Free Fashionistas by Lynn Messina Page A

hands are clenched tightly at her side.
    “Right, of course. Wallabies, then. Regardless, your idea is cute but I’m afraid it’s just not right for us. If you stay around long enough, you’ll probably get a feel for what is Fashionista and what isn’t Fashionista. For the moment, I think Fashionista is escaping you. Read a few more issues and get back to me.”
    Marguerite smiles tightly. “That’s all right. I’m willing to take another stab at it. I believe the memo said three ideas?”
    Terrified, with good reason, that the loathed editorial director might come up with another impressive suggestion, Jane demurs. There are only three minutes to go. “No, I’m sure I said only one. Let’s give someone else a chance.” She looks around. “Lydia?”
    “How about camouflage fatigues? They’re a trend du jour.”
    Trend du jour is one of Lydia’s favorite phrases and she uses it without any sense of self-conscious irony, as if some current styles really are more current than others.
    Jane nods. These are the sort of ideas she likes—ones that aren’t from Marguerite and that we’ve done before. She likes to trod familiar ground and it’s tough to blame her. Our readers, who she has a hard time remembering, don’t seem to mind what we write about as long as we show pictures of famous people. Lydia will find three examples of stars sporting the camouflage look and that will be that. “Good. Go after it. Who’s next?” Since I’m sitting next to Lydia, Jane’s gaze naturally settles on me. “Vig.”
    Although I always have a few ideas swimming in my head, I know these aren’t the sort that Jane will like and I try to think of a trend du jour to toss out. Then I hear the sound of change jingling—a sure sign that Jane’s assistant is near. A second later, Jackie is standing in the doorway nodding discreetly to Jane. The last plane for Bangor has closed its door. This meeting is over. “Well,” I say, “I thought we’d do a piece on—”
    Jane interrupts me, as I knew she would. She’s already standing up. “That’s very nice, Vig, but I’ve got to run. I have an important appointment that completely slipped my mind. See you all Tuesday,” she says, before remembering Marguerite. She will not leave us alone with her and her dangerous bridesmaid ideas for long. “Ah, I mean Monday. Seeyou all Monday.” She darts out the door and the rest of the staff waits a respectable five heartbeats before following close on her heels. They dash to their desks, grab their suitcases and wheel their compact one-pieces out to the elevators. Five minutes later I’m the only one left on the floor.

Superwoman
    M aya thinks that I’m only attracted to emotionally unavailable men.
    “Workaholics, cheats, mama’s boys. It’s a freak show of guys who can’t make a commitment and you’re the ringmaster,” she said after my last relationship ended unceremoniously in the produce aisle of the Associated supermarket on the corner of Bleecker and LaGuardia. While I was watching Michael debate the relative merits of green bananas—sure, he wanted a banana now but would he want one in three or four days when this bunch finally ripened—the unfeasibility of the relationship hit me. The uselessness of the entire thing hit me like a blast of heat from a very hot oven, I said good-bye and walked out of the store alone. Michael didn’t notice. He was too busy reassuring the bananas that it wasn’t them, it was him.
    “It’s like a superpower with you,” Maya continued. “Being able to find emotionally unavailable men at fifty paces and through concrete walls is what you bring to the Hall of Justice. I mean, if there’s a room full of single well-adjusted men,wholehearted and unscarred, you’re inexorably drawn to the only one who just broke up with his girlfriend of four years in the parking lot.”
    This much is true. I met Michael at one of those serial dating evenings that Maya dragged me kicking and