小说《吉儿》
汉译：惠兰
（接上一节：http://blog.wenxuecity.com/blogview.php?date=201101&postID=8475）
果然，一秒钟后，凯西跟着就进了我办公室，用她那褐色的母鹿般温柔的眼睛上下打量着我。“你每天都穿着这么随便地到办公室。”她说，并指着我身上脏兮兮的牛仔裤和那直筒的、绝对过时但很舒服的V形领口汗衫。
“赶快去时装间和造型屋。”她说。
“哦，糟糕。”我答。
“是很糟。”凯西接着说，“丽兹今早一直在给你打电话。她和艾伦想马上见你，现在都过了半个小时了。”
我相信凯西的紧迫感。她总是避免我惹出麻烦。尽管她只有三十出头，比我年轻几岁，身上却有一种智慧的，母亲般的气质，与她娇小的臀部，小女孩般的外表正好相反。凯西最好的地方就是为人实在。她担心我，为我处理紧急事务，为我清理麻烦事，当我的“坏警察”。只是仅仅偶尔有点小抱怨而已。她也是我为数不多的一位知心女友。即使是在最倒霉的时候，她那种略带嘲讽的幽默，也总能让我破涕而笑。不知她有什么妙法，竟能同时照顾好我和她的两个孩子。有时候，我认为她比我老公更了解我的心思。
我的电话响了。凯西拿起话筒：“是，丽兹，她几分钟之内就会到。”她说着，向我转了转眼珠。“她已经在路上了。”她又补充了一句，同时轻轻把我推向门口。
“有什么重要的事情吗？”出门时我问道。
“理查德·鲁伊斯想要和你吃晚饭。”她跟在后面对我说，“还有，我告诉过你，丽兹和艾伦马上要见你呀？”我加快脚步，清醒地意识到我很可能有要招一顿痛骂。
自从与勒斯特姆传媒那一段极短的蜜月之后，每个星期至少有这么一次。交媾之后的欢愉还没有到一个月，我的新老板们就开始督促我“改变方法”，同时“提高广告业务”。
开始时，他们全都情绪高涨，尽拣好听的话说：“呀，呀，我们是一个团队，我们是最好的，而且会好上加好”。
他们往我身上砸钱，好像他们就是印钞机似的。而我，有着自己的财务预算，包括买衣服，搞装饰，应酬和娱乐，多的几乎用不完，甚至我的下属们也可以每月花费“十二个工作午餐”。他们可以选择从日本料理到上等牛排等任何食品，如果工作人员过生日，我们可以开最好的香槟并从城里最好的糕饼店定蛋糕。如果是资深职员，诸如凯西，还可以有一份精致的礼物，如名牌钱包之类的东东。你觉得我的办公室看起来是不是有些单调？他们会让我找一个室内装潢师把它打扮得整洁漂亮。而且，我甚至还找了一个风水专家当顾问，嘿嘿。如果在圣诞节收到很多礼物，我是完全可以雇三辆轿车把他们送回家的。不就是80美元一小时的车费么，没什么了不起的。勒斯特姆传媒的编辑要上巴黎开会么？“坐协和式飞机好了，犹豫什么”。公司董事长沃德汉姆会如此说：勒斯特姆传媒的编辑，是从来不会坐经济舱的。
当然，享受这些待遇是有条件的。不久，这种团队精神以及“鬼才稀罕钱”的态度，就变成了一种毫不掩饰的“为我们赚更多的钱，懂吗，践人？”的嘴脸。当广告量未能打破世界记录时，每隔一天，我就会被迫接受一件破事儿，或削减预算，或是创立新系统。如果我想重拍一张封面，我必须乞求，要不就只好用些很一般的照片凑合，因为勒斯特姆传媒不肯花钱。以前那些可以在杂志上加点噱头的事，诸如用两种封面，或者加一个花俏的折叠封面的日子，是一去不复返了。而我现在，必须为这些“奢侈品”而抗争。不过，《时尚》杂志是无须考虑他们的花销的，有时候我真怀疑，削减《吉儿》的经费就是为了补偿《时尚》杂志的铺张。不过，我还是尽努力克制一些消费习惯，注意开支，不让人抓到把柄。同时，我总是耐心地听我的两位女上司的喋喋不休，让她们感觉是在帮助我。之后，我依然我行我素。毕竟，《吉儿》杂志的封面上是我的名字而不是她们的。
唉，有时真的很怀念那些无忧无虑、没人管束的旧时光呵。
巧妙躲过两打言语流弹，我溜进了时装间。里面有各种各样的免费的东西，而拍完时装后留下的服装道具，简直就像上帝送来的救急用品。我走进去，关上门，迅速脱下我的彪马鞋，牛仔裤和汗衫，让这些东西在地上堆成一堆。然后在衣架上快速搜寻，找到一件深蓝的合身短裙。这正好，我想。正当我要穿上时，门忽然开了。美术编辑斯文走了进来。
“我们必须谈谈十二月的时装设计，”他说，“如果罗莎丽欧找不到更好的人选，我可以在凯蒂·汉森身上下点功夫。”
我不高兴地把手放在臂部上，站在那里，只穿着胸罩和短裙。“等会儿，斯文，”尽管身上穿得很少，我还是尽量保持镇静。时间一分一分地过去，我可不想给丽兹和艾伦更多朝我发脾气的理由，
