didn’t normally suffer from vertigo, but this was the sixtieth floor, the summit of the American Magazines tower. It was a famous quirk of Matt Gowers, the CEO, that the walls of the top floor should be three feet of clear glass, so he could survey the whole of New York, right out to the ocean. ‘Because journalism is observation,’ Gowers had reportedly said.

Nathan Rosen was new to the American Magazines board, and he wasn’t used to the effect. Anyway, he preferred to convince himself it was the view that made him nervous, not the fact that he was secretly dating one of the candidates he was recommending to his boss.

‘Kind of young, aren’t they?’ Gowers commented. Joe Goldstein was thirty; Topaz Rossi, twenty-three. ‘Yes, sir. Child prodigies,’ Nathan smiled, only forty one himself. ‘But they’ve both proved they can run magazines. Circulation and revenue are up and costs are down on all the books they cover.’

Gowers nodded, acknowledging this. ‘I have a lot of

money riding on this project.’

‘Yes sir, I know.’

‘Joe Goldstein’s got an MBA, from Wharton,’ said the chairman. ‘Does Rossi?’

‘She’s completing her first year. She’s taking a course in the evenings and at weekends, doesn’t want to take time out

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from the job.’

‘Is the programme Ivy League accredited?’

‘Yes it is.’

Gowers considered this. ‘That’s a good attitude,’ he said. ‘That’s good. Have these two kids met each other yet?’

‘No. Goldstein’s only just moved to New York. He used to work out of the Los Angeles office.’

‘Get them together, Nathan,’ the chairman ordered. ‘They’ve got a right to check out the competition.’

Joe Goldstein was in a bad mood.

I just don’t want this shit, he thought angrily. I don’t need any of this bullshit. It’s not like we have time to waste here.

He fiddled aimlessly with an already perfect bow tie. God, he hated wearing a tux. It made him feel stiff and awkward, and he thought he looked like a waiter. But you don’t turn down an invitation to dinner with Nathan Rosen, director of A’merican Magazines, East Coast. And if it says ‘Black Tie,’ you wear black tie.

A handsome and annoyed young man glared back at him from the mirror. Joe regarded his reflection coolly, his impassive gaze sweeping across the jet-black hair trimmed ruthlessly short, the dark, intense eyes flecked with silver, the broad, clean-shaven jaw. Goldstein was darkly attractive, his smooth skin tanned to a deep brown from the California sun, and he had a muscled chest and long sturdy legs, uncomfortably encased in stiff black linen. He frowned.

At thirty Joe Goldstein was resolutely single, and doing a pretty good impression of the Man Who Had Everything. He had been born the eldest of four sons to a moderately wealthy Massachusetts retailer, and the power and responsibility of being a big brother had lent him the air of someone who naturally expects to be put in charge. Joe had been ambitious all his life. He’d excelled in high school, firstly to show his brothers, Cliff, Martin and Sam, how to do it, and later because excelling had become second nature. Joe Goldstein made straight As, was a quarterback in the

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football team, and was voted ‘Most Likely to Succeed’ three years running. His parents, who believed in hard work, God and family values, set standards for their eldest son which he followed almost absolutely.

Joe helped old people across the road, gave part of his allowance to charity every week, and stood when a lady entered the room. Only two things prevented Goldstein from being a caricature of the perfect Republican All American boy: first he was Jewish; second, he was an inveterate womanizer.

The Goldstein boys had been sent to a private school that stretched the limits of what their parents could afford. It was an old, prestigious establishment, and although they were not the only non-Christian pupils attending, they were part of a tiny minority, swamped in a sea of rich Boston kids with trust funds and establishment backgrounds. Joe never felt completely secure there. One day he went to check on his youngest brother, Sam, then aged six, and saw him sobbing in a corner of the playground. Some older boys were kicking and punching him and shouting abuse. The eldest was repeatedly giving the Nazi salute, and appeared to be trying to force little Sam to do the same. Joe tore across the concrete.

