Robber Bride - Margaret Atwood [198]
A lot of the stories are under other names, men’s names, because, as Zenia says, the material in them is controversial, inflammatory even, and she didn’t want to open the door in the middle of the night and find some enraged Arab or Irish hit man or Israeli or drug lord standing on the other side of it. “I wouldn’t want this to get around,” she says, “but that’s the main reason I came back to Canada. It’s kind of a safe haven for me – you know? Things were getting just a little too interesting for me, over there. Canada is such a – such a gentle place.”
Roz and BethAnne exchange a look across the table. Both are deeply thrilled. A political reporter from the trouble zones of the world, right in their midst; and a female political reporter, at that! Of course they must shelter her. What are safe havens for? It doesn’t escape Roz that the opposite of interesting is not gentle, but boring. However, boring has something to offer, these days. Maybe they should export a little boring. It’s better than getting your head shot off.
“We’d love it if you’d do a story for us,” says BethAnne.
“To tell you the truth,” says Zenia, “I’m sort of emptied out for now, story-wise. But I have a better idea.”
Her better idea is that she should help them out in the advertising department. “I’ve been through the magazine, and I’ve noticed you don’t have many ads,” she says. “You must be losing money, a lot of money.”
“Absolutely,” says Roz, who knows exactly how much because the money they’re losing is hers.
“I think I could double your ads, in, say, two months,” says Zenia. “I’ve had experience.”
She makes good her word. Roz isn’t sure quite how it happened, but Zenia is soon sitting in on editorial meetings, and when BethAnne leaves to have another baby, creating a power vacuum, Zenia is offered the job, because who else – be honest – is as qualified? It may even be that Roz set it up for her. Most likely; it was the kind of sucky shoot-yourself-in-the-foot thing she must have been doing around then. Part of her save-poor-Zenia project. She’d rather not remember the details.
Zenia has her photograph taken, a glamour shot in a V-necked outfit; it appears on the editorial page. Women figure out how old she is and wonder how she manages to stay looking so good. Circulation goes up.
Zenia goes to parties now, a lot of parties. Why not? She has schlep, she has clout, she has – the men on the board are fond of saying – balls. Sharp as a tack, smart as a whip, and a great figure too, they can never resist adding, causing Roz to go home and frown at her dimpling grapefruit-peel leg skin in the mirror, and then to reproach herself for making odious comparisons.
Some of the parties Zenia goes to are given by Roz. Roz supervises the passing of the filo-bundle and stuffed-mushroom nibbles, and greets her friends with hugs and airy kisses, and watches Zenia work the room. She works it seriously, thoroughly; she seems to know by instinct just how much time any one person is worth. She spends some of her precious moments on Roz, though. She gets her off to one side and murmurs to her, and Roz murmurs back. Anyone watching them would think they were conspirators.
“You’re really good at this,” Roz tells Zenia. “Me, I always end up stuck for hours with some hard-luck story, but you never get cornered.”
Zenia smiles back at her. “All foxes dig back doors. I like to know where the exit sign is.” And Roz remembers the story of Zenia’s narrow escape from death, and feels sorry for her. Zenia always arrives alone. She leaves alone. It’s sad.
Mitch works the room too. Surprisingly, he doesn’t work the part of it with Zenia in it. Ordinarily he’d flirt with everyone; he’d flirt with a saluki if there was nothing else on offer. He likes to see