惠蘭原創
天生夜遊神，小半生從事中文。敝姓王，但從未登基，隻是沾了些先祖靈氣而已；生於午夜，著歌而來……
小說《吉兒》
漢譯：惠蘭
（接上一節：http://blog.wenxuecity.com/blogview.php?date=201101&postID=8475）
果然，一秒鍾後，凱西跟著就進了我辦公室，用她那褐色的母鹿般溫柔的眼睛上下打量著我。“你每天都穿著這麽隨便地到辦公室。”她說，並指著我身上髒兮兮的牛仔褲和那直筒的、絕對過時但很舒服的V形領口汗衫。
“趕快去時裝間和造型屋。”她說。
“哦，糟糕。”我答。
“是很糟。”凱西接著說，“麗茲今早一直在給你打電話。她和艾倫想馬上見你，現在都過了半個小時了。”
我相信凱西的緊迫感。她總是避免我惹出麻煩。盡管她隻有三十出頭，比我年輕幾歲，身上卻有一種智慧的，母親般的氣質，與她嬌小的臀部，小女孩般的外表正好相反。凱西最好的地方就是為人實在。她擔心我，為我處理緊急事務，為我清理麻煩事，當我的“壞警察”。隻是僅僅偶爾有點小抱怨而已。她也是我為數不多的一位知心女友。即使是在最倒黴的時候，她那種略帶嘲諷的幽默，也總能讓我破涕而笑。不知她有什麽妙法，竟能同時照顧好我和她的兩個孩子。有時候，我認為她比我老公更了解我的心思。
我的電話響了。凱西拿起話筒：“是，麗茲，她幾分鍾之內就會到。”她說著，向我轉了轉眼珠。“她已經在路上了。”她又補充了一句，同時輕輕把我推向門口。
“有什麽重要的事情嗎？”出門時我問道。
“理查德·魯伊斯想要和你吃晚飯。”她跟在後麵對我說，“還有，我告訴過你，麗茲和艾倫馬上要見你呀？”我加快腳步，清醒地意識到我很可能有要招一頓痛罵。
自從與勒斯特姆傳媒那一段極短的蜜月之後，每個星期至少有這麽一次。交媾之後的歡愉還沒有到一個月，我的新老板們就開始督促我“改變方法”，同時“提高廣告業務”。
開始時，他們全都情緒高漲，盡揀好聽的話說：“呀，呀，我們是一個團隊，我們是最好的，而且會好上加好”。
他們往我身上砸錢，好像他們就是印鈔機似的。而我，有著自己的財務預算，包括買衣服，搞裝飾，應酬和娛樂，多的幾乎用不完，甚至我的下屬們也可以每月花費“十二個工作午餐”。他們可以選擇從日本料理到上等牛排等任何食品，如果工作人員過生日，我們可以開最好的香檳並從城裏最好的糕餅店定蛋糕。如果是資深職員，諸如凱西，還可以有一份精致的禮物，如名牌錢包之類的東東。你覺得我的辦公室看起來是不是有些單調？他們會讓我找一個室內裝潢師把它打扮得整潔漂亮。而且，我甚至還找了一個風水專家當顧問，嘿嘿。如果在聖誕節收到很多禮物，我是完全可以雇三輛轎車把他們送回家的。不就是80美元一小時的車費麽，沒什麽了不起的。勒斯特姆傳媒的編輯要上巴黎開會麽？“坐協和式飛機好了，猶豫什麽”。公司董事長沃德漢姆會如此說：勒斯特姆傳媒的編輯，是從來不會坐經濟艙的。
當然，享受這些待遇是有條件的。不久，這種團隊精神以及“鬼才稀罕錢”的態度，就變成了一種毫不掩飾的“為我們賺更多的錢，懂嗎，踐人？”的嘴臉。當廣告量未能打破世界記錄時，每隔一天，我就會被迫接受一件破事兒，或削減預算，或是創立新係統。如果我想重拍一張封麵，我必須乞求，要不就隻好用些很一般的照片湊合，因為勒斯特姆傳媒不肯花錢。以前那些可以在雜誌上加點噱頭的事，諸如用兩種封麵，或者加一個花俏的折疊封麵的日子，是一去不複返了。而我現在，必須為這些“奢侈品”而抗爭。不過，《時尚》雜誌是無須考慮他們的花銷的，有時候我真懷疑，削減《吉兒》的經費就是為了補償《時尚》雜誌的鋪張。不過，我還是盡努力克製一些消費習慣，注意開支，不讓人抓到把柄。同時，我總是耐心地聽我的兩位女上司的喋喋不休，讓她們感覺是在幫助我。之後，我依然我行我素。畢竟，《吉兒》雜誌的封麵上是我的名字而不是她們的。
唉，有時真的很懷念那些無憂無慮、沒人管束的舊時光嗬。
巧妙躲過兩打言語流彈，我溜進了時裝間。裏麵有各種各樣的免費的東西，而拍完時裝後留下的服裝道具，簡直就像上帝送來的救急用品。我走進去，關上門，迅速脫下我的彪馬鞋，牛仔褲和汗衫，讓這些東西在地上堆成一堆。然後在衣架上快速搜尋，找到一件深藍的合身短裙。這正好，我想。正當我要穿上時，門忽然開了。美術編輯斯文走了進來。
