Indie Girl (19 page)

Aaralyn closed her eyes, a look of dismay on her face.

Okay, look, just come downstairs with me. As long as he sees me, he’s fine. You can sit with us, but just keep him entertained, okay? I don’t want any interruptions. It’s a very important meeting.”

She had made
that
clear yesterday, but I was still excited about being able to go along; at least I’d be seeing
something,
meeting
someone,
instead of being cooped up in an expensive hotel suite with a distressed toddler for company.

We rode the elevator down—given how Aaralyn looked and the way I was now dressed, there could be no confusion about who was who in this relationship—and headed to the lobby lounge. The place smelled of espresso and expensive perfume. The two men that Aaralyn was meeting with showed up soon after we got there. They were both impeccably dressed; slim suits, gorgeous silk ties, thick, masculine watches. Even though I was stuck out in Agoura, I knew that few people in Los Angeles ever dressed like that.

Aaralyn even introduced us, turning on the charm.

“This is my son, Kyle, and my babysitter, Indie,” she said. “He had some trouble as I was leaving my room so I thought to bring him along. I hope that’s okay. He’ll be very quiet.”

“Ah, I have two
bambinos
myself,” said one of the men, who was introduced to me as Gerardo. “What are we
without our children?” he said amiably as Aaralyn nodded in agreement.

Cups of coffee and plates of biscotti were ordered. I was sitting on the farthest end of a long couch, trying to remove myself as much as possible from the proceedings, but unable to avoid completely eavesdropping. Kyle was momentarily content, coloring in his Spider-Man book.

“We have been following your magazine for some time,” said Gerardo. “We have been looking to expand our international holdings and this seems like a good match for us. You know, we publish fourteen other lifestyle publications around Europe. In America, we have nothing yet.
Celebrity Style
would be our first.”

Aaralyn was smiling. She obviously really wanted to do this. It was probably a dream opportunity for anyone who had founded a magazine from nothing.

“But,” said the second man, whose name was Giuseppe. “We have some concerns.”

The smile disappeared from Aaralyn’s face.

“Our sources in the American media have been telling us that lately, what is happening with
Celebrity Style
is not so good, hmm?” He gestured with his hand, as if trying to drive home his point.

“You have been losing many stories. Is that right? And some advertisers are abandoning you. My colleague Gerardo loves your magazine, the
intelligence
of it. He sees the potential. But I am the money man. I cannot invest in
something until I
know
there will be a substantial return. What are you doing to bring your magazine back to its former power?”

This was totally riveting. Kyle was now chewing on a purple crayon and while I made some vague attempt to extract it from his tiny fingers, I was more focused on what was being said at the table. I was actually sitting in on a high-level business dealing. And while I didn’t really understand everything that they were saying, I knew enough to know that Aaralyn’s future was at stake.

But she had a blank expression on her face. It was a question that she didn’t seem to know how to answer.

“I am told,” Gerardo continued, “that a popular website in America has been taking all your exclusives. Somehow, they are getting all your information. Maybe we should consider acquiring them?” he asked, raising a neatly groomed eyebrow.

“I assure you, I have that situation under control,” Aaralyn said. I knew she was lying. Just last night, it had happened again. Aaralyn was nowhere near to having it under control.

“We will look at the numbers again and make our decision in the next few days,” said Giuseppe, rising to indicate that the meeting was over. “We are very grateful that you have taken the time to come and see us, especially with a child,” he said, glancing over at Kyle and me. “But this would be an important acquisition for
us. We will let you know our decision before you leave.”

After they left, Aaralyn remained on the couch, sipping the last of her coffee. She looked worried—more worried than I’d ever seen her. She reached into her bag for her cell phone, maybe wanting to call Juno, before realizing that it would be too late in LA.

She turned to me, her face blank.

“I’m in trouble, Indie,” she said.

Her eyes were fixed on mine. Kyle was now scribbling on his Aquadoodle. The place was quiet. It was just Aaralyn Taylor, the woman I had almost worshipped for years, and me. And she was actually talking to me.

“Things are not good,” she said. “These problems that you’ve just heard about—they’ve been happening for a while. I’ve tried to keep it under wraps. But I can’t. The publishing world is too small. Things get out. But I need this deal to happen.”