“请不要再提凯蒂·汉森的事，”我给他一个请求的眼神。
我很喜欢他，但眼下我有比一个封面模特更重要的事情要做。斯文仍呆着不走，还施展起他的欧式魅力来，
“要是我们做一些与她形象完全相反的事呢？”他继续说，“比如一个有风味的裸体，让她两手护着胸部，我可以用高光清晰照，怎么样？”
“不行”。我说：“我不能因为你想看她的乳房，就让凯蒂·汉森上封面。况且，我们已经收到不少投诉，说前几期杂志里有太多的乳房。”
斯文有着欣赏女人身体的好眼力，不过我想，是不是有点儿过火了呀。我并不反对在杂志里有裸体，但我认为，大多数女人并不喜欢每隔一页就看到34号的完美丰胸。
被我这么一说，斯文只好放弃。不过，他仍然站在门口，耸了耸肩。
“随你便吧。”他说。
我很快穿上一件粉红，有紫色酱果和条纹的安娜·苏衬衫。找到一双合适的D&G鞋，侧身穿过高大、金发碧眼的斯文，走进造型屋。我梳理了一下我那如卷毛狗般蓬乱的金发，对我的黑色发根咧了咧嘴。然后涂上口红，抹上粉，自己在镜子里看了眼，感觉不错。现在，应该可以去见那两个“双头怪”了。
“双头怪”那是我为艾伦·卡特尔，勒斯特姆传媒的CEO和丽兹·亚历山大，《吉儿》杂志的新出版人起的绰号。打个比方，如果说玛莎·斯图尔特，姐妹会和派克大街有三角关系的话，艾伦·卡特尔就一定是这种关系下的私生子。她有着那种富家的、金发碧眼的、爱学习却十分乏味的，象牙塔学校女生的气质。就像是上流社会的模子。她就像曼哈顿时尚媒体圈里，一朵特别扎眼的花。不过，她倒是很聪明，深知人们吃软不吃硬的道理。自然，她也很会经营自己，在诸如窃取不属于她的信誉等等方面，表现得尤其出色。在勒斯特姆传媒之前，她曾在《魅力》杂志任职，圈里的人都这样议论她。自从她自称通过她的努力，而使《魅力》杂志的广告盈利翻了四倍之后，她便成了《时尚》杂志圈内，名副其实的笑面虎。
艾伦刚来时，我确实对她有好印象。她曾很努力地和我搞好关系，我甚至私下里想象跟她有点儿碰出火花的感觉。在她职业强人的外表之下，她甚至显得有些不守规矩。比如她曾跟我说过，她本人曾到过我家附近的一家性虐待夜总会。你一定会说我真是糊涂透顶，才会认为我与她会处的很好。是的，现在看来，的确如此。
丽兹·亚历山大是艾伦在《魅力》杂志的第二把手。之前，她也是艾伦在《喜乐》杂志的二把手。多年以前，这一对儿开始创业，一起办了一份有关食品的季刊，它现在已经不存在了。丽兹有着棕红色的头发，象别针一样直，像艾伦的头发。她还有一双冰冷刺人的绿色的暹罗猫一样的眼睛。总是以怀疑的神情盯着人。有时，还真是让人感到害怕。丽兹也有一种让人臣服的素质。不过，几周之后，我就看出她这种素质，远远不及艾伦老练。从我接触她的第二天起，我就已经知道必须提防丽兹使坏了。
丽兹有一种特定的，“我比你尊贵，在我面前放规矩点儿”的态度。她很快就与我玩起权力游戏来。比如，我打电话给她时，她从不亲自接电话，而是让她的助手接电话，询问我是什么人，然后再决定接不接。如果她要打电话给我，她也要让她的助手先拨通，然后让我“等着丽兹”。丽兹自己却从不拿起电话。然而，在她的助手第三次让我拿着电话等丽兹时，我打断了她，告诉她我没时间等任何人。如果丽兹想要打电话找我，让她自己直接打好了。要我们需要会面时，我们之间总要玩点儿猫与老鼠的明争暗斗。丽兹总是要我到她办公室去见她。但过了一阵，我偶尔也会让她到我办公室来见我，特别是她要谈的事情牵涉我的工作人员时。我知道这很幼稚、愚蠢、无聊，但是对于喜欢这种无聊叫春的猫，就应该让她闻闻自己的猫屎臭。
想着最近与丽兹和艾伦不愉快的交谈，我就急急忙忙地冲出玻璃门，几乎被那复印纸盒绊倒。电梯门正在关闭，我急忙跨过去，伸手按住了按钮。
“谢谢”，我有点不好意思地挤入人群。
就在我准备按下33楼的按钮时，才意识到这是个下行的电梯。
真是倒霉！
等电梯到了底层，我站在电梯门外，不好意思地笑着让每一个人进来，然后再进去。我疯狂地按下关门按钮，以便能加快电梯的启动。这次总算没有白费功夫。
好不容易到了33楼，我走出电梯，做了个深呼吸，对接待员挤出十分自信的微笑。“我要见艾伦，”说这话时，好像这是家常便饭似的。而事实上，我的心里忐忑不安……
注：小说《吉儿》即将由广东出版集团出版发行，敬请关注。
附英文原文：
Within a second, Casey was in my office looking me up
and down with her big brown doe eyes. She shook her head.
