Now and Yesterday (22 page)

W
ill's magazine was headquartered in a carefully restored, hundred-and-thirty-year-old brick-and-limestone building in SoHo that once housed a department store whose chief claim to fame was that it was the first such store to put price tags on the goods for sale. The proprietors were seeking to eliminate haggling. The building, whose façade boasted sumptuous architectural detail, faded with the neighborhood itself, after its mercantile heyday in the 1880s and '90s, and stayed faded for almost a century, even through the 1970s and '80s, when SoHo revived as New York's center of art galleries. Then, as the galleries began decamping for Chelsea and SoHo was colonized by high-end retail, the building was reconfigured for a couple of luxury brand shops on the ground floor, and media and design offices on the upper floors. Those who worked in the building now helped move goods with conspicuous prices as effectively as the original department store employees ever did, only now the goods were ideas, notions, fancies.

The magazine's weekly editorial meeting had been proceeding more rapidly than usual, that day in early February, because Colin, the editor in chief, had touched down ninety minutes late at JFK, after a few days in London, and had phoned to ask Herman, the managing editor, to start the meeting as usual. They were assembled in the magazine's conference room, designed in a faux-industrial aesthetic that had required exposing and expensively refinishing original structural elements like iron columns and beams. Seated around a gleaming arc of a table made of bleached recycled ash were key editorial and art staff, with a few representatives from the advertising and marketing departments; perched around the room's periphery, standing against walls and sitting on the floor, was a small band of interns. Herman sped them through the issue plan, with updates on the cover and most important photo shoots, the short articles in the front of the book, the longer features of the main section of the magazine, known as the well, and the back of the book, which included a section devoted to party pictures. The lineup was basically the same as it had been when they last went through it, which, given how messy some issues could be, pleased and relieved everyone, including Will, whose chief interest was his interview with a new Senegalese R&B star named Assetou. The piece was scheduled for a front-of-book section devoted to up-and-comers, and was still slotted for two pages.

It was just before noon and the meeting was basically done. People were surreptitiously checking their phones for time and texts, and hoping to get an early start on their lunch plans. Then the editor in chief swept in, trailed by his assistant, Sebastian, who'd collected him from the airport in a town car, and the meeting basically started over.

“Cheers, everyone,” said Colin, plunking himself down at the head of the table, in a spot that Herman had vacated. “Sorry to be late.”

A short, conspicuously well-groomed man in his early forties, with a broad forehead and prominent nose, Colin embodied all the energy of a Hollywood studio head. He was known for commanding serious Hollywood instincts, too—for beyond being intelligent and plugged-in, he was gifted at penetrating new cultural phenomena and gathering smart thoughts about them into a bubbly mix that felt essential, issue after issue. A pair of black Louis Vuitton sunglasses was pushed up in his salt-and-pepper hair. As the meeting recommenced, Herman, standing behind Colin, passed the editor a copy of the issue plan, while Sebastian hovered by in the corner, continuing as quietly as possible with the ongoing series of calls and texts that made Colin's hectic life possible.

“We've just been through the issue . . . ,” began Herman.

“Good,” said Colin, preemptively. “Let's just run through it quickly, since there are a few changes.”

This was news no one wanted to hear, yet the kind of thing that was always expected. Herman patiently reported again on the big shoots.

“Good,” said Colin. “And Steven is happy?” Steven was the photographer doing the cover.

“He got some good stuff. We're looking at it tomorrow,” said Herman.

“Good,” said Colin.

Herman gave an overview of the big well stories.

“Good,” said Colin. “Now here's the thing, before you go on.” He was scratching notes on his copy of the lineup. “I want to drop the water politics movie. It feels like we've done it before—sorry, Eddie”—Eddie was the intern who'd brought the idea to the table and written the story—“and I want to do a story on this amazing filmmaker Elton introduced me to—the guy who did the thing about making chairs, that got all that attention at Sundance. . . .”