I knew she was only talking to me because there was nobody else around. It wasn’t like she could call Juno or Meghan or anybody else in her office. For the first time since I had met her, Aaralyn Taylor looked completely alone, completely vulnerable.

I didn’t know what to say. I thought of telling her how great her magazine was, but that seemed almost silly and of no consequence. She didn’t need praise or encouragement from her sixteen-year-old babysitter.

“We’ve taken some big hits,” she continued, almost talking to herself. “Subscriptions are down, advertising has dropped. My cash flow is the worst it’s ever been. I shouldn’t even be staying at this place, but I thought it would be important to present a good face, to impress these people.”

“Yes,” I said, nodding sympathetically. “I agree.” I paused for a minute. I wanted to say something to her, but I wasn’t sure what that should be. Then I decided to just speak from my heart.

“Aaralyn, I know you probably don’t really need my opinion. But I just want to tell you that there was a time when
Celebrity Style
was by far the best magazine on the newsstands. Everyone knew it. You’ve run into some problems lately, but it doesn’t mean that you are worth anything less. You are still the best editor out there. I know everything is going to be all right.”

“Thanks,” said Aaralyn. “You’re a very sweet girl.”

I felt like I was twelve again.

“Look, it’s a gorgeous day and we’re in Milan. So why don’t we go out and enjoy ourselves?” she said.

Finally.

We were on the Via della Spiga. Kyle was in his stroller, asleep. I was gazing at the Victorian architecture, the stone buildings, the pigeons that flew overhead and landed on the cobbled streets. I was surrounded by Prada
and Gucci, Yves Saint Laurent and Dolce & Gabbana, Alexander McQueen and Tod’s. The sun was out. People rushed by, smoking cigarettes and chatting on cell phones, a whirl of navy suits and knotted ties and sashaying linens. Tiny cars squeezed into even tinier spaces. My platform shoes clicked against the unevenly paved streets.

I was in heaven.

Aaralyn was window-shopping, talking as she went, telling me about the first time she had come to Milan to see the fashion shows. She was still a student then, but loved fashion as much as she did today. She had taken a cheap flight, stayed in an out of the way hotel, and waited at the entrances to the shows begging for an extra ticket. She wandered through these streets then as she was doing now, gazing through the windows, hoping that one day she would be able to walk in and buy anything she wanted.

“That day finally came,” she said, standing in front of the Narciso Rodriguez boutique. Then she turned to look at me. “I don’t want those days to end. I
need
this.”

I nodded, not knowing what to say.

“Come on, let’s go get some lunch,” she said.

We went to Bice, which Aaralyn told me was one of her favorite restaurants in Milan and one she always made an effort to stop at when she was here.

“Everybody comes here,” she said, mentioning names
to me I had only ever read about: Tom Ford, Donatella Versace, lots of Hollywood stars. “We may as well enjoy the good life while we can,” she said, ordering a glass of chianti.

She ordered warm antipasti and breaded veal, some pasta for Kyle, and I went for eggplant and cheese. Her mood seemed a bit improved but I could tell she was still preoccupied. But at least, amid the clatter of the lunchtime crowd, she continued talking to me, telling me about her experiences in Milan and in Paris, about the people she had met. It was almost as if there was a part of her that was almost preparing to say good-bye to this lifestyle. We were bonding! It almost didn’t matter how Aaralyn had treated me in the past—because she was treating me as an equal now.

Halfway through lunch, I could tell that Kyle needed a diaper change. I picked him up out of his high chair and took him into the ladies’ room. I pulled out the changing table, laid down one of the disposable cloths we always carried around, and placed him gently on it.

Two women were talking behind closed cubicle doors.

“They’re offering five million,” said one in a strong New York accent. “It’s a good chunk of change for a day’s work.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to jump on that bandwagon. I’m better than that,” said an English-accented woman. “Nicole Kidman, Gwyneth Paltrow, Halle Berry—they’re
all on that endorsement thing. I said I’d never do it. And I never will.”

I was trying to concentrate on Kyle, but what was being said behind those closed doors was far more fascinating. Who were these women?

