The Makeover (2 page)

By seven o’clock, after a full day of meetings and an unusually long lunch with a surprisingly lighthearted and charming emerging eco-designer – she usually thought the “green” designers too serious and focused on their agenda to bestow amusing conversation – Camellia still hadn’t found a moment to make an example out of Sylvia. The entire editorial staff was still in the building, enduring their punishment. Her eyebrows jumped: It was the perfect opportunity. She could do it
in front
of the group. That would be an experience none of them would soon forget.

Marissa buzzed. “What is it?” Camellia snapped as she cradled the phone in the crook of her neck to straighten her black and white Chanel jacket and skirt.

“Diane von Furstenberg is calling.”

The sound of the glamorous fashion designer’s name gave Camellia a shiver. “Put her through,” she responded, careful to mask her excitement. Of all the designers she had dined with, or sat front row at their fashion shows, none thrilled her like Diane. She loved the designer’s tenacity to carve out her own career – when she easily could have transformed into the ultimate lady who lunched, thanks to her former husband’s fortune – and Camellia saw the resulting style empire as one of the finest brands in fashion design. Letting out an unladylike breath reminiscent of air escaping from a balloon, Camellia pressed the blinking button on the phone, closed her eyes, and said with cheerful composure, “Well, good evening, Diane.”

The call was the invitation Camellia had been expecting. An intimate dinner party for fourteen a week from Tuesday at the designer’s home situated over her New York shop. Plenty of time for Camellia to get a fresh gloss of red for her blunt shoulder-length hair, plus the quintessential this-old-thing cocktail dress that would have any paparazzi perched outside the building salivating to capture first. She had just finished recording the event to her laptop’s calendar when her door opened unexpectedly, a mop of slicked dark hair announcing Tray Mathers, CEO of Ruther Jacobs Publishing, which owned a catalog of magazines, including
Flair
.

Camellia looked down her nose at Tray, wishing she had her chic black reading glasses handy to exaggerate her expression. “Did we have a meeting, Tray?” Her disrespect for the CEO was obvious, but she didn’t care. It was imperative the young know-it-all was cognizant of Camellia’s contempt for him. Fast tracking to the top of a major publishing company, thanks to sufficient string pulling by one’s newspaper-mogul father, didn’t impress her one bit, and while he was indeed over her on the company’s organizational chart, Camellia refused to recognize him as her boss. Unfortunately, Tray never seemed to notice.

“No, but this couldn’t wait.”

Tray lived the CEO life with gusto, complete with custom suits, new Maserati, and eleven-room penthouse – regrettably for Camellia in the same building where she lived. Eyeing his strong jaw and impossibly white teeth, she wondered what a single man did with all those rooms, having no wife or kids to fill them.

“Fine, but I’m due at a dinner party in twenty minutes,” she fibbed, hoping to quash any notion that the two might settle in for a good long chat.

Tray took the armchair in front of Camellia’s desk, perching on the edge of the seat, his arms crossed on the desk. “I don’t think I’ll need that long.” There was a flicker in his eye that instantly made Camellia uncomfortable. She hated all interactions with Tray and his lame attempt at a take-no-bullshit attitude. While she was certain it was a put-on to match his title, all she thought it really made him was an enormous douche. Now he was staring her down as if they were in a power struggle, and she didn’t know what they were fighting for.

“Camellia,
Flair
is folding.” Tray sat back in the chair, never taking his eyes off her, as if he was waiting for Camellia to break down, and he didn’t want to miss a second of it.

The tightness in Camellia’s chest matched the level of dizziness swimming about her head, and she clutched the arms of her seat to steady her, desperately trying to control her emotions, which included shock, rage, and hatred. “Is this a joke?” she managed to utter in a surprisingly calm voice.

Tray shook his head in answer. “Subscriptions are down and we’ve lost a slew of advertisers. We can’t afford to publish the magazine anymore.”

“Just like that? Isn’t there some sort of warning period where we get a chance to turn things around before the powers-that-be simply decide to shut us down?” Camellia wanted to get up, to throw something at Tray, to storm out, but she couldn’t seem to move.

“Sorry Cammie, it doesn’t work like that.” Camellia scowled, loathing the girlish-sounding nickname only Tray dared to use. He stood, buttoning his single-breasted pinstriped suit jacket. It appeared the meeting was over, yet Camellia had a thousand questions.

“What about me?” she demanded.

Tray pulled out his Blackberry and began typing, not looking up. “What about you?”

“Will you be placing me with another magazine?”

“No place for you,” he replied, still typing.

They both looked startled when Camellia’s small hand hit the desk with a loud bang. “How can there be no place for me? How is that possible? Doesn’t anyone understand what I’ve accomplished at
Flair
over the last six years?”

Exhaling noisily, Tray tucked his Blackberry into his inside jacket pocket and glared at Camellia. “In six years,
Flair
lost a third of its advertisers. A third, Camellia. I think it’s safe to say we’re completely aware of what you’ve accomplished.”