“The Upholsterer,”
suggested Herman gently.

“Yes,
The Upholsterer
. You won't believe this guy. Genius craftsmanship! And you know who he's married to. . . .”

“That actress,” suggested Herman.

“Uh-huh! So two pages,” said Colin, annotating his lineup, then looking up. “Elton's going to record a conversation with him over lunch tomorrow and send us the file. And we can shoot him in London—Sebastian, you're on that, right?”

Sebastian, on the phone, nodded and pointed to the call he was on.

“So, now . . . ,” said Colin. And he and Herman continued running down the new front-of-book lineup, quickly and telegraphically, as if they were discussing it between themselves, yet everyone else just kept sitting there, silently watching, in case they were needed.

“The kids from Costa Rica—one, right? We still love them,” said Colin. “The pretty hotel, that's still two. We've got the ad and our party there—good. The writer in prison, OK; the new ballet girl, OK. The fashion designer from Seoul—we love her—that's four pages. The singer from Senegal, one—she's amazing, Will, right?”

Automatically, Will nodded.

“The blind gallerist, one,” continued the editor in chief. Then he paused. “One or two? How did the photo come out?”

Herman grimaced.

“Gallerist, one,” said Colin, in response. “Wait, isn't this the kid who used to be a model?”

“Yes,” said Herman.

“And Carole couldn't get a good picture of him?”

“It's not beauty, is the thing,” said Herman. “But it works as reportage. I actually think it's OK that way.”

“I'll look at it,” said Colin, checking the lineup as a whole and adding up the pages. “And we come out even. Everything else is the same. Good. Oh, and the creative for the new watch . . . ?”

One of the ad people nodded, with evident satisfaction.

“Well done,” said Colin. “We're in good shape, people. Thank you.”

Everyone understood that the London shoot would take the issue even further over budget, and require time the schedule didn't allow, which meant extra calls and hair-pulling for several people at the table, yet no one said anything—not even the fashion editor who was charged with looking into putting one of the new advertiser's watches on Elton's filmmaker's wrist, for the shoot. The meeting ended when the editor in chief rose and swept out of the conference room, taking Herman and Sebastian with him.

Most of the staff were unaffected by the changes, but Will was hugely disappointed, as he gathered up his pen, water bottle, and issue plan, to know that his Assetou story had been shortened. For weeks there had been a “2” next to it in the lineup, and now there was a “1.” Initially, when he first brought the idea to the editorial table, weeks before that, he and the editor had talked about doing four pages. Of course, Will was sorry to lose the real estate—the extra page, the extra visibility for a story of his own. He was also at a loss at how to squeeze his hours of research into Senegalese music, his two-hour interview with Assetou, and his thoughts on her upcoming album, which he'd been listening to, into half the space he needed, a quarter of the space he wanted.

As he left the conference room Will overheard the magazine's editor at large, a slender Parisian dandy named Olivier, speaking on the phone in a soft, liquid-sounding voice about a party the magazine was giving that night at a contemporary art museum.

“The First Lady has checked into her hotel, yes,” susurrated Olivier. “She is planning to arrive around nine, I believe. . . .”

It was a benefit for an organization that distributed art supplies to South African children, and several celebrities were scheduled to attend. Will had been looking forward to going, but now he'd have to revise his piece, and he knew he wouldn't be able to accomplish that without major rethinking.

Damn,
thought Will.

The door to Colin's office was closed as Will walked past, but Herman's door was open, so Will gave a knock. Herman was standing at his desk, preparing to leave for lunch, and waved Will in.

“
Ow
-ooch,” said Will, in two recognizably interrogative syllables.

“Assetou? C'mon, Will, this stuff happens all the time. It'll be great. You'll make it great.”

“I'll try.”

“A page is better.”

“Well . . .”

“The intro was way too long anyway.”

“I need to set up all the stuff she says about secrets, and her sculpture.”