“Of all days for you to arrive looking like Mary-Kate Olsen
dressed you,” she said, referring to my ratty jeans and my
stretched-out, extremely vintage yet very comfortable V-neck
sweater. “Get to the fashion closet and the beauty closet,
now.”
“Oh, shit,” I said. ！
“Yeah,” Casey confirmed. “Liz’s been calling all morning.
She—and Ellen—want to see you right away. Like, half an
hour ago.”
I trusted Casey’s urgency. She was always looking out for
me. Even though she was a few years my junior, in her early
thirties, she had a wise, motherly way about her, which contradicted
her hip, petite, girlish looks. The best thing about
Casey was that she was extremely grounded. She worried for
me, put out fires, cleaned up messes, played my “bad cop,”
and only occasionally broke a sweat. She was also one of my
few confidantes, and her sardonic sense of humor never failed
to cheer me up, even on the most dire occasion. Somehow,
she was even able to juggle raising two kids in addition to
taking care of me. And sometimes I thought she could read
me at least as well as my husband.
FALLING OUT OF FASHION 5
My phone rang insistently. Casey picked it up. “Yes, Liz,
she’ll be there in just a few minutes,” she said, rolling her
eyes. “She’s already on her way,” she added, giving me a gentle
push toward the door.
“Any important messages?” I asked as I headed off.
“Richard Ruiz,” she called after me. “He wants to have
dinner. Oh, and did I mention that Liz and Ellen want to see
you now?”
I picked up the pace, fully aware I was most likely facing
another ass chewing. I’d been getting at least one a week
since the incredibly brief honeymoon period with Nestrom
Media had ended. The postcoital glow hadn’t even lasted a
month before my new bosses began to lay into me about
“making some changes” and “getting those ad numbers up.”