No one was left in the
Flair
offices – save for a janitorial crew, who were vacuuming and emptying trash cans as if there would be people to crumb on the floors and dispose of Styrofoam containers come morning – when Camellia finally emerged from her office. Everything looked different. The concrete floors, which had always appeared a mix of cool eggplant tones, now looked undeniably gray and flat. The once-thought chic glass desks, used by the bank of editorial assistants, were now a glaringly bad idea of greasy fingerprints. Even the towering receptionist area, stationed across from the elevators, looked more like a tacky throne room rather than the imposing entrance it was meant to be.

Camellia shook her head at the incongruous sight. And then she smiled. She had been right; her next chapter
was
just around the corner. In fact, it was right in front of her, waiting for her to swoop down upon it and claim it her own.

Sharply inhaling, Camellia stepped back into her office, took a long, final look, then headed out into the crisp fall night.

TWO

The silk drapes were already drawn in the apartment’s main rooms by the time Camellia finally arrived home. The day’s mail was laid out on the mahogany sofa table, but Camellia ignored it, instead peeking into the kitchen to make sure the cook had left for the day. She had no energy for pleasantries or common courtesy, and though she had never “gone off” on the staff – as she had often witnessed her famous photographer friend Sylvia Steiner do – this surely would have been the day, had any of them been present.

Once she was certain they had all gone home, Camellia screamed – loud, long lamenting. It wasn’t a planned reaction. She hadn’t felt it coming. It just happened. And when she finally stopped, what felt like days later, she noticed her husband standing in front of her, pale as snow.

Camellia woke with a start, rising quickly into the morning’s diffused light before her stomach jerked and every muscle tensed, and she lay back down again, remembering the previous evening. The house was already buzzing with activity. Alain, the cook, was clanging about in the kitchen, making far too much noise considering the time of day. Camellia twisted her head, just enough to get a view of the clock. Six-thirty. Instinct urged her to get up and do something productive, but she couldn’t think of a single thing that required her efforts. Every moment of her life for the last six years had been dedicated to
Flair
. She didn’t know anything else.

The door handle turned and Camellia braced herself, not wanting Alain to see (and then gossip about) her current state. Usually, by this time of the morning, Camellia was already worked out and showered, wrapped in a silk robe and prepping her skin for makeup when Alain would deliver her customary breakfast of egg whites, fresh fruit, and green tea. She breathed a resounding sigh of relief as Henry’s crop of white-blond hair appeared in the doorway. He was armed with
The New York Times
and her breakfast tray. “Morning Sweetie,” he said a little too brightly.

“Hi,” she managed, her throat surprisingly sore. She propped herself up on the generous down pillows covered in crisp white Egyptian cotton linens. The strap of her silk nightgown slid down one shoulder, and Camellia swiftly caught it and put it back in its place. She nodded slightly, and Henry, as if on cue, placed the tray on her lap and then took a seat on the edge of the bed.

“Wasn’t sure if you much cared about reading
The Times
this morning,” Henry said.

“I’m sure it’s safe,” Camellia replied, lifting the bone china teacup with an unsteady hand. “They’ll have to notify the staff before a release is sent to the press.” Suddenly the teacup felt like it weighed fifty pounds, and she lowered it to the tray with a splash.

Henry placed a hand on his wife’s toned calf. “They’re going to be okay.”

Camellia yanked her leg back under the covers, moved the tray onto the bed and grabbed the front section of the paper, snapping it open to block her view of Henry. “Of course they’re going to be okay,” she asserted. “They learned everything they know from me.”

Ignoring his wife’s cold demeanor, Henry stood and kissed her on the forehead. “I have to get to the hospital. Dinner in tonight?”

“Of course.” Camellia didn’t look up from the paper.

It wasn’t until she heard the soft click of the bedroom door that she lowered the paper, thankful to be alone. Her loss of control the night before had upset her even more than it had Henry. And the embarrassment that followed rattled her from deep inside. The only scenes she had ever caused had occurred on the red carpet, with Camellia flaunting an off-the-runway ensemble, and a flock of photographers shouting her name in hopes of a little eye contact for their pictures. Hysterics were foreign to her. Until last night.

Folding the newspaper and placing it precisely next to the damp tray, she lay back into the pillows and drew up the downy comforter to her chin. Her eyes darted restlessly around the plush room that was painted in pale hues, searching for something to do.

Thanks to an exemplary cleaning woman named Yara, who had only been with Camellia and Henry for six months, there wasn’t a crumb to be picked up from the floor or a sock in need of repair. Camellia had snatched up the young Puerto Rican girl as she stood sobbing in the lobby of Camellia’s apartment building, watching in anguish as paramedics wheeled out her boss – a high-stressed environmental lawyer, who had resided on the eighteenth floor – on a gurney, dead from a massive heart attack.

Camellia’s home had been spotless ever since.

She reached for the remote on the bedside table, careful to keep the covers in place. With a click, the flat screen mounted on the wall opposite the bed illuminated the room. Camellia squinted against the brightness, adding to the headache that was mounting a hefty battle. She spent the next two hours randomly flipping through channels, an exercise she hadn’t attempted since childhood. The tea went cold and the food was left untouched.

