May
Miranda enjoyed the smell of the daily papers. She fell in love with the slightly acidic tang as a child, absorbed in the workings of the huge machines in her father's printing office. It was then, while surrounded by the almighty boom of the presses, that she decided she'd be part of the business. Even now, forty years later, the sharp odor brought back the comforting memory of her father's ink-stained hand on her shoulder.
Runway had never elicited the similar response: the smell was all wrong.
Perhaps fittingly, there was a saccharine note to its glossy paper.
Her life, her habits, even her husbands may have changed throughout the years but the instruments of her morning ritual persevered: a cup of hot coffee and the untouched, crispy paper on her desk.
For the next twenty-five minutes, just like she'd always done, she would trust an Emily to keep the world at bay while she decimated the papers in her preferred method.
She'd leaf quickly through the politics, because anything worth knowing was certainly not being printed. She'd check, thoroughly, the business section.
She'd suffer through the gossip pages, since more often than not she was mentioned there. (She was a firm believer in the know-thy-enemies approach.)
She'd skip the Sports altogether.
And then, giving herself one last treat before the workday started, she'd devour the Arts with gusto.
Therefore, turning to a supposedly safe Exhibitions page, she found it utterly unfair to be blindsided by her photo. It wasn't a huge picture and she wasn't alone in it. There was an African-American woman in the center, beaming with pride, and a morose looking young man at her left. And Andrea on her other side, her right shoulder ruthlessly cut out, sporting an asinine smile of someone not used to be the center of attention.
Andrea, the dense, ungrateful girl who had walked away from her, only to write obituaries – for God's sake! – in that rag.
She looked beautiful.
Miranda studied the caption. The quirky Museum of Broken Relationships opened its door last night at the Walsen gallery. In the Photo: The custodian Lily Donovan with friends.
She sniffed dismayingly and turned the page. But the coffee suddenly tasted bitter and the sharp smell of the paper was not comforting anymore.
She could already tell it would be a horrible day.
Obviously, she was wrong. It wasn't horrible.
It was a disaster.
At noon, out of options, she called for an emergency meeting of the editorial staff.
"As you have probably heard," Miranda said gravely. "Pier Giacomo has filed for bankruptcy this morning."
Judging by their pale faces, yes, they've all heard. No wonder. The news like that tended to spread like fire.
Milan to New York in two minutes time.
"Unfortunately, my obviously inadequate sources," she glared at Nigel. They should have known about it, "inform me that nobody seems to be picking up the label."
"Why weren't we informed about it sooner?" Blindsided seemed to be a word of the day.
Nigel shrugged helplessly. "Pier has always been tightlipped, you know that, Miranda. And these days…"
…it could happen to anyone, anytime. She grimly finished the sentence for him.
"It is horrible, just horrible," said Jocelyn, with tears in her eyes.
"It is a great loss for the fashion world," Miranda agreed.
"It's so nice we are having his spread in June. Like an homage." Jocelyn was pregnant. Benevolently, Miranda decided to attribute her stupidity to the raging hormones.
"What a lovely thought, Jocelyn." Miranda rolled her eyes. "However, we are not in the business of running obituaries."
She considered it for a moment. "Unless the designer passes away, of course."
There was a gasp somewhere down the table.
"Having a spread dedicated to the label which has just," she waved her hand abstractly, "perished is completely unacceptable."
"But the layout is already done!" Paul blurted, horrified.
"Apparently, it isn't. I will not have this magazine a laughing stock of the fashion world. Not to mention that half of the public is already on the edge. I'm not pushing them over to anti-depressants by forcing another failure in their faces. We are selling dreams, people." Miranda sent them a sharp look. "Not nightmares."
She stood up.
"Jocelyn, find me a replacement. A solvent one. Nigel, find me …" She twisted her lips with distaste. "…an inexpensive shooting location."
"I want the suggestions on my desk first thing tomorrow morning. That's all."