“我們必須談談十二月的時裝設計，”他說，“如果羅莎麗歐找不到更好的人選，我可以在凱蒂·漢森身上下點功夫。”
我不高興地把手放在臂部上，站在那裏，隻穿著胸罩和短裙。“等會兒，斯文，”盡管身上穿得很少，我還是盡量保持鎮靜。時間一分一分地過去，我可不想給麗茲和艾倫更多朝我發脾氣的理由，
“請不要再提凱蒂·漢森的事，”我給他一個請求的眼神。
我很喜歡他，但眼下我有比一個封麵模特更重要的事情要做。斯文仍呆著不走，還施展起他的歐式魅力來，
“要是我們做一些與她形象完全相反的事呢？”他繼續說，“比如一個有風味的裸體，讓她兩手護著胸部，我可以用高光清晰照，怎麽樣？”
“不行”。我說：“我不能因為你想看她的乳房，就讓凱蒂·漢森上封麵。況且，我們已經收到不少投訴，說前幾期雜誌裏有太多的乳房。”
斯文有著欣賞女人身體的好眼力，不過我想，是不是有點兒過火了呀。我並不反對在雜誌裏有裸體，但我認為，大多數女人並不喜歡每隔一頁就看到34號的完美豐胸。
被我這麽一說，斯文隻好放棄。不過，他仍然站在門口，聳了聳肩。
“隨你便吧。”他說。
我很快穿上一件粉紅，有紫色醬果和條紋的安娜·蘇襯衫。找到一雙合適的D&G鞋，側身穿過高大、金發碧眼的斯文，走進造型屋。我梳理了一下我那如卷毛狗般蓬亂的金發，對我的黑色發根咧了咧嘴。然後塗上口紅，抹上粉，自己在鏡子裏看了眼，感覺不錯。現在，應該可以去見那兩個“雙頭怪”了。
“雙頭怪”那是我為艾倫·卡特爾，勒斯特姆傳媒的CEO和麗茲·亞曆山大，《吉兒》雜誌的新出版人起的綽號。打個比方，如果說瑪莎·斯圖爾特，姐妹會和派克大街有三角關係的話，艾倫·卡特爾就一定是這種關係下的私生子。她有著那種富家的、金發碧眼的、愛學習卻十分乏味的，象牙塔學校女生的氣質。就像是上流社會的模子。她就像曼哈頓時尚媒體圈裏，一朵特別紮眼的花。不過，她倒是很聰明，深知人們吃軟不吃硬的道理。自然，她也很會經營自己，在諸如竊取不屬於她的信譽等等方麵，表現得尤其出色。在勒斯特姆傳媒之前，她曾在《魅力》雜誌任職，圈裏的人都這樣議論她。自從她自稱通過她的努力，而使《魅力》雜誌的廣告盈利翻了四倍之後，她便成了《時尚》雜誌圈內，名副其實的笑麵虎。
艾倫剛來時，我確實對她有好印象。她曾很努力地和我搞好關係，我甚至私下裏想象跟她有點兒碰出火花的感覺。在她職業強人的外表之下，她甚至顯得有些不守規矩。比如她曾跟我說過，她本人曾到過我家附近的一家性虐待夜總會。你一定會說我真是糊塗透頂，才會認為我與她會處的很好。是的，現在看來，的確如此。
麗茲·亞曆山大是艾倫在《魅力》雜誌的第二把手。之前，她也是艾倫在《喜樂》雜誌的二把手。多年以前，這一對兒開始創業，一起辦了一份有關食品的季刊，它現在已經不存在了。麗茲有著棕紅色的頭發，象別針一樣直，像艾倫的頭發。她還有一雙冰冷刺人的綠色的暹羅貓一樣的眼睛。總是以懷疑的神情盯著人。有時，還真是讓人感到害怕。麗茲也有一種讓人臣服的素質。不過，幾周之後，我就看出她這種素質，遠遠不及艾倫老練。從我接觸她的第二天起，我就已經知道必須提防麗茲使壞了。
麗茲有一種特定的，“我比你尊貴，在我麵前放規矩點兒”的態度。她很快就與我玩起權力遊戲來。比如，我打電話給她時，她從不親自接電話，而是讓她的助手接電話，詢問我是什麽人，然後再決定接不接。如果她要打電話給我，她也要讓她的助手先撥通，然後讓我“等著麗茲”。麗茲自己卻從不拿起電話。然而，在她的助手第三次讓我拿著電話等麗茲時，我打斷了她，告訴她我沒時間等任何人。如果麗茲想要打電話找我，讓她自己直接打好了。要我們需要會麵時，我們之間總要玩點兒貓與老鼠的明爭暗鬥。麗茲總是要我到她辦公室去見她。但過了一陣，我偶爾也會讓她到我辦公室來見我，特別是她要談的事情牽涉我的工作人員時。我知道這很幼稚、愚蠢、無聊，但是對於喜歡這種無聊叫春的貓，就應該讓她聞聞自己的貓屎臭。
想著最近與麗茲和艾倫不愉快的交談，我就急急忙忙地衝出玻璃門，幾乎被那複印紙盒絆倒。電梯門正在關閉，我急忙跨過去，伸手按住了按鈕。