At nine o’clock, Camellia was lying on her side, staring at the clock radio on her bedside table. She imagined that, at this moment, her staff was being commanded into the main conference room, the only space large enough to accompany everyone comfortably. She wondered how long Tray would make them sweat before beginning the meeting. His presence alone would be enough to launch a missile of fear through even the most seasoned employees, as Tray never addressed them, even in greeting at the annual holiday party.

She could hear Tray’s words in her head. “Thanks to your incompetent editor-in-chief, you no longer have a magazine. Or jobs.” Cringing, she flopped onto her other side, but unable to find comfort, she pulled off the covers and finally emerged from her bed, her legs a bit shaky as they supported her. Grabbing her iPhone from the imposing mirrored bureau set in the corner by the window, Camellia headed to her bathroom, determined to at least wash her face and brush her teeth before the day got any older.

The cold water on her face was welcoming, and made her feel alert enough to begin her morning beauty routine, an intricate number of steps and high-end products, proven to keep her skin firm, soft, and nearly wrinkle-free. She sat at her vanity, her legs crossed elegantly off the side of the cushioned bench, as she pulled the products from a wide drawer and lined them across the counter. The thought of a good soak in the tub popped into her head, and she gave way to the idea, having an entire day to pass with nothing to do. As she stood to draw her bath, the phone rang, and in a rush of anxiety to answer, she knocked over the anti-aging serum she ordered twice a year from Paris, the precious c
ontents spilling onto the white marble countertop.

“Damn.” She righted the bottle with a shaky hand while reaching for the phone with the other, knowing before she looked that it would be Marissa. She pressed the answer button and placed the call on speaker, suddenly not certain she had the strength to hold the phone to her ear.

“Well?” It was the only greeting that made sense. Pleasantries would be demeaning. Feigning ignorance would be a full-forced slap in the face.

“Oh, Camellia.” And Marissa’s sobbing ensued.

With careful focus on discerning Marissa’s words through the anguished lamenting, Camellia was able to piece together how the morning had unfolded at
Flair
. Tray had ordered Tavi (the leggy receptionist with the well-edited shoes was how Camellia had differentiated her) to arrive at the office a half hour early to flag all the employees to the main conference room. And he did make them wait, for thirty-four minutes, according to Marissa. No coffee or pastries had been laid out. Not even a pitcher of water and paper cups. The rumors swirling around the room were thicker than the sweat that was also accumulating, with the number-one suspicion growing in solidarity that the magazine was being sold.

Tray’s entrance silenced the staff.

He took his time making his way to the front of the room, positioning himself behind an acrylic podium that had once seemed so well matched for Camellia, who had used the delicate yet contemporary lectern to deliver her favorite fan mail selections, her petite frame erect yet energized as she had read the vernacular letters of art students and emerging photographers. Now, Tray not only overwhelmed the clear podium with his opposing stature, he also looked as if he placed himself in the one spot where he could not hide from the staff. An obvious adjustment of his male anatomy temporarily displaced the man known for the swooping terror he customarily delivered with satisfaction to the executives of Ruther Jacobs Publishing.

He flipped on the microphone, though the quiet was so extreme, a whisper could have been comprehended at the back of the room. “I’ll make this quick,” he said, without emotion, his eyes landing just over the heads of the tallest employees. “Camellia Rhodes has been relieved of her duties. As of today,
Flair
is shuttered. Sales reps will stay on temporarily to reconcile their accounts. A few of you will receive offers for other positions within the company. As for the rest of you, Ruther Jacobs Publishing does not provide recommendation letters. Please clean out your desks immediately. Security is waiting to check your belongings and escort you out of the building.”

It was over.

“Honey, are you in here?”

Camellia woke with a start and immediately grabbed the left side of her neck, which was throbbing. The bathroom lights flicked on. She shut her eyes in protest.

“What are you doing in here?” Henry’s hands were on his wife’s shoulders, gently pulling her from a most uncomfortable position where she had fallen asleep with the left side of her face pressed against the hard countertop.

“My neck,” Camellia cried out, her hand clutching at the pain. At last upright on her vanity bench, and her eyes now adjusted to the light, Camellia regarded herself in the mirror and gasped.

“You’ve been crying,” Henry said, running a plush washcloth under cold water then wringing it out and placing it on
Camellia’s forehead.

She put her hand over his and let it linger there for a moment before taking charge of the washcloth, moving its position south to her burning eyes. “Marissa called.”

“Oh.” Henry picked up the house phone mounted on the wall beside the vanity “Yara, please bring up two glasses of chardonnay, thank you.”

“I don’t want a drink.”

“Humor me, okay?”

Within minutes there was a knock at the bedroom door. Henry excused himself and quickly reemerged with two stemless wine glasses filled nearly to the rim. Without removing the washcloth from her eyes, Camellia took a long drink of the crisp, dry wine, her eyes closed in appreciation. “That is good,” she admitted. “I suppose I should listen to you more often.”

Henry chuckled. “Let’s not start talking crazy.”

Camellia smiled for the first time that day. She let the washcloth drop into her lap. “Henry,” she said, her voice cracking. “What would I do without you?”

Henry clinked her glass with his. “I hope you never figure that out.”