At first, they were all spirit—“rah-rah, we’re a team; we’re
the best and we’re going to get better.” They threw money at
me like they were printing it themselves. I had a budget for
clothing, primping, dining, and entertainment that seemed
near impossible to spend. Even my staff members were allowed
to expense “twelve working lunches” per month, when
they would binge on everything from sushi to porterhouse
steaks. If someone on staff was having a birthday, corks from
the finest champagne would pop and cake would be delivered
from the city’s finest bakery. If it was someone senior enough,
or someone like Casey, I’d be able to expense a very nice gift,
like a Prada wallet. My office looking a little drab? They allowed
me to hire an interior decorator to spruce it up, and I
put a feng shui expert on the tab while I was at it. If I received
a lot of swag at Christmas, I could hire three cars to
take it all home. They were only eighty dollars an hour, after
all. Did a Nestrom editor need to hop to Paris for a meeting?
“Take the Concorde, for Christ’s sake!” T. J. Oldham, the
company’s chairman, would say. Nestrom editors never, ever,
ever flew coach.
But of course, there were enormous puppet-like strings at
6 Karen Yampolsky
tached to all of it. Soon that team spirit and devil-may-care
attitude with money devolved into a far less subtle, “make us
more money already, bitch” attitude. When the ad numbers
weren’t breaking world records, every other day I was subjected
to a new mandate, budget cut, or system to implement.
If I wanted to reshoot a cover, for example, I now had to beg
for it, or use mediocre shots because Nestrom wouldn’t want
to spend the money. Long gone were the days of adding bells
and whistles to an issue—like releasing two different covers,
or including a flashy fold-out cover. I now had to fight for
such “extravagance,” as they would call it, while Fashionista
never seemed to have to fret about any expenditure. (Sometimes
I even suspected that cutbacks were made to Jill to compensate
for Fashionista’s elaborate spending.) But I took it all in
stride, curbing my habits a bit, too, being a little more conscientious
about my spending, when expenses for the whole
magazine—and staff—were suddenly scrutinized. I listened
patiently, letting the suits feel that they were contributing
something, then did what I pleased. After all, my name was
on the cover, not theirs.
Nostalgia for the careless, decadent “old days” still plagued
me as I dodged two dozen verbal bullets before I finally hit
the fashion closet. Full of cast-off freebies and fashion shoot
leftovers, these closets were godsends in emergencies like
this. Stepping inside and closing the door behind me, I ripped
off my Pumas, jeans, and sweater, leaving them in a heap on
the floor. I rifled through the racks, coming upon a navy blue
Marc Jacobs skirt in my size. That would do, I thought. As I
began to pull it on, the closet door swung open. Sven the art
director stood in the doorway. “We have to talk about the
December fashion layout,” he said. “And if it ends up that
Rosario can’t get anyone better, I think I can do something
with Katy Hanson.”
I defiantly put my hands on my hips, standing there with
nothing on except my lacy pink bra and the Marc Jacobs
FALLING OUT OF FASHION 7
skirt. “Later, Sven,” I said, in my best I’m-in-charge-here voice,
despite my scanty attire. The minutes were ticking away, and
I didn’t want to give Liz and Ellen any more reasons to get
riled up. “I promise. And drop the Katy Hanson thing,” I
added, giving him a pleading look. I loved him dearly but I
had bigger issues to deal with at the moment than our next
cover model.
Sven still lingered, turning on his European charm. “What
if we did something completely against her image?” he pressed.
“A tasteful nude, perhaps, with her hands obscuring her breasts.
I could light it like a Mapplethorpe. What do you say?”
“No,” I insisted. “I’m not putting Katy Hanson on the
cover just because you want to see her boobs. Plus, we’ve already
got a ton of letters complaining about the abundance
of breasts in the last few issues.” Sven definitely appreciated
the female physique. A little too much, I’d say. I didn’t mind
skin in the magazine, but it was my opinion that most women
don’t want to see perfect 34-Cs on every other page.