“謝謝”，我有點不好意思地擠入人群。
就在我準備按下33樓的按鈕時，才意識到這是個下行的電梯。
真是倒黴！
等電梯到了底層，我站在電梯門外，不好意思地笑著讓每一個人進來，然後再進去。我瘋狂地按下關門按鈕，以便能加快電梯的啟動。這次總算沒有白費功夫。
好不容易到了33樓，我走出電梯，做了個深呼吸，對接待員擠出十分自信的微笑。“我要見艾倫，”說這話時，好像這是家常便飯似的。而事實上，我的心裏忐忑不安……
注：小說《吉兒》即將由廣東出版集團出版發行，敬請關注。
附英文原文：
Within a second, Casey was in my office looking me up
and down with her big brown doe eyes. She shook her head.
“Of all days for you to arrive looking like Mary-Kate Olsen
dressed you,” she said, referring to my ratty jeans and my
stretched-out, extremely vintage yet very comfortable V-neck
sweater. “Get to the fashion closet and the beauty closet,
now.”
“Oh, shit,” I said. ！
“Yeah,” Casey confirmed. “Liz’s been calling all morning.
She—and Ellen—want to see you right away. Like, half an
hour ago.”
I trusted Casey’s urgency. She was always looking out for
me. Even though she was a few years my junior, in her early
thirties, she had a wise, motherly way about her, which contradicted
her hip, petite, girlish looks. The best thing about
Casey was that she was extremely grounded. She worried for
me, put out fires, cleaned up messes, played my “bad cop,”
and only occasionally broke a sweat. She was also one of my
few confidantes, and her sardonic sense of humor never failed
to cheer me up, even on the most dire occasion. Somehow,
she was even able to juggle raising two kids in addition to
taking care of me. And sometimes I thought she could read
me at least as well as my husband.
FALLING OUT OF FASHION 5
My phone rang insistently. Casey picked it up. “Yes, Liz,
she’ll be there in just a few minutes,” she said, rolling her
eyes. “She’s already on her way,” she added, giving me a gentle
push toward the door.
“Any important messages?” I asked as I headed off.
