always been a staple on our celebrity photo shoots.
“Mimi wants Abby in the morning meeting.” This is a first, the managing editor but not the executive editor getting invited to a brainstorm.
“OK. I suppose if Mimi felt I was the best person to handle the responsibility, I’ve got to go.” Victoria gives me a pitying look.
“Hey, Leah,” Mimi calls out from inside her office. “Just an FYI, I absolutely abhorred all the makeup artists who were booked for the shoot, so I made a few calls and hired new ones.” I wonder if Abby knows about this; I imagine the first batch already got paid. “We’ll still have the actresses show off the season’s hottest colors, but I want them done up in the style of leopards and zebras and tigers and giraffes—you know, as a play on the title, Office Jungle .”
“Um, so all of those animals actually live in the jungle?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Oh, whatever. We’re just having fun, and our readers are too dense to think about whether zebras belong in the grasslands, or whatever. Ha! You can relay the new plan to the girls at the shoot.”
Seriously? So then Mimi hasn’t cleared this nonsense with the actresses or, more important, their publicists. My heart begins clanging at my chest like cymbals, and it continues doing so for the entire cab ride to the photo studio.
When I arrive on set, a little wisp of a man is coating his eyelashes in blue mascara. He bounds over to me and leans in for a kiss. “You must be Leah. I’m Jonathan, and I’m here to help with the shoot. I’ve done Mimi up for special events for years. Isn’t she fab?”
“A pleasure,” I say, wondering, Help out with the shoot how? He isn’t one of the new makeup artists—they’re over by the mirrors setting out their pots and palettes. It soon becomes clear that Jonathan will be art-directing the shoot, a job usually handled by Liz, our beauty editor who recently had a baby. I’m curious if Mimi knows the danger of trying to oust a staffer while she’s out on maternity leave.
Only one actress cries when I explain the new vision for the shoot. “So I have to wear a giraffe costume?” she asks through weepy sniffles.
“You’ll still be modeling the saffron eye shadow, and believe me it will look beautiful against your olive skin, but we’ll just be finishing off the look with a few giraffe spots and a yellow turtleneck. No big deal.”
“Is it because I look like an animal?” she wails. Her publicist dabs de-swelling cream under her eyes and shoots me looks like daggers.
I want to scream out that she’s getting paid bucketloads just to freaking smile for a camera, so she should really just suck it up. Instead, I assume my patient mother mode. “No, no, it’s artistic,” I assure the actress, imagining I’m speaking to a stubborn baby Lulu. “The other women will be made up as animals, too. You’re lucky because the giraffe is the tallest, and the long neck represents power and vitality. You’ll have a real presence.”
I’m not sure how much more of this bullshitting I can handle. It’s a good thing my daughters have been stuck lately on books about the zoo, so I’m up on my game. I’ve already made a case for the quiet grace of the zebra, the kick-ass prowess of the tiger, and the stealth charm of the leopard. At one point Jonathan suggests featuring one of the actresses as an elephant, and I tell him that, no, that will absolutely not be possible. Even my powers of persuasion are not up to that task.
The actress is still whimpering, but less hysterically, as her publicist keeps cooing about her client’s neck—how it’s lovely and perfect and, no, not at all too long. It’s the first moment of the day when I’m not actively dealing with a crisis, and I realize my temples are pounding. And whatever that sappy crooning is coming from someone’s iPod is making it worse.
Jonathan ducks his head in. “Everything peachy keen in here?” His bright expression
“Mimi wants Abby in the morning meeting.” This is a first, the managing editor but not the executive editor getting invited to a brainstorm.
“OK. I suppose if Mimi felt I was the best person to handle the responsibility, I’ve got to go.” Victoria gives me a pitying look.
“Hey, Leah,” Mimi calls out from inside her office. “Just an FYI, I absolutely abhorred all the makeup artists who were booked for the shoot, so I made a few calls and hired new ones.” I wonder if Abby knows about this; I imagine the first batch already got paid. “We’ll still have the actresses show off the season’s hottest colors, but I want them done up in the style of leopards and zebras and tigers and giraffes—you know, as a play on the title, Office Jungle .”
“Um, so all of those animals actually live in the jungle?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Oh, whatever. We’re just having fun, and our readers are too dense to think about whether zebras belong in the grasslands, or whatever. Ha! You can relay the new plan to the girls at the shoot.”
Seriously? So then Mimi hasn’t cleared this nonsense with the actresses or, more important, their publicists. My heart begins clanging at my chest like cymbals, and it continues doing so for the entire cab ride to the photo studio.
When I arrive on set, a little wisp of a man is coating his eyelashes in blue mascara. He bounds over to me and leans in for a kiss. “You must be Leah. I’m Jonathan, and I’m here to help with the shoot. I’ve done Mimi up for special events for years. Isn’t she fab?”
“A pleasure,” I say, wondering, Help out with the shoot how? He isn’t one of the new makeup artists—they’re over by the mirrors setting out their pots and palettes. It soon becomes clear that Jonathan will be art-directing the shoot, a job usually handled by Liz, our beauty editor who recently had a baby. I’m curious if Mimi knows the danger of trying to oust a staffer while she’s out on maternity leave.
Only one actress cries when I explain the new vision for the shoot. “So I have to wear a giraffe costume?” she asks through weepy sniffles.
“You’ll still be modeling the saffron eye shadow, and believe me it will look beautiful against your olive skin, but we’ll just be finishing off the look with a few giraffe spots and a yellow turtleneck. No big deal.”
“Is it because I look like an animal?” she wails. Her publicist dabs de-swelling cream under her eyes and shoots me looks like daggers.
I want to scream out that she’s getting paid bucketloads just to freaking smile for a camera, so she should really just suck it up. Instead, I assume my patient mother mode. “No, no, it’s artistic,” I assure the actress, imagining I’m speaking to a stubborn baby Lulu. “The other women will be made up as animals, too. You’re lucky because the giraffe is the tallest, and the long neck represents power and vitality. You’ll have a real presence.”
I’m not sure how much more of this bullshitting I can handle. It’s a good thing my daughters have been stuck lately on books about the zoo, so I’m up on my game. I’ve already made a case for the quiet grace of the zebra, the kick-ass prowess of the tiger, and the stealth charm of the leopard. At one point Jonathan suggests featuring one of the actresses as an elephant, and I tell him that, no, that will absolutely not be possible. Even my powers of persuasion are not up to that task.
The actress is still whimpering, but less hysterically, as her publicist keeps cooing about her client’s neck—how it’s lovely and perfect and, no, not at all too long. It’s the first moment of the day when I’m not actively dealing with a crisis, and I realize my temples are pounding. And whatever that sappy crooning is coming from someone’s iPod is making it worse.
Jonathan ducks his head in. “Everything peachy keen in here?” His bright expression
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