“Sure, but it's too dense. We need to get right into her words, her voice.”

“What I'm afraid of is that we won't see how smart she is. . . .”

“The story is actually too smart, Will. It needs to be lighter.”

“Too smart?”

“Light can be another kind of smart.”

“Sure, but . . .”

“The art stuff—a lot of that can go.”

“But she's very serious about her sculpting.”

“Of course, but all the shabazz about hidden colors . . .”

“That's the depth of the piece.”

“I don't know what a hidden color is, and you don't have the space to explain it. Besides, the label wants to keep the focus on the music.”

“She talks about all these hidden forces in her songs. . . .”

Herman, known for being fierce, was being surprisingly even-tempered.

“May I make a suggestion?” he said. “Flirt with it.”

“What do you mean?” said Will.

“Do what I see you doing when you talk to people. You're so smart, but it's light and fun.”

“I . . . what?”

“Give it a shot. Four hundred words.”

Later, in the hallway, Will ran into Stefan and explained why he was looking depressed. Stefan didn't seem to take the situation too seriously. He talked and talked about the party they were throwing that night—the stars who would be there, the unadvertised, “secret” performance by a young pop star, the appearance, “maybe,” of the First Lady.

“Will you be there?” said Stefan.

“I don't see how I can,” said Will. “I have to rewrite the piece.”

“Can't you do that in your sleep?”

“Not really.”

“Ah. Then you're not an editor yet, my friend.” Stefan meant the remark playfully, but it stung.

“I certainly don't feel like one,” said Will.

“Come late, if you can. Afterwards, we're all going to the new place André just opened. I'll text you the details.”

Will stayed late at the office. To rewrite, he completely recast the piece, after walking around his office and chattering about Assetou with an imagined other at a cocktail party, and taking notes. The revised piece would probably work, he decided—basically, it was a “deep caption” to go with the picture they were running. But it was nothing like the gem of cultural journalism that he had been aiming for, with the hidden colors idea he had borrowed from Peter.

Around seven-thirty, as he was leaving the office and thinking about dinner, he decided, on a whim, to call Peter, whom he caught just leaving his office, too. Peter said he had no plans, and Will suggested they meet for a quick dinner. With conspiratorial thrill, they decided to jump into town cars and meet in Chelsea, for a burger at Elmo.

Peter, who had had plans with an old friend but cancelled guiltily, pleading a deadline, was sitting at the bar when Will arrived. Before they had time, even, for the token kiss and ritual exchange of delight in both being available, the friendly young manager appeared and asked if they were ready to be seated. They were shown to one of the best tables in the place, at the end of a serpentine banquette where they could see everything and be seen, yet have a bit of privacy.

As usual for that hour, Elmo was packed and bouncy with attractive gay men and their friends. Peter was surprised that they'd been given a table so quickly, but didn't mention it, except indirectly.

“My friend is the owner of this place,” he said. “I don't see him around tonight.”

“I like Elmo,” said Will. “Good value, good spirit.”

They ordered drinks and talked about movies, advertising, and magazines. Will told Peter about the new version of his Assetou piece that he'd written, which was basically done but now “cooking” in his brain before he'd allow himself to commit to it. They flirted with the server, who promised that the sautéed onions and mushrooms, in addition to gruyère, would render the burgers “fantastic.” Over dinner they discussed the possibility of Will's going to Fire Island that summer, where Peter often rented a house. As they talked and laughed, Peter saw more of Will's personality in a rainbow of refractions: the sharp-tongued pragmatist, the noble dreamer, the diffident gentleman; and Peter felt happy to be in a crowded restaurant with the man he'd been dreaming about for months, even if he couldn't describe what was happening between them. It could be the start of something big—yet the bouncy atmosphere, light conversation, and stiff drinks were short-circuiting any deep thoughts about eternity or whatever.

When they were done, Peter asked their server for the check.

“The least I can do is buy you a burger,” he said, “after hijacking your evening.”