“Richard Ruiz,” she called after me. “He wants to have
dinner. Oh, and did I mention that Liz and Ellen want to see
you now?”
I picked up the pace, fully aware I was most likely facing
another ass chewing. I’d been getting at least one a week
since the incredibly brief honeymoon period with Nestrom
Media had ended. The postcoital glow hadn’t even lasted a
month before my new bosses began to lay into me about
“making some changes” and “getting those ad numbers up.”
At first, they were all spirit—“rah-rah, we’re a team; we’re
the best and we’re going to get better.” They threw money at
me like they were printing it themselves. I had a budget for
clothing, primping, dining, and entertainment that seemed
near impossible to spend. Even my staff members were allowed
to expense “twelve working lunches” per month, when
they would binge on everything from sushi to porterhouse
steaks. If someone on staff was having a birthday, corks from
the finest champagne would pop and cake would be delivered
from the city’s finest bakery. If it was someone senior enough,
or someone like Casey, I’d be able to expense a very nice gift,
like a Prada wallet. My office looking a little drab? They allowed
me to hire an interior decorator to spruce it up, and I
put a feng shui expert on the tab while I was at it. If I received
a lot of swag at Christmas, I could hire three cars to
take it all home. They were only eighty dollars an hour, after
all. Did a Nestrom editor need to hop to Paris for a meeting?
“Take the Concorde, for Christ’s sake!” T. J. Oldham, the
company’s chairman, would say. Nestrom editors never, ever,
ever flew coach.
But of course, there were enormous puppet-like strings at
6 Karen Yampolsky
tached to all of it. Soon that team spirit and devil-may-care
attitude with money devolved into a far less subtle, “make us
more money already, bitch” attitude. When the ad numbers
weren’t breaking world records, every other day I was subjected
to a new mandate, budget cut, or system to implement.
If I wanted to reshoot a cover, for example, I now had to beg
for it, or use mediocre shots because Nestrom wouldn’t want
to spend the money. Long gone were the days of adding bells
and whistles to an issue—like releasing two different covers,
or including a flashy fold-out cover. I now had to fight for
such “extravagance,” as they would call it, while Fashionista
never seemed to have to fret about any expenditure. (Sometimes
I even suspected that cutbacks were made to Jill to compensate
for Fashionista’s elaborate spending.) But I took it all in
stride, curbing my habits a bit, too, being a little more conscientious
about my spending, when expenses for the whole
magazine—and staff—were suddenly scrutinized. I listened
patiently, letting the suits feel that they were contributing
something, then did what I pleased. After all, my name was
on the cover, not theirs.
Nostalgia for the careless, decadent “old days” still plagued
me as I dodged two dozen verbal bullets before I finally hit
the fashion closet. Full of cast-off freebies and fashion shoot
leftovers, these closets were godsends in emergencies like
this. Stepping inside and closing the door behind me, I ripped
off my Pumas, jeans, and sweater, leaving them in a heap on
the floor. I rifled through the racks, coming upon a navy blue
Marc Jacobs skirt in my size. That would do, I thought. As I
began to pull it on, the closet door swung open. Sven the art
director stood in the doorway. “We have to talk about the
December fashion layout,” he said. “And if it ends up that
Rosario can’t get anyone better, I think I can do something
with Katy Hanson.”
I defiantly put my hands on my hips, standing there with
nothing on except my lacy pink bra and the Marc Jacobs
FALLING OUT OF FASHION 7
skirt. “Later, Sven,” I said, in my best I’m-in-charge-here voice,
despite my scanty attire. The minutes were ticking away, and
I didn’t want to give Liz and Ellen any more reasons to get
riled up. “I promise. And drop the Katy Hanson thing,” I
added, giving him a pleading look. I loved him dearly but I
had bigger issues to deal with at the moment than our next
cover model.
Sven still lingered, turning on his European charm. “What
if we did something completely against her image?” he pressed.
“A tasteful nude, perhaps, with her hands obscuring her breasts.
I could light it like a Mapplethorpe. What do you say?”
“No,” I insisted. “I’m not putting Katy Hanson on the
cover just because you want to see her boobs. Plus, we’ve already
got a ton of letters complaining about the abundance
of breasts in the last few issues.” Sven definitely appreciated
the female physique. A little too much, I’d say. I didn’t mind
skin in the magazine, but it was my opinion that most women
don’t want to see perfect 34-Cs on every other page.