With that he gave up, yet he still lingered in the doorway.
“Suit yourself,” he said, shrugging.
I quickly pulled on a cranberry and pink, spiral-patterned
Anna Sui blouse; found an appropriate pair of D&G shoes;
and pushed past Sven’s tall, blond frame to get next door into
the beauty closet. There, I combed out my hair, which was
looking like a wet golden retriever’s pelt; grimaced at my
dark roots; made a mental note to ask Casey to get me in
with my colorist; and put on some lipstick and a swift paint
of mascara. I checked myself in the mirror. Almost decent. I
was ready to face the Stepford Twins.
That was my secret nickname for Ellen Cutter, CEO and
president of Nestrom Media, and Liz Alexander, Jill’s brand
new publisher, who had arrived shortly after the Nestrom
Media purchase. If Martha Stewart, Kappa Kappa Gamma,
and Park Avenue had a ménage à trois, Ellen Cutter would be
the resulting love child. She had that affluent, blond, bland,
8 Karen Yampolsky
studied ivory girl quality, a society carbon copy that made
her a bit of a wallflower in the hipper Manhattan media circles.
But she was smart, in a benign, conniving way. She had
a way of making herself look real good, and taking credit
where credit was not due—at least that was what the word
that had drifted over from Charisma, her last tour of duty,
was. Ever since her supposed efforts quadrupled Charisma’s
ad dollars, she was the industry’s reigning despot with a smile.
When Ellen first came on, I was impressed by her efforts to
get to know me and actually secretly imagined that she seemed
a bit starstruck. There were several lunches, a few postwork
glasses of wine, and a couple of events where we gravitated
toward each other. Underneath her WASPy exterior, she even
showed a bit of an edge, like when she admitted going to a
bondage club in my neighborhood. Was I crazy to think that
we could get along? It seemed so now.
Liz Alexander had been Ellen’s number two at Charisma.
She was also her number two before that at Joy! And the duo
even started out together, years ago, at some small food quarterly
that no longer exists. She had reddish brown hair, straight
as a pin, like Ellen’s, and piercing green, Siamese cat eyes, with
a stare that was always mistrusting, and sometimes downright
frightening. Liz also had a conniving quality, but as the weeks
went on, I found it wasn’t nearly as benign as Ellen’s. I knew
from about day two that I had to watch my back around Liz
Alexander.
Liz had a certain holier-than-thou, putting-you-in-your-place
attitude and she immediately started playing power games
with me. For example, she’d never pick up the phone when
I’d call. She would have her assistant answer, then grill me
about what the call concerned before she’d take it. And if Liz
ever called me, it was never directly. Her assistant would ask
me to “hold for Liz Alexander,” and Liz would never get on
the phone until she was certain I was on the line. But after
about the third time her assistant asked me to “hold for Liz,”
FALLING OUT OF FASHION 9
I cut her off and told her that I didn’t have time to hold for
anyone, and if Liz really needed to speak to me she could call
me directly herself. And whenever we met, there was a little
power play about who was coming to whom; Liz always
wanted me to come up to her office. But after a while I’d occasionally
insist that she come down to me, especially if the
meeting involved other members of my staff, despite her audible
sighs of protest. It was stupid, and catty, I know. But
catty people needed to be given a taste of their own kitty litter.
Dreading my latest interaction with her, and Ellen, I hurried
out the glass door, nearly tripping on the box of copy
paper along the way. An elevator door was just sliding shut,
so I jumped at it, sticking my hand over the sensor. “Thanks,”
I said sheepishly to the crowd inside as the doors slid open.
When I went to push the button for the thirty-third floor, I realized
I had gotten on an elevator going down.
Shit.
When I reached the bottom, I gave another sheepish smile
as I let everyone out and got back in. I frantically pushed the
“door close” button so I could have an express ride. For once,
luck was on my side.
When I finally arrived on the thirty-third floor, I took a
deep breath, stepped out of the elevator, and gave the receptionist
my most confident grin. “On my way to see Ellen,” I
said, as if it wasn’t a big deal at all. My stomach’s incessant
churning, however, betrayed the truth.
