Mercury in Retrograde (23 page)

“Lena,” Jack said with a nod.

“Jack,” Lena said in a cool voice, belying her nerves.

Looking past Lipstick, toward the couch, Jack said, “And I believe you know my guests?”

Lipstick followed Jack's gaze to the couch and saw her parents perched uncomfortably on the edge. Martin had bags under his eyes and looked like he hadn't slept in a month, while Lana looked like she had taken at
least
two Klonopin that morning.

“Mom!” Lipstick said in shock, “Dad!” Her mother rushed over, enveloped her daughter in a hug, and started crying.

“I missed you,” Lana babbled, glass-eyed. “You never called back. You just disappeared. You…
left
me.”

“I'm sorry,” Lipstick said, “I meant to call. I did. I was so
angry, though. And then I just got so busy.”

“Doing what, exactly?” Martin asked gruffly.

“Moving, for one,” Lipstick said softly, looking at the floor.

“And?” Martin asked, with an eyebrow raised. “We've been worried about you. Your mother showed me that damn website that had those pictures of you in a slum! And Bitsy told us you were—”

“Wait,” Lipstick said. “Bitsy?”

“Well, yes,” Lana said. “We ran into her several months ago and mentioned that we hadn't spoken to you. Of course, we didn't say what had happened, but she was so sweet. She offered to keep tabs on you for us.”

“You had Bitsy follow me?” Lipstick asked.

“No, of course not,” Martin said, rubbing his head. “Don't be absurd. We just…well, yes. But it was the only way we could find out what you were doing. And she offered—”

“Why didn't you just ask me?” Lipstick said.

“We tried, darling, but you didn't call us back.” Lana sighed.

“May I interrupt this family reunion for one moment?” Jack asked. “Lana and Martin, please take a seat. Lena, I called your parents here because I was worried about you. You've been very secretive these past months, and rumors have been flying over that website that you were shacking up in Soho, that you are broke, that you are a fraud. And then last night. Well,
that
was an unmitigated disaster. That woman you brought is a lawyer—not the Dauphin designer. And Kitty's mess and my fainting spell were reported in the
Post,
the
News,
the
Telegraph,
and
Women's Wear Daily,
” Jack said, throwing the papers onto his desk. “I am humiliated. I was lied to. And I thought we needed to clear the air, with everyone involved.”

At that moment Christina's voice buzzed in, “Bitsy Farmdale to see you.”

Lipstick's heart froze as Bitsy, with her trademark corkscrew
curls, wearing a lavender Tory Burch shirtdress with matching flats, strolled in.

 

Penelope and Thomas knew something odd was going on the second they hit NY Access's lobby. The big NY
ACCESS NEWS
banner with a picture of Trace and Kandace had been ripped in half, and Gladys looked like she'd been through a war zone. The ancient receptionist's hair was out of place, her Coke-bottle glasses were hanging at an odd angle on her face, and her watery eyes were glazed.

“PAMELA AND THOMAS HERE TO SEE MARGE!” she shrieked into the phone as they breezed past her.

Inside, Penelope almost keeled over from shock when Laura Lopez walked up to her, gave her a kiss on each cheek, and said, “So good to see you! Congratulations!”

“What the hell is going on?” Penelope said to Thomas, feeling ill at ease. “She's never been that nice.”

“I have no idea,” Thomas said as David ran toward them.

“I don't trust it,” Penelope grumbled. “She'd only be happy if I was getting fired.”

“There you are,” David said, flushed. “I thought you'd never get here. Marge wants to see you two. Now.”

“What's going on?” Penelope asked David.

“Marge will fill you in,” he said, ushering Penelope and Thomas toward Marge's office. “But you missed some pretty spectacular fireworks this morning.”

David shoved them into the office and shut the door. Marge was at her desk, drinking coffee, and dressed in a bright turquoise suit.

“Where have you two been?” she demanded.

“I, uh, but we're early,” Penelope gushed as Thomas scratched his head and simultaneously said, “Home, sleeping.”

“Never mind,” Marge said, “Thomas, you can wait outside.
I want to talk to Penelope alone.”

