Fashionably Late by Olivia Goldsmith

remaining ten percent. She hadn’t liked Basil Reed learning all that.
    “Come in,” she said now. “Take a seat.” It was the last thing she wanted, but she knew Jeffrey wanted her to make nice.
    “I’ve only one question, really. What are you going to cover in your presentation to NormCo?”
    Oh, God! They were all going to drive her crazy with this NormCo meeting! Did Basil expect her to go over cash flow, inventory, sales and marketing costs right now? “I thought I’d just review the line,” she said.
    “The lion?” he asked.
    “Yeah. The new line.”
    “Is this some company logo you are considering? Hasn’t one already been used? I’m afraid I don’t know anything about a lion.”
    “You saw it. Remember?” Jesus, these money men! They irritated Karen so much. All they thought about was numbers and had completely negated the actual product from whence the numbers came. “The line,” she repeated.
    “I’m afraid I don’t remember. Is it an actual wild animal, or are you talking about photos or graphic design?”
    “A wild animal?” Karen was completely confused. What the hell drug was he on?
    “The lion. Is it tame, then?”
    Then she got it. “Not a lion. A line. The clothes we’re showing this season.” He was a twit, but Karen had to admit that with her Brooklyn accent she did pronounce the word with two syllables a lot like the way he pronounced the animal name.
    “Oh. Yes. Of course. How very stupid of me.” But Basil didn’t sound as if he was apologizing, nor as if he thought it was he who was “stew-pit.” Jeffrey must be right about how bad I sound, Karen thought.
    She thought of her speech at the Oakley Awards and nearly blushed. Had she sounded awful? Jeffrey had asked her twice to have diction lessons but she’d refused. “I yarn who I yarn,” she’d told him, doing a pretty good Popeye imitation to cover her hurt feelings. Maybe she should reconsider.
    Basil Reed stood up. “Well. Very good, then. Splendid. I’m sure Bill will be riveted.” Karen thought that if rivets should go into anyone she would like to see them through Basil Reed’s own forehead.
    “Well, I’m off then. See you Monday next.”
    “Yeah. Monday next,” she said, and gratefully watched the twit leave her office. But before she could get back to work, the phone rang. It was her private line. Otherwise, she’d ignore it. But maybe it was Jeffrey, wanting to make up. She lifted the phone.
    “Karen, what was that you were wearing at the Waldorf?”
    God, it was Belle. Karen wished she could just put the receiver down quietly and pretend this call was not going to happen. Oh well. Too late now. What in the world was her mother talking about? Belle hadn’t been to the Oakley Awards. “Did you see Newsday? The picture is terrible. You look big as a house. But what are you wearing? It’s all wrinkled.”
    Karen hadn’t seen the papers but she knew that Mercedes spent a lot of time placing pictures from all of the social events that Karen and Jeffrey attended. And of course she’d push the Oakley Awards. Karen had started to get used to seeing her picture in the paper, and it was all for business. But she wasn’t used to Belle’s Monday morning quarterbacking. “It was satin, Ma. Satin wrinkles.”
    “But for pictures! For pictures, Karen. And why were you looking down?
    It makes you look like you have three chins.”

How could she explain to Belle what it was like to be barraged by paparazzi popping shots at you? Why, even the Queen of England had been caught once with a gloved finger up her nose! How could Karen explain to Belle that she had no choice over which angle of her was shot and that it was an honor for a pictureţany pictureţto get into the columns. After all, she had hired Mercedes Bernard to spend all of her time doing nothing but wooing the press to get this very result. But, of course, Belle hadn’t just called to harp. She’d want to stay on the line until the unspoken