Both doors opened at almost the same time. Behind one was someone I didn’t recognize. But behind the other was Chiara Baird, the British actress who was one of Hollywood’s “it” girls. Her mother was a famous Sicilian opera singer, her father a noted British playwright. She had burst on to the Hollywood scene just a few months ago, in a lead role in a small independent movie that all the critics had loved. Because of her stunning good looks and acting chops, she was one of the most sought-after young actresses of the moment. But she had managed to stay enigmatic and mysterious, limiting her public engagements, not doing interviews, avoiding those red carpet events. Everyone wanted to dress her, but she liked wearing clothes that she would find in little thrift stores. She was always beautifully put together, but refused to do the designer thing.

They looked at me as they washed their hands, suddenly realizing that maybe they should stop talking. But I needed them to continue. I could sense that there was a story here. I had to think quickly.

“Cute baby,” the New York woman said, smiling at me.

“Sorry, no English,” I replied, in the heaviest Indian
accent I could muster. I sounded like one of my grandmothers. Then I turned to Kyle, and started speaking Hindi, telling him in my parent’s native tongue that “the world was round, the sky was blue, the sun was pretty and so are you.” I had no idea what I was saying. All I knew was that I sounded ridiculous. But Chiara and the other woman suddenly looked relaxed. They could continue speaking.

“Luca Berlutti is being called the next Armani,” the woman said, now reapplying her lipstick. “He’s got a huge amount of backing and doesn’t dress just anybody. The fact that he wants you to be his new spokesmodel is major. As your agent, I’m telling you: You’ve been working in Hollywood less than a year. Five million dollars for a few days’ work shooting a campaign? It’s unheard of.”

“You’ve just got your eye on your fifteen percent, haven’t you?” Chiara said, grinning. “That’s okay. You don’t have to deny it.”

“Chiara, look at what it would mean. They’ll fly you to Milan twice a year, put you up at the Four Seasons and wine and dine you endlessly. You will never have to buy another piece of clothing in your life. And, quite frankly, with five million in the bank, you don’t have to make another movie for a couple of years.”

“But I
like
making movies,” she said. “I just don’t want to be seen as another commodity. That’s all.”

“It’s Hollywood and it’s fashion and you’re young and beautiful,” said her agent. “Trust me. You’re already a commodity. Luca’s people want to know by three today. Are we on board?”

Chiara stared at herself in the mirror, smoothing an eyebrow. Even in the harsh bathroom lighting, she was exquisite. I was trying not to stare and realized that with all my wiping and swiping, Kyle’s bottom was probably the cleanest it had ever been.

“Okay, Judy, fine. Whatever you say. But if it backfires and I become just another overexposed harlot, it’ll be on your head.”

As soon as they walked out, I dressed Kyle again, gathered our things, and followed them. Aaralyn, who had moved on to coffee and dessert already, saw them from across the room.

“Look,” she said, gesturing in their direction. “That’s Chiara Baird.” She frowned. “I wonder what she’s doing in town.”

“Aaralyn,” I said, trying to keep my voice down and my palpitations to a minimum. “You’re not going to
believe
what I just heard.”

As soon as I had told Aaralyn what I had overheard in the bathroom, she had immediately called Meghan. Then Aaralyn got out her phone book and called Luca Berlutti’s publicist and Chiara Baird’s agent. By the
following afternoon, and at least twenty phone calls later, she had the story confirmed: Chiara Baird, hot young Hollywood actress, was going to be the new face of Luca Berlutti, hot young Italian fashion designer. It was a marriage made in heaven.

The morning we were leaving, Giuseppe and Gerardo came back to the hotel for another meeting. They had somber looks on their faces. The news didn’t look good.

“Before you say anything, I would like to share something with you,” said Aaralyn, once we were ensconced in a corner table. She had a glow in her face. Suddenly she looked youthful and almost carefree. I could almost imagine her as a young fashion journalist, just starting out, relishing every scoop. It was like she was reliving that again.

“On Friday, the latest issue of
Celebrity Style
comes out. On the cover will be a story that even your best journalists here in Italy have been unable to get.” Aaralyn told Giuseppe and Gerardo about the Baird-Berlutti alliance.