He was seventeen, twice as big as any of them, and when he crashed into the group they instantly laid off his baby brother and looked terrified.

Two of them burst into tears. The ringleader, a fourteen year-old, spat at him. ‘Kike,’ he said.

He gave the Nazi salute, right in Goldstein’s face. He wasn’t about to worry over a punch or two. Everyone knew what the Yid quarterback was like; he wouldn’t really hurt a kid half his size.

Joe glanced at his brother. ‘You OK?’ he asked.

Sam snuffled yes.

Joe grabbed hold of the ringleader’s right wrist and held it in a vicelike grip. He turned to the other bullies, who were watching horrified.

‘This is what kikes do to fascists,’ he said.

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Then he broke his arm.

None of them were bothered again, but Joe never forgot that incident. He ceased making any attempt to fit in socially with people he despised. From then on, he became highly selective of his friends, choosing to spend time only with the boys whose morals and dedication matched his own. Academic achievement became a matter of pride, too. Joe worked harder and won bigger, as if proving his worth to himself. His only distractions were sport, and later, women.

Girls came easily to Goldstein from puberty onwards, and he took full advantage of the situation. He used to tell himself it was because he was a football player, but once he reached Harvard and turned to the Lampoon instead of the sportsfield, the flow of women did not dry up. Nor did it dry up once he graduated cure laude and lunged straight into Wharton Business School.

And Joe indulged. Why not? He was good-looking, muscular and well-endowed. He was also, more importantly, a skilful, sensitive lover who took care that his partners were pleased. He practised safe sex and was upfront about what he wanted. Joe had a strictly defined set of rules: he didn’t get involved with girls who got involved. He liked female company, he liked sleeping.with women, but that was it, and he made that clear. And even under those conditions they flocked to him, Jewish girls and shiksas, white girls and black girls, Asian girls and Hispanics. Joe didn’t discriminate. He just liked women, all kinds of women.

There was only one type of girl Golds.tein didn’t get on with, and certainly didn’t want in his bed, and that was the driven, aggressive career woman. He thought feminism was OK, to a degree - that is, he thought ladies should be respected. But he didn’t like women who pretended to be men. Joe admired compassion and nurturing in women; protecting and providing he reserved for himself. His old fashioned values ran all the way down the line. He thought

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Naomi Wolf’s The Beauty Myth was a bunch of hysterical

nonsense. He knew a lot of men privately agreed with him. Joe Goldstein had turned out a nice guy, but a sexist.

Joe did not like women like Topaz Rossi. He didn’t like having to eat dinner with them. And he particularly didn’t like having to pretend to compete with them for the managing director’s job on a new, upmarket economic title. A man’s title. A title clearly earmarked for him, but one he’d have to pretend to compete for, so American Magazines could look politically correct.

He hated to waste time.

Topaz sighed. ‘God,’ she remarked to a pigeon, ‘I envy that guy.’

She’d never met Joe Goldstein and didn’t know much about him. One thing she was certain of, however, he was a man. Therefore he was to be envied at times like these. For Nate and Mr Goldstein, ‘Black Tie’ were two simple words, not a command to strike fear into the soul.

She twisted round in her sixth outfit, wondering if this would do. She was wearing a short skirt of supple brushed teather from Norma Kamali, a chocolate-brown silk shirt from DKNY, and slingback mules from St Laurent. A mixed heap of gold bangles jingled on her right arm, and her slender legs shimmered in light-reflecting hose from Wolford’s. It was an aggressive, expensive look, the sexy but-businesslike style that was the height of fashion at the moment. And after all, fashion was what she did for a living, so looking good and looking professional were synonymous for her these days

Outside her window, Central Park shone green and gold, bathed in the evening sun. Topaz permitted herselfa smile. Even by New York standards, her rise had been meteoric. She’d only been features editor of US Woman for a few months before the managing editor’s job at Girlfriend magazine fell vacant when the boss left to get married. At first, Topaz hadn’t even considered applying. She’d only just got a major promotion, and anyway, nobo.dy gets to

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run a flagship teen title at twenty-three. But then the board had announced internally that they were opening the vacancy to group tender; any executive or senior enough editor could pitch for it, anonymously, by submitting a blind portfolio of ideas, covering everything from layout to advertising strategies to subscriptions. The portfolios would be anonymous, so, like an exam, the judges would not know whom they’d liked or disliked until the results

were out.

