Falling Out of Fashion
KAREN YAMPOLSKY
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
For Steven, Ben, and Lily
Acknowledgments
This book could not have been completed without the help and support of my closest friends and family. They know who they are but I want their names here anyway. So thank you so, so much, Squid, for all of your help, direction, and genius imagination. Roger Cohen for being my dad, my friend, and my lawyer. My mom, Audrey Cohen, who is a constant source of support. Marilyn Yampolsky for always being there, just a phone call away. Sharon, Dalita, and Geri for not only your input and your humor, but for being the best kind of women a girl could call friends. My extended Cohen and Yampolsky families—Nancy, Andrew, Paige, Max, Stephen, Michelle, Phillip, Daniel, Yetta, Gail, Jackie, David, Leah, Danielle, Mark, Terry, Rachel, Aaron, and Hannah—I love every one of you more than I can say.
Big thanks to John Scognamiglio at Kensington for your excitement and your patience.
Thank you for my agent, Frank Weimann, and everyone at The Literary Group, for your hard work on my behalf, and for believing in the potential of a first-time author and the story I wanted to tell.
Thanks and love to Jane Pratt for being a great boss and friend and an inspiration to me and a million other women.
And, finally, thanks to Steven, Ben, and Lily, who were even more excited than I was by the idea of this project and, with their love, support, and beautiful faces, helped me believe I could do it.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
1
Jill’s Ad Pages Suffer 10% Decline
—AdAge, October 2004
It started like any typical workday. At about ten minutes past noon, I chugged the last drops of my Diet Coke just as the elevators opened onto the eighth floor. I had forgotten my ID and had already been subjected to everything but a cavity search by building security. So I was relieved to see that the usual box of copy paper was propping the glass door open. The eighth floor didn’t have a receptionist, so if the box of copy paper wasn’t there, I’d have to call someone to let me in. Not a big deal, but I liked to keep my arrival into the office as inconspicuous as possible. Which, in actuality, was impossible. It was impossible due to “the walk.”
Because of the layout of the floor, there was no way for me to get to my office without being accosted by nearly every staffer along the way. Not that I had anything against my staffers—most of them I really liked. But “the walk” was just a ritual that made the act of getting to my office, and then actually getting some work done, an even longer, more drawn-out, time-consuming process than it already was.
I suppose I could avoid the problem by getting into the office before anyone else. Which meant before 9 A.M. Which was completely, absolutely out of the question. It’s not that I was a total diva about early mornings; it’s just that after benefits, parties, and late-night live television interviews—all to keep the magazine’s PR profile up—combined with my lovely insomnia problem—I needed a few extra hours of sleep in the morning.
So to deal with “the walk” as graciously as possible, I sometimes liked to picture it as a “red-carpet” kind of walk. Celebrities who arrive at the Oscars, for example, don’t stop and chat with every person waiting on the sidelines. Otherwise they would never make it into the ceremony. But they oh so nicely blow them off, cheerfully waving and smiling, stopping only to offer a brief pose or sound bite.
So I put on my best red-carpet smile, pulled open the glass door, and started “the walk.” As I approached the sea of cubicles, I imagined the alt-funk blaring from a staffer’s radio to be sweeping orchestra strings. I pictured the unflattering fluorescents to be bright spotlights. And instead of must, dust, and rotting lunches, I tricked my nose into believing that the stench in my trail was some A-lister’s expensive French parfum. The cluttered stacks of CDs, books, and back issues became ivory pillars, lining the way. But the Sharpie-defiled Britney Spears poster plastered near the conference room…that always stayed in the picture, ensuring that my red-carpet smile stayed in place.
I know it’s all a terribly egotistical fantasy, but the illusion amused me. And it gave me my game face—the jeez-Jill-is-so-pleasant-and-cool-and-in-control visage behind the smile. I needed it so much more now, since our managing editor recently had jumped ship. Without her, I had a lot more work and…one less barrier from the accosters.
Their barrage began.
“Jill! Will you be able to look at my copy today?”
“Jill! What do you think of this as a ‘Hoax’ for the March issue?”
“Jill! Do you think I’ll be able to get your approval on this layout? It ships tonight.”
I sailed on, smiling, responding in rapid fire. “Heeeeey. Hi. Leave the copy with Casey. Yeah, good ‘Hoax.’ Later, I promise.” I practiced my Queen Elizabeth wave. The fantasy was especially useful in making the utter crappiness of the floor melt away. When Nestrom Media first bought us, we moved to the fifteenth floor, sharing it with Fashionista magazine. But that didn’t last long. I could tell by the fashionistas’ consistently disgusted scowls that they couldn’t bear our tattoos; piercings; cheap, multihued haircuts; and general slovenliness for long. Before I knew it, we were being kicked downstairs, shoved in a corner behind the cafeteria, between the supply guy and the check-cashing lady. Now it couldn’t be any clearer where Jill fit into the hierarchy of the Nestrom magazine empire.
Just a few more feet to go. And the onslaught continued. “Jill! Do you really want me to call back Katy Hanson’s people and tell her we’re not interested in having her on a cover? Really?!”
That one stopped me in my tracks, snapping me right into reality. It came from Rosario, the entertainment editor. “Yes, really!” I snapped.
“But her album just hit number one,” she halfheartedly pleaded. “And you said we had to start thinking a little bit more mass appeal for the covers.”
I looked at Rosario, her blue hair matted in all directions. She of all people should know better, I thought. She was a downtown girl—a dj, for crying out loud. I guess she misunderstood me in last week’s meeting. “I meant someone more along the lines of a…Jennifer Aniston,” I explained. “Definitely not a cheesy reality show winner. The only way that Katy Hanson would end up on one of our covers would be via a cover line reading 10 REASONS WHY KATY HANSON BLOWS.
With that, I continued making my way to my office when I felt a furry presence brush my ankle. I stopped again and stooped to pick up Ruggles, Kyra the photo editor’s dog. I had no choice but to make Ruggles the office mascot since Kyra brought her in every day, despite more than a few threatening letters from HR. I held the Yorkie to my face, expecting a kiss. But she just yipped at me. I sighed before I tossed her back on the floor. No matter how hard