The Herd(22)
“I know that. I’m not stupid, Hana.” She leaned toward a window. Her annoyance alarmed me. I’d expected surprise, shock at the whole idea, that literally didn’t even cross my mind. Yet here we were, speaking tensely over $26,000 sapphire-studded Tiffany watches.
“I know you’re not. And you should think of me as a resource as you’re getting your freelance stuff back off the ground. I know a lot of people.” It had begun to snow, tiny flakes swirling like dandelion fluff. We’d picked the last warmish day for our excursion; tomorrow, temperatures were expected to plummet and stay in the single digits for a week or more. “You don’t have to be, you know…too proud to ask for help.”
“Oh my God, Hana. When did this become the Katie Bradley intervention special?” She turned on her heels and headed down the street.
“I’m sorry. Let’s drop it. I know you’re doing great.” We walked in silence for a while, then approached a bulge of people in front of Radio City Music Hall; the marquee promised the Rockettes’ Christmas Spectacular, long lines of perfect legs kicking in heels. Katie curled around a corner and the sidewalk opened up.
I cleared my throat. “Look, I’m sorry. I know you’d never sell secrets to Page Six or whatever. I’m just being a paranoid publicist.” I saw my out: “Because of the big announcement.”
“I get it. No worries.” She steered us over to a cart and ordered two hot chocolates. “For everything you’ve done for me,” she said, tapping her Styrofoam cup against mine. We crossed the last block between us and the Rockefeller Tree. It was outrageously tall, and together we stood looking up at it, flanked by other people, feeling big and alone and surrounded and small.
* * *
—
The room felt crackly and bright. There was the buzz of any Herd event: all these smart, ambitious women milling about in stylish outfits, forgoing the four million other things New York had to offer that Tuesday evening. They loved the Herd, detected its specialness, tweeted things like, “If you think it’s not for you bc it’s too bougie/white/annoying/whatever, please come be my plus-one and see for yourself how inclusive and supportive and wonderful it really is.”
The crowd was mostly media plus a few VIPs, and they churned around the space: a private room at Hielo, a tapas restaurant off the lobby of a hotel. It was early; the announcement was scheduled for 8 p.m. and the Gaze interview with Joanna was at 7:30, but already, a little after 7, people were filing in, photographers checking the light and staking out the best vantage points. I hadn’t seen Eleanor all day, which just added to the mystery. Yesterday she’d warned she’d probably work from home ahead of the event—likely so she could get a blowout and makeup application at her leisure—but I was eager for her to sashay in.
“Are you close?” I texted. I’d emailed her this morning with a room reservation for her interview, and she’d responded with a thumbs-up. Nothing since, though I imagined she was busy with last-minute preparations.
I spotted Mikki making her way toward me in a peacock-print jumpsuit with billowing sleeves; a photographer stopped her by the door, and she cocked her hip and grinned. Her smile crumpled as she rushed over.
“You look great,” I told her. “Everything okay?”
“Have you seen Eleanor?”
I shook my head. “I take it you haven’t either?”
“Ted told her to get here by six forty-five for the sound check. He just texted to ask if I’d seen her, but nobody has.”
“Did you call her?” I lifted my phone to my ear.
“Obviously.”
“She was home today. I’m sure she’s just stuck in traffic.” I turned a bit as Eleanor’s voice kicked in, but it was just her voicemail.
A petite woman with swingy black hair tapped me on the shoulder. “Hana, right?”
I recognized her from my earlier Googling. “Joanna. So great to meet you.”
She shook my hand limply. “I thought I’d see Eleanor out working the crowd. Are you keeping her tucked away before our chat?”
I smiled and checked my phone again; less than twenty minutes until their scheduled interview.
“I’ll escort you upstairs in just a few. I got us a conference room. Have you met Mikki? She’s responsible for the Herd’s aesthetic.”
I excused myself, dialing the Herd’s front desk. “She didn’t come in today,” the girl said, confused. “Wasn’t she working from home?”
I bit my lip. “Can you find the name of her usual hair and makeup person? It’s Annika or Anya or something. Check if she saw her today.”
Eleanor was inconsistent about that kind of thing, sometimes hiring professionals, sometimes prettifying herself—she was, after all, a beauty tycoon. And she’d chosen not to have an assistant, someone tasked with handling her calendar, with knowing her whereabouts. It was one of her Eleanorian quirks.
I looked around; Ted was fumbling with a tripod as the crowd swirled around him. I texted Katie and then saw her making her way over from the bar, clutching a glass of red wine. I pulled Mikki away again and shuffled us into a small hallway meant for servers.
“Has anybody heard from Eleanor?”
Everyone looked at one another.
“She must be on her way here, right?” Katie finished her glass of wine.