The initiative had come direct from the chief executive, Mr Gowers. It was an attempt to bolster internal competition, and Topaz realized that as a features editor, she was eligible to apply - and nobody would know if she failed.

She changed her mind. For two months she immersed herself in teen fiction, teen music, teen television and hundreds of teenage magazines. She researched statistics on box-office young audience figures and called account executives “at fifteen major advertising agencies. She worked nights and weekends and told nobody she was pitching, not even Nathan.

The dummy issue she came up with was dynamite, a mixture of baby feminism, cheap makeover ideas, New Kids on the Block and Sega games. The accompanying dossier of financial projections and consumer profiles was eighteen pages of taut research.

Topaz’s submission was outstanding, so much the best it wasn’t even funny. She became the youngest managing editor in the history of the group, and within six months the new-look Girlfriend had increased its market share by 6 per

cent.

She was beautiful, successful, and just twenty-three years old.

She became a media property herself, although Nathan, on his way to the board and once again her immediate superior, forbade her to agree to a Vanity Fair profile. ‘Sell magazines for American, not Cond6 Nast,’ he said.

Oh yeah? thought Topaz to herself, adjusting a cuff. Somehow she suspected the new director had a more

personal reason for wanting the spotlight away from her vicinity. And that attitude prcscntcd her with a big problcm, one she would soon have to turn her attention to.

But forget about that, for now. Tonight was not about her personal life. When it was announced that American would be looking for an editor for Ecottomic Monthly from inside the company, Topaz had spent two whole weeks on her application. She had no cxperiencc of finance, or meu’s magazines, but she put her ideas across with such passion and clarity that Nathan had to pu her forward to Gowers. Although he’d made it clear that the other contender was by far the favourite.

So tonight was about this Goldstein guy, and the formidable opposition he represented to her next step up the ladder. Because Topaz was determined to prove that a woman was good for more than one woman’s title. She

wantcd to demonstrate that she was an all-rounder. She wantcd to be a player. She wanted Ecottomic Monthly.

Nathan Rosen, the newest director of American Magazines, igraycd Topaz would bchavc herself. She was the only clement in his life he couldn’t control.

He paced round his apartment, checking for the millionth time the immaculate table setting of Irish lineu and Italian glassware. He forced himself to take a deep breath, and looked round the drawing room, finding some comfort in the emblems of his success all around him - the marble fireplace, the small C6zannc ha, nging above the Chippendale cabinet. The place was a model of discreet bachelor luxury, from the soft, buttery leather armchairs to the wafcr-thin stereo system, currently playing ‘Einc Kleinc Nachtmusik’. This was one ofthc most exclusive co-ops on the Upper East Side.

Not bad for forty-one, Nathan reminded himself. I can handle Rossi.

He stopped pacing and smiled. Maybe that last thought could have been better phrased. It was his inability to stop

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handling Topaz that was causing him problems.

Rosen had been seeing Topaz ever since that wild night when he fucked her over the desk in the Westside editor’s office. He couldn’t hclp himself. To this day, he could remember her teasiug over that meal, taunting him with her body and her beauty, challeuging him to come and take her. Well, he had, and it’d been fantastic. It had been the best sex he’d ever known. Nathau had no doubt at all that half the pleasure of that night had derived from the fact that he’d been fightiug his desire for Topaz from the momeut she’d walked into his office.

The million reasons why he shouldn’t have fucked her then remained just as true now - she was so young, he was her boss. And if auything, they seemed to have been anaplified by time. There was a larger downside too, given that those two years had seen her make editor of one magazine, and him become a director, with responsibility for New York and the rest of the East Coast.