The Dirty Book Club(9)

“Are we late?” Gayle asked, blowing into the conference room like a nor’easter.

We? M.J. thought. And then Liz Evans, president of marketing and the Queen of Happy Hour, followed Gayle through the open door.

“What up, May-June?” Liz asked, in her ongoing effort to annoy M.J. by using her full name.

“Liz and I just had a very productive lunch meeting with Rafferty Witt,” Gayle said, shooting a chummy wink at Liz as she settled into her seat at the head of the table.

When had Gayle West—current editor in chief, soon to be CEO of Pique Publishing Group—started winking chummily at Liz? Crass humor, trashy style, and gold selfie sticks hardly seemed to be her thing.

Liz muffled a burp. “Sorry,” she said, fanning the air. “Sauvignon blanc.”

Gayle wagged a finger. “I told you not to order that third glass.”

“I didn’t,” Liz boomed. “That was you.”

“Ha! You’re right.”

“Why don’t we get started?” Ann suggested.

“Let’s.” Gayle clapped. “Liz, you begin.”

“Sorry, but am I at the right meeting?” M.J. asked, tapping through her schedule.

“Of course.” Gayle grinned, meeting M.J.’s eyes for the first time. “I thought you’d want to hear the good news before we get to the great news.”

“Sure. Yes. Totally,” M.J. said, cheeks burning and still confused.

“And now . . .” Liz drumrolled her bloated fingers on the table. “For the first time in advertising history . . . Witt Holdings have pulled their ads from New York magazine and are making City their new home. And now back to you, Gayle.”

M.J. drew back her head. “Does that mean . . . ?”

“Everything!” She beamed. “Restaurants, boutiques, art galleries, even their luxury condos.”

It was the first time M.J. didn’t want to smack the smug look off her coworker’s face. In fact, she could have kissed it. The score was impressive and the skank deserved to be proud. Witt Holdings would bring millions of ad dollars to the magazine. The additional revenue would placate the board members and maybe even reverse their position on shutting down City’s print division. Not to mention the personal win for M.J.: her first year as editor in chief would be the most successful one on record. “Incredible job, Liz. How did you do it?”

“I took Witt himself to see Laser Floyd: Dark Side of the Moon and we had a blast.”

“People still do that?”

“They sure do,” Gayle bellowed. “I’ve seen that show at least ten times.”

M.J. furrowed her neglected eyebrows.

“Yes, honey, black people like Pink Floyd, too,” Gayle teased.

“This isn’t about you being black,” M.J. insisted. “It’s about you being—”

“Forty-seven?”

“No.”

“Female?”

“No.”

“Claustrophobic?”

Laughing, M.J. said, “I didn’t know Rafferty Witt was a fan of Floyd,” because there was no respectful way to say she thought Gayle was more sophisticated than that.

“The tequila shots and steak dinner didn’t hurt,” Liz added.

“Well, it’s quite a win, Liz,” Ann said. “But I’d really feel much better if we could take the focus off alcohol and—”

“God.” Gayle sighed. “I’m really doing this, aren’t I?”

“Doing what?” M.J. asked.

“Stepping down as editor in chief to become the CEO of Pique?”

“Are you having second thoughts?”

“More like pangs of nostalgia.” Gayle dabbed the corners of her pooling eyes with the sleeve of her tastefully sheer blouse. “I’m going to miss this place, but I know it will be in capable hands.” She went on to laud M.J.’s leadership skills, her tireless quest for perfection, the innumerable weekends and holidays she worked, and the magazine’s circulation, which was up 43 percent.

M.J. gripped the two gold wedding bands on her thumb. Her parents would be so proud. “City is everything to me.”

“Same,” Liz boomed. “Shit, I seriously can’t imagine a better partner.”

M.J. thanked her with a humble grin. “I will be leaning on you and your marketing team a lot, especially during the first few months.”

“Ha!” Liz said.

“What’s funny?”

“That was a joke, right?”

M.J. looked from Gayle to Ann, then back to Liz. “No, why?”

“As of Monday I won’t have a marketing team,” she said. “We’re the team now, May-June.”

“I’m sorry but I don’t get what’s happening here.”

Gayle fingered the layered chains around her neck. “Didn’t you read the e-mail?”

“What e-mail?”

She made ch-ch-ch sounds as she thumbed through her phone. “Here we go. Sunday, April 17, 2:13 AM. Subject: Exciting Changes.”

“Never got it.”

“Shoot,” Gayle said. “It’s in my drafts folder.”

Ann began to straighten her already straight row of pens.