den, with the extensive his-and-hers Rolodexes. Somewhere among those exclusive hairdressers and flavor-of-the-month manicurists were her old numbers from London; if she made a few calls she could get an excellent list of contacts and just go from there. Within a week, Diana exulted, Iâll have a wonderful job and he wonât be so certain of me anymore.
She pressed the kitchen buzzer and told the cook to make duck a lâorange, Ernieâs favorite, for dinner tonight. No need for a big scene. She hadnât got her job lined up yet. Besides, Milla was probably 100 percent right. Ernie was faithful. Diana decided that maybe sheâd misunderstood the call this morning. Maybe it was a business acquaintance. Ernie loved to make money, and she loved him to make money. I canât blame him for working hard, Diana said sedately to herself. She looked around the opulent, barely used little den, and past the mahogany walking-cane case out to her flagstone-floored hallway, with its gilt-framed paintings and subtle sconce lights on the walls. She was living in paradise here. Why rock the boat?
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âBut I donât understand,â Diana protested. The managing editorâs office was immaculately decorated in tasteful white, with framed covers and black-and-white photographs of models. âYouâve seen my portfolio of work for Vogue. Why isnât there anything for me?â
âI keep trying to tell you, Mrs. Foxton.â Kathy Lybrand leaned forward, her long-nailed bony fingers folded one over the other. âWe prefer single girls here at City Woman, and besides, youâre about five years too old for our magazine.â
Diana swallowed both her anger and her pride. She was getting the run-around, and it had been the same way at American Vogue, Glamour, Marie Claire, Elle and all the other major fashion mags that she had targeted over the last fruitless week. She, Diana Foxton, was âtoo old.â At twenty-nine! She wasnât about to go crawling to some old dowdy Redbook - or Family Circle âtype thing. Besides which, Diana had a sinking feeling that, even if she changed her mind, the answer there would still be no.
âCan I be frank?â
âCertainly,â Diana snapped. âWhy stop now?â
Kathy gave her the smile of a feeding cobra and plowed right on. âYouâre a society wife, Mrs. Foxton, and thatâs just great for you. At City Woman we like our assistants to be hungry, ambitious and driven.â
âIâm driven,â Diana said, annoyed.
âYesâby your chauffeur.â Kathy chuckled at her own joke. âItâs hard to find a girl whoâs excited about sweating her way up to a contributing editor position on thirty to forty thousand a year when thatâs about your yearly budget for clothes.â
My yearly budget for clothes is a lot more than that, Diana thought, rather spitefully.
âIn conclusion, if you want to find something to fill your time, might I suggest that you do whatever the other Fifth Avenue wives doâvolunteer to organize charity balls and luncheons and write letters to Town & Country, â the businesswoman added with a sneer. âAlthough I never saw why they didnât just give away the money to charity and add on the cost of hosting the thing. Perhaps thatâs because of the lack of paparazzi involved in just writing a check.â
âThank you for your speculations,â Diana said crisply. âIâd rather you kept them to yourself.â
âI dare say you would.â Kathy tapped her long nails on the desk. âIâd rather you didnât waste my time in the office just because you once had my boss to dinner. Lots of people need the job youâre asking for to put bread on their tablesâ and they have a passion to work. Thatâs the kind of people weâre looking for.â
Completely discomfited, Diana sprang to
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