As Thomas left, Penelope cringed.

“There've been some changes,” Marge said.

Penelope started chewing the cuticles on her left hand and began preparing her résumé in her head.

 

Back in Jack's office, Lipstick and Bitsy stared at the ground, avoiding eye contact while Lana and Martin, chastened, took their places back on Jack's couch.

“Just what is going on here?” Jack demanded. “Last night I show up to the Met Gala expecting to meet Dauphin, and instead I meet a lawyer. I'm getting frantic calls from Martin and Lana asking me if their daughter is a crack whore, and Bitsy, you, frankly, have been instigating quite a lot of this.”

“Oh, Jack, it's nothing,” Bitsy said, trying to laugh.

“It's
not
nothing when I have to read on that website every day how a valued member of my staff is slumming it, and bizarre photos, which you apparently have taken, are showing up.”

“I can explain,” Bitsy said, fidgeting with her Fendi bag, “Lana and Martin—”

“Certainly didn't ask you to embarrass them or their daughter,” Jack snapped. “They just wanted to know how she was doing.”

“I—”

“Don't interrupt,” Jack said, leaning back in his chair. “I have always thought fondly of you, Bitsy. And the magazine has been very generous to you. We have promoted you from day one and been very supportive of your social quest. But now you are attacking a member of the magazine and thus, the magazine itself.”

“I never meant to upset you,” Bitsy said quietly. “I'm sorry.”

“It's not just me you need to apologize to,” Jack said.

“I'm sorry, Lena,” Bitsy said, more quietly.

Lipstick's mouth was agape. It was, admittedly, a bit much to take in all at once.

“And Lena,” Jack said.

“Yes?” Lipstick asked.

“You're not off the hook. Why did you lie to me and say Dauphin was coming last night?”

“She didn't lie,” Bitsy interrupted.

“What?” Jack asked, slamming a hand on his desk. “I met that woman. She was wearing Dauphin—she wasn't Dauphin.”

“Dauphin was there,” Lipstick said. “I am Dauphin.”

All heads turned. Lana gasped. “But darling, how?”

Martin harrumphed. “Huh?”

“It's true,” Bitsy said. “Lena made all those clothes.”

“Not possible,” Jack mumbled.

“I did,” Lipstick said. “My parents cut me off five months ago, and I couldn't afford the gowns and clothes for all the galas and parties. So I reconstructed my old ones and bought cheap fabric—or feathers, for the Met—and made my own.”

“Genius!” Jack whispered. “This is a genius story. Those clothes are amazing. You're the next Dior…and you are my employee!”

“
Vogue
wants Dauphin too,” Bitsy said.

“Shut up, Bitsy,” Lipstick hissed.

“I'm helping you, stupid,” Bitsy hissed back.

“
Vogue
?” Jack said breathlessly. “
Vogue
? No. Never! You're mine! I want you on the cover and a spread of your designs…”

“I don't have time to do that and be the social editor,” Lipstick said, truly worried about never getting any more sleep, ever.

“Then you'll be a contributor,” Jack said. “The clothes are more important. Fashion always is. And now I, for once, can say I truly found and broke a designer. Anna Wintour will choke on her watercress soup.”

 

Penelope was still sitting quietly in Marge's office, contemplating unemployment, when Marge interrupted her thoughts. “Penelope, you're the new entertainment reporter.”

“What?” Penelope squeaked. “What about Laura?”

“She's the new evening coanchor with Kandace.”

“But what about Trace?” Penelope asked.

“Trace is no longer with the station.”

“Huh?”

“I'm not stupid,” Marge said. “I know what's been going on. We've had complaints for years about him.”

“But why fire him now?”

“You have your crew to thank for that,” Marge snapped. “Eric and Stew showed me the outtakes they've been shooting of him harassing you. And I saw him last night. You may think I'm just an old warhorse, but I've been around the block plenty of times. I had to climb my way up the all-male ladder for years, fighting tooth and nail for everything along the way. I know what these guys think they can get away with. But not anymore. Besides, Thomas informed me last night that your best friend is a lawyer, and frankly, I'm not interested in a lawsuit. Especially when it involves the reporter who broke the biggest story in the city.”

