Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [67]
—Mr. Tate, I was under the impression that you were looking for an editorial assistant for a literary journal.
—You were under that impression because that is what I told Nathan. If I had told him I was recruiting a lackey for my glamour magazine, he would never have recommended you to me.
—Or vice versa.
Mr. Tate narrowed his eyes. He pointed his commanding finger at my nose.
—Precisely. Come over here.
We walked to a drafting table by the window overlooking Bryant Park. On it were candid photographs of Zelda Fitzgerald, John Barry-more and one of the younger Rockefellers.
—Everyone has their virtues and vices, Miss Kontent. In rough terms, Gotham will cover the city’s lights, its lovers, its letters, and its losers.
He gestured to the three photographs on the table.
—Can you tell me which of those categories these people would fall under?
—They’re all of the above.
He gritted his teeth and smiled.
—Well said. Relative to your life with Nathan, working for me would be quite different: Your pay would double, your hours triple and your purpose quadruple. But there is one hitch—I already have an assistant.
—Do you really need two?
—Hardly. My expectation is to run you both ragged until January first and then let one of you go.
—I’ll forward my résumé.
—For what?
—To apply.
—This isn’t an interview, Miss Kontent. This is an offer. You may accept it by being here tomorrow at eight.
He went back around his desk.
—Mr. Tate.
—Yes?
—You haven’t told me yet why you wanted to know my father’s profession.
He looked up surprised.
—Isn’t it obvious, Miss Kontent? I cannot abide debutantes.
On the morning of Friday, July first, I had a low-paying job at a waning publisher and a dwindling circle of semi-acquaintances. On Friday, July eighth, I had one foot in the door of Condé Nast and the other in the door of the Knickerbocker Club—the professional and social circles that would define the next thirty years of my life.
That’s how quickly New York City comes about—like a weather vane—or the head of a cobra. Time tells which.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Hurlyburly
By the third Friday in July, this is what my life was like:
a.)
At 8:00 A.M., I am standing at attention in Mason Tate’s office. On his desk are a bar of chocolate, a cup of coffee and a plate of smoked salmon.
To my right is Alley McKenna. A petite brunette with a sky-high IQ and cat’s-eye glasses, Alley is wearing black pants, a black shirt and black high-heel shoes.
In most offices, the loosely buttoned blouse could take the ambitious girl from reasonably proficient to utterly indispensable in the turn of a calendar year, but not in Mason Tate’s. From the first, he made it clear that his affinities lay in another hemisphere. So we could save the fluttering of our eyelashes for the boys at the ballpark. He barely even looks up from his papers as he rattles off Alley’s instructions with aristocratic remove.
—Cancel my meeting with the mayor on Tuesday. Tell him I’ve been called to Alaska. Get me all the front covers of Vogue, Vanity Fair and Time for the last two years. If you can’t find them downstairs, take a pair of scissors to the public library. My sister’s birthday is August first. Get her something timid from Bendel’s. She says she’s a five; assume she’s a six.
He pushes a pile of blue-lined copy in my direction.
—Kontent: Tell Mr. Morgan that he’s on the right track, but he’s a hundred sentences short and a thousand words too long. Tell Mr. Cabot yes, yes and no. Tell Mr. Spindler he’s missed the point entirely. We still don’t have a strong enough cover story for the first issue. Inform the lot of them that Saturday’s been canceled. For lunch I