Titan West Wing
Damn alarm clock.
I should know better than to set it on a rap-metal station, but when Joanie's not here I cannot get up for shit. I break a nail smacking my hand against the clock and stuff my feet into a pair of frog slippers and run to get a shower.
Joanie took all of the hot water. Damn!!
I get out of the shower, shivering my ass off, then spend an hour trying to tame my hair into something that resembles a civilized lady's head. Actually, I should go to Marco's and get a trim, but I have to be at the office by seven.
Every single stocking I own has a run in it, so I opt for the Marlene Deitrich look and shove myself into a nice basic suit. Check the seams...make sure the tailoring looks OK...
Screw makeup; I don't have the time. I top it off with a locket Joanie gave me; it's a little aquamarine heart on a silken chain. I wear it all of the time and sometimes it doesn't even match my outfit, but people who bitch about my wearing it probably haven't ever been in love.
A knock at the door signals the arrival of my detail. I grab my Kate Spade bag and we're gone.
***
I drew Snow today, so I'm naturally subjected to the worst driving ever put on display in the District of Columbia.
"Don't run that yellow!" I scream at him, and just to prove how in charge he is, he applies the break an inch from a crosswalk..and we stop on a dime.
He smirks like the arrogant brat he is and says, "Princess, I know what I'm doing. I got your father out of that riot in Budapest, I can get you to the office."
"You destroyed an armored limo doing that!"
"Yeah, but no one was hurt." He points out, cutting around my office and going directly to the back of the building. There's a security guard waiting for us, just like every morning. He looks at Al's credentials, tilts his hat up with a smile, and adds "Good morning, Ms. McMahon." Then a barricade lifts and we're admitted into an underground parking lot.
It was a complete embarrassment to learn that they curtained off this particular lot for me when I agreed to take a position with the magazine. Daddy had to convince me that it was for my own safety before I agreed to accept their restrictions. But it's still strange, to be completely alone in an empty garage.
Al pokes me in the shoulder as we wait for the elevator. "What're you thinking about?"
I smile, half to myself, as the elevator slides open, "How I'm going to cut the entire fashion week experience down into 200 words.
***
I have a corner office, but it's a small one. I asked for it specifically, because it's not showy or ostentatious; when I see my brass nameplate every morning, it feels more like a homecoming than another day at the office.
There's something so satisfactory about finding everything in order every time I come back; my laptop is just as I left it; a picture of Joanie in her formals, staring down the camera, polished and perfect on my desk.
I sigh and sit back in my chair, contented by the huge leather seat as it cradles me. Then I flip open my laptop, retrieve my notes from my purse, and start work on my column.
Half of what goes on the page is directly taken from my notes; the key to my success is getting a good story out there to the public. I start out with a loose description of what the major designers put out on the runway; then I move on who showed up...what they were wearing...the prospects each designer has of getting some public recognition.
Flashing back to the Versache show, the main thing I remember is the super-skinniness of Donatella...and the fact that Chelsea Clinton showed up.
The press screamed for a photo op, so we were, of course, pressed into posing together. She's a tiny girl, with the blunt features of her father. We share a similar handicap, and yet I was twenty-one when my father was elected to office. She grew up in the White House; I, thankfully, didn't have to...
"Didn't we see Madonna?" Al asks me.
I snap the screen of my laptop down, "Stop reading over my shoulder! You know I can't concentrate when you do that..."
"You never notice the details," He complains.
"The details are your job. Mine's capturing the big picture."
"My job is to kill anyone who sneezes at you the wrong way," He replies.
"We didn't see Madonna," I reply, "She never shows up in DC." In fact, most of the celebrity activity at the DC shows are centered around the political arena; wives and political servants of all stripe drooling over one creation or another.
It doesn't take me very long to complete an article; usually half of a work day, with a bit of fine-tuning. Ocassionally, I fear that I'm simply being used as a celebrity cow in an attempt to raise circulation. Then I look at the magazine, which is all but centered around the personals section, and realize once again that I'm not the full focus of the universe.
When I check my watch and realize that it's four o'clock, my stomach twists painfully; I've missed lunch. I grunt to myself, running through the piece one last time; it's warped itself into a carefully-worded review of the week as a whole, reviewing in general the theme of each collection, standouts, and the general 'feel' of the upcoming season. At last, I email the entire thing to the editor; he can take it from there, and all-too-often simply does.
I close my laptop; there's a pile of mail in my inbox, but it can wait for another day.
"I didn't know Donatella was so interesting," Al remarks to me.
"Don't complain; I'm just as hungry as you are," I retrieve my purse and make for the door, "Want to get some Italian and wait for Joanie?"
"We're always," He snorts as we walk out the door, "Waiting for Joanie"
****
Al ends up ordering Italian for the three of us back at my townhouse; he finishes early and leaves quickly, and I spend most of the early afternoon staring at the door, waiting for Joanie's detail to be up.
I change into my pajamas; no point in dressing for someone who doesn't care enough to be on time. They're thick; flannel; by a designer whose name I can't pronounce.
Curling up on the sofa, I wonder how I've transformed. At sixteen, I partied like a madwoman; placed underneath the same harsh satirical light in the Connecticut press that the Bush twins were roasted under in a term previous to my father's. Mother recommended a stay in rehab, which, at the point of my eighteenth birthday, was probably the best idea. Initially, I only stayed sober to please my parents; then, to satisfy my own self-worth. The papers actually find every facet of my "past" more entrancing than my present as a lesbian fashion reporter.
When I turn the TV on, there I am; on Extra, embracing Chelsea; on the news, appearing at a charity banquet in my father's stead; on Inside Edition, in a mug shot from my sixteenth year. On Entertainment Tonight, in a feature about lesbian power couples.
All of these facets are me, and yet I don't feel them as part of myself; just pieces of a public mask that everyone has seen.
Suddenly, the front door opens, and there stands my lover. "God, it took forever for David to get there!" She shucks off her coat and watches my face. "We're all over the set again, aren't we?"
"I'd say so." I point to the screen. She kisses my proffered hand; I'm too tired to stand. In the silence, she finds our food and begins to eat.
It's odd; how much of my life is now hers. How much I really love her. And sitting in the silent glow of our own light, watching the comparisons plays out through the perky voice of Mary Hart. Our situation is so unique that I can't think of one single "out" member of any past First Family.
My lover smiles, tiredly, and offers me a meatball.