Bird in Hand - Christina Baker Kline [103]
In the end it was Renee Chevarak, Alison’s old boss, who gave her a break. Renee was now editor in chief of HomeStyle, a magazine that was about everything its name implied. “Of course I remember you!” she said when Alison finally convinced Renee’s assistant to put her through. “You were the only assistant I ever had who actually knew how to file. Where the hell have you been?”
“I took a little hiatus,” Alison said. “Had two kids … but now they’re older, and—”
“You’re going stir-crazy.”
“Something like that.” Renee’s glib tendency to sum people up with one-liners—which Alison had once found irritating—now came as a welcome deflection.
“So what are you looking for?”
“I don’t know,” Alison said frankly. “At this point I’d be willing to consider just about anything.” She told Renee about the senior editing jobs she’d held at other magazines, and then the freelance assignments.
“You know,” Renee said thoughtfully, “I have something here that might be perfect for you. I’m introducing a new feature called ‘Focus’ that will have a different theme each month—Focus on Family, Focus on Rituals, whatever. I need an editor who will come up with ideas and commission pieces—see the whole process through, beginning to end, every month. How does that sound?”
Focus on Health Insurance. Focus on Mortgage Payments. “What a great idea,” Alison said, remembering Rule No. 1 about Renee: her brilliance needs to be acknowledged before the conversation can move forward. Then she remembered Rule No. 2: parrot her words back to her—it lets her know you’re listening, and validates her ideas. “I think that might be perfect for me.”
“All right, then,” Renee said. “When can you start? Just kidding. There’s an editing test you have to do. Not a big deal—you could probably do it in your sleep. And you have to go through several interviews, with human resources and with my staff, before you get to me.” She paused. “I should say ‘if.’ But don’t worry—I’m pretty sure you will.”
Alison’s heart sank. For a fleeting moment it had seemed as if getting this job was going to be miraculously easy. Now it looked as unlikely as any other prospect. She’d get strawberry jam on the take-home exam; the prepubescent staff would take one look at the bags under her eyes and her five-year-old suit and they’d start saying how much they appreciated her coming in and that they’d be in touch.
“Oh, to hell with it,” Renee said suddenly. “I’m the boss here. And I’m in a bind. Come in tomorrow to talk to me. I want to make this happen. How soon could you start?”
Bad clothes, old shoes, no babysitter. (Dolores was out of the picture; Alison had reluctantly concluded that her mother was right.) Self-inflicted haircut. In dire need of a total physical makeover. How long would it take to get ready, six months? “When do you need someone?”
“Yesterday. Hey—any chance you’ll be in the city this afternoon?”
“Uh—sure,” Alison said, flipping through babysitting options in her head: If Robin—dear Robin!—could take Noah and pick Annie up at the bus…
“Good. Come by the office at two o’clock; I can carve out a little space then. Now, if this works out I’ll have to put you on a one-month contract basis. You understand. Just to hedge my bets.”
Alison wanted to jump through the phone and kiss her. After what she’d been through, she appreciated Renee’s bluntness. She needed someone who’d be straight with her, who wouldn’t make her guess. She’d had more than enough of that.
Now, in her tiny office, Alison glances at the clock, turns on the computer, and opens the manila folder on her desk marked focus. It is full of clipped newspaper articles, fabric swatches, Renee’s notes on Post-its—“Focus on Enviro/Mental?”—digital photos, and glossy ads torn out of magazines. Clearly, the Focus section is supposed to be what passes for high concept in the world of shelter magazines, capturing some fairly obvious national trend