Lou was next. She read quickly from a sheet that Bess had put together for her, updating Constance on the status of the fashion layouts planned through December; it was efficient and logical. When she reached the end, she folded the paper in her lap and looked up, her eyes bright.
“I examined Mania last week and I think we still have something they don’t. They’re accessible. I think it doesn’t matter how much couture you pile onto a seventh grader from Texas, or whatever; they’re still just little girls playing dress-up. I think we should drill down on the biggest weapon we have in our arsenal. Age,” she said enthusiastically, gesturing to Margot, to herself. “We have access to the world’s aging socialites. I think we should play that card every month, you know? They certainly won’t put their lives online, but I know they’ll talk to us. And we can arrange compensation, sponsorship, anything. I know that hasn’t been the standard in the past, but it seems prudent to open ourselves up to new budgetary approaches.”
Cat’s mouth dropped open. She’d never expected Lou to deviate from the script in the slightest, much less float ideas about how RAGE should structure their business practices. Everyone looked at Margot, who nodded her head carefully.
“What’s the pitch?” Margot asked Lou.
“I want us to lean more on real women over thirty, on their real lives, every month. We could debut a new section, something that’s ‘at home with,’ but really it’s ‘at one of their homes with.’ The Hillary piece in September could kick us off, if Cat would be willing to expand it from tribute to memorial.” She looked at Cat.
“Maybe.” Cat shrugged, amazed by Lou’s bravado. “What are you looking for?”
“Talk about her life—show her accomplishments, her depth, her taste, her friends. Really get into it. Especially photos. Do you have anything from school? From when you were younger? Let’s see everything you can find. Her life is the editorial, it is the story. And then I think we should do it again in October but with, you know, someone living.”
“Are you willing to be one of those women?” Margot interjected.
“If you are,” Lou replied boldly, “but let’s wait on that. I want to call Princess Sophie from Denmark. I think she has a property—it’s a castle in Bavaria—that needs some updating. If we can convince some advertisers to sponsor, then we could probably get her to commit to a weekend shoot. She’ll do it if we hire locally. I want to show women like her who are now in the positions, socially, that men used to occupy—women whose wallets manage to keep entire towns alive. The benefactors. The matriarchy…the new maternalism…is materialism? Is that making sense?”
Margot was nodding vigorously now. “Matriarchy. I love that. Older women ruling the world.”
“Like you,” Lou said to Margot. “The RAGE woman has always been a reflection of you. Let’s not try to be something we’re not. We’re you. That’s our strength.”
“I want to see fifteen potential names on my desk next week,” Margot said. “And I want you to reconsider the fashion editorials for winter in the eyes of older women.”
“What if we started using older models?” Cat asked. “Or made a deliberate move to diversify—in terms of both size and age? I can start calling around.”
“I don’t think that we’re quite ready for gray-haired models,” Margot replied. A sneer rippled across her face so quickly that Cat thought she might have hallucinated it. “This isn’t the J. Jill catalog. But maybe we can start using some bigger girls. I think that’s not…a bad idea. It’s where the market is going. Everyone’s getting so fat these days.”
Cat nodded, writing have Molly call agencies for plus-size girls for Nov issue forward on her legal pad. Margot stood up behind her desk and started to walk around the room, muttering quietly to herself. The editorial team remained on their stools.
“I want…okay…I want…to pivot. We will pivot. We will be a new RAGE, again. We will recapture the exact same women who bought this magazine for the first time thirty years ago; we will grow up with them, but we will not pander.” Margot’s voice grew louder as Paula typed furiously. “I do not want…older actresses advertising for yogurt that makes it easier for your aging bowels to take a shit. I do not want advertisements for condominiums in warm places. I want to see the most glamorous old ladies the world has to offer, and I want their most dangerous opinions. I want the fucking…Queen of England, shooting a handgun, drunk on sherry, saying she wants to dismantle the monarchy. I want the Empress of Saudi Arabia behind the wheel of a convertible, her headscarf flying just so in the wind, reading Christopher Hitchens. I want women in charge talking about who they pay and how much and why. I want to find icons. I need icons.”
Margot turned sharply to face the staff. As she leaned on the porcelain autopsy table she used to water her plants, her eyes gleamed.
“Go back to your desks and pitch me something new, and how to do it here in New York with advertisers or sponsors footing the bill. We must be the critical RAGE we have always been, but for now we must clip some coupons. If we succeed, however, I promise you: I will personally fly the whole staff to Paris in October and we will all go to every show.” She walked back to her desk and sat down. Cat’s eyes grew wide: Margot sure knew how to motivate her team.
“Now get out. Go eat lunch. Make your minds strong. Each of you draft me a full wheat pitch for next week—no chaff. I want your best work.” She nodded firmly, then took the laptop and turned away toward the windows. Paula picked up her cellphone and disappeared into a thicket of ferns. Bess, Cat, and the other senior and associate editors filed out of Margot’s glass house and bolted back to their desks with new drive.
Chapter Five
Back in her office, Cat surveyed the PMS window and added “studded jelly with thick wool socks” to the plus side. The minus side remained intact.
She cracked open her computer, opened the document on Hillary’s tribute, flexed her knuckles, and got to work. She’d been avoiding this file for weeks, but it was nearly due and now she had to expand on it, turning it into a full memorial and the first entry in MATRIARCH. She got to work, drafting copy for Margot to approve.
HED
Our Heartbreak: Hillary E. Whitney, 1979–2017
DEK
At Harper’s Bazaar, Vogue, and RAGE, she made a brooding strangeness fashionable for all.
BODY