With that he gave up, yet he still lingered in the doorway.
“Suit yourself,” he said, shrugging.
I quickly pulled on a cranberry and pink, spiral-patterned
Anna Sui blouse; found an appropriate pair of D&G shoes;
and pushed past Sven’s tall, blond frame to get next door into
the beauty closet. There, I combed out my hair, which was
looking like a wet golden retriever’s pelt; grimaced at my
dark roots; made a mental note to ask Casey to get me in
with my colorist; and put on some lipstick and a swift paint
of mascara. I checked myself in the mirror. Almost decent. I
was ready to face the Stepford Twins.
That was my secret nickname for Ellen Cutter, CEO and
president of Nestrom Media, and Liz Alexander, Jill’s brand
new publisher, who had arrived shortly after the Nestrom
Media purchase. If Martha Stewart, Kappa Kappa Gamma,
and Park Avenue had a ménage à trois, Ellen Cutter would be
the resulting love child. She had that affluent, blond, bland,
8 Karen Yampolsky
studied ivory girl quality, a society carbon copy that made
her a bit of a wallflower in the hipper Manhattan media circles.
But she was smart, in a benign, conniving way. She had
a way of making herself look real good, and taking credit
where credit was not due—at least that was what the word
that had drifted over from Charisma, her last tour of duty,
was. Ever since her supposed efforts quadrupled Charisma’s
ad dollars, she was the industry’s reigning despot with a smile.
When Ellen first came on, I was impressed by her efforts to
get to know me and actually secretly imagined that she seemed
a bit starstruck. There were several lunches, a few postwork
glasses of wine, and a couple of events where we gravitated
toward each other. Underneath her WASPy exterior, she even
showed a bit of an edge, like when she admitted going to a
bondage club in my neighborhood. Was I crazy to think that
we could get along? It seemed so now.
Liz Alexander had been Ellen’s number two at Charisma.
She was also her number two before that at Joy! And the duo
even started out together, years ago, at some small food quarterly
that no longer exists. She had reddish brown hair, straight
as a pin, like Ellen’s, and piercing green, Siamese cat eyes, with
a stare that was always mistrusting, and sometimes downright
frightening. Liz also had a conniving quality, but as the weeks
went on, I found it wasn’t nearly as benign as Ellen’s. I knew
from about day two that I had to watch my back around Liz
Alexander.
Liz had a certain holier-than-thou, putting-you-in-your-place
attitude and she immediately started playing power games
with me. For example, she’d never pick up the phone when
I’d call. She would have her assistant answer, then grill me
about what the call concerned before she’d take it. And if Liz
ever called me, it was never directly. Her assistant would ask
me to “hold for Liz Alexander,” and Liz would never get on
the phone until she was certain I was on the line. But after
about the third time her assistant asked me to “hold for Liz,”
FALLING OUT OF FASHION 9
I cut her off and told her that I didn’t have time to hold for
anyone, and if Liz really needed to speak to me she could call
me directly herself. And whenever we met, there was a little
power play about who was coming to whom; Liz always
wanted me to come up to her office. But after a while I’d occasionally
insist that she come down to me, especially if the
meeting involved other members of my staff, despite her audible
sighs of protest. It was stupid, and catty, I know. But
catty people needed to be given a taste of their own kitty litter.
Dreading my latest interaction with her, and Ellen, I hurried
out the glass door, nearly tripping on the box of copy
paper along the way. An elevator door was just sliding shut,
so I jumped at it, sticking my hand over the sensor. “Thanks,”
I said sheepishly to the crowd inside as the doors slid open.
When I went to push the button for the thirty-third floor, I realized
I had gotten on an elevator going down.
Shit.
When I reached the bottom, I gave another sheepish smile
as I let everyone out and got back in. I frantically pushed the
“door close” button so I could have an express ride. For once,
luck was on my side.
When I finally arrived on the thirty-third floor, I took a
deep breath, stepped out of the elevator, and gave the receptionist
my most confident grin. “On my way to see Ellen,” I
said, as if it wasn’t a big deal at all. My stomach’s incessant
churning, however, betrayed the truth.