“Okay—” Penelope said.

Marge wasn't finished. “I have some interviews for you lined up. You are going on
Today, Good Morning America,
and
Dateline
to talk about this mayoral mess. David has the details.”

“But—”

“David! More coffee!”

 

At that moment, in the hallways of Struck, Struck & Kornberg, Dana was headed to the office of Mr. Kornberg. She'd made up her mind. She knew what she had to do—for her sanity, for her
life, and, if for nothing else, her hair.

 

As Lipstick walked her parents out of the pink-limestone-and-glass building, she grabbed her mother's hand. “I love you,” she said. “I missed you.”

Lana let out a primal moan like a wounded bear and hugged Lipstick more tightly than she'd ever hugged her before and began crying. Martin put his arm around his wife and daughter and harrumphed for attention. They looked at him.

“I'm impressed,” Martin said. “I never thought you could or would do it. Living on your own, making your own way. Why, you even could start your own business. My daughter. A fashion magnate.”

“You're getting ahead of yourself, Daddy,” Lipstick said.

“Nonsense,” Martin shot back, rubbing his chin. “You heard Jack. He wants you on the cover and a spread of your clothes. Everyone will want those clothes. Bitsy, even.”

“I need to think about it. It's going to take a lot of money, and Jack didn't say how much contributors make.”

“I've decided to resume our old arrangement,” Martin said. “Tomorrow you'll have your credit cards and allowance reinstated, and you can move back into your apartment whenever you like. Max, that playboy, never even came back from Africa, so it's just as you left it.”

“But Daddy,” Lipstick said, sighing, “it's not my apartment. It's yours. It always was.”

“Not anymore,” Martin said, producing a piece of paper.

It was a letter from his business manager, informing Lipstick that the deed to the West Twelfth Street apartment had been signed over to her.

“Thanks, Daddy,” Lipstick said quietly. “But I can't go back to how it was.”

 

As Dana walked out of Mr. Kornberg's office, she texted Gerard: “Tomorrow's great. Dinner at Cafe Cluny?”

 

Later that evening the girls congregated in Dana's apartment, joined by Neal—who'd just returned from Thailand researching his latest Zen client's apartment—and David, who'd officially decided to become a “monogamous gay couple—so scandalous!”—for a drink and the day's recap.

“So, I'm going to have some free time,” Dana announced as Neal popped the cork on the Dom Pérignon. They were all seated around Dana's coffee table on the couch and settee.

“Did you quit or something?” Penelope asked, reaching for a glass.

“No, of course not,” Dana said, rolling her eyes.

“Well, what happened?” Lipstick asked.

“I rescinded my application for full partnership,” Dana said, sipping her champagne.

“Cheers to that,” David said, holding his glass up.

“Why?” Penelope asked. “You wanted it so badly, and you do the work of a full partner.”

“Not anymore. I'm trimming my hours,” Dana said. “I feel like in order for me to move forward, I may have to take a step back. And now I can go on that date with Gerard.”

“You gave up partnership for a guy you just met?” Penelope asked.

“No, not for a guy I just met,” Dana snapped, “do you think I'm that crazy?”

“No, but…” Penelope mumbled.

“Let her explain, doll,” Neal said as David refilled his glass.

“I turned it down because I want to be more than Dana Gluck, robo-lawyer. You guys said it last month—I don't do
anything outside of work except for yoga. Well, I used to go to Weight Watchers, but whatever. I haven't been on a date since Noah, I haven't moved on since the divorce, and financially I'm set. I think I needed the validation of being the youngest superwoman in the firm's history for reasons that had nothing to do with me. Or at least the real me. I'm not even sure what that is anymore, but I'd like to find out.”

Penelope nodded her head, finally understanding.

“Amen,” Lipstick said. “I'm right there with you. I feel like I spent my whole life trying to live up to my parents' ideals. Always trying to be the perfect society girl, with the right look, the right job, the right friends.”

“Yeah—Bitsy looked like she was going to gnaw your head off last night.” Penelope snorted.

“She's not my friend,” Lipstick shot back, taking a sip of champagne.