Falling Out Of Fashion

by Karen Yampolsky

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

In the bestselling tradition of The Devil Wears Prada, Karen Yampolsky's hilarious, disarmingly candid debut goes deep inside the glossy, glamorous, and completely ruthless world of magazine publishing, where bitchiness and betrayal are always in vogue. . . Jill White always dreamed of the day when she would start a magazine of her own that would feature smart, witty, real women with aspirations beyond tinier thighs and shinier hair. That day has finally arrived--and Jill magazine is a huge hit. When mega-successful Nestrom Media takes over Jill's parent company, The Nestrom suits are panting with admiration for both Jill and Jill. But the ashes from the postcoital cigarette have barely hit the floor before Jill's new bosses start barking about getting ad revenue up and toning down articles like "His penis is not a toy. . .or is it?" in favor of fluff pieces with the reality star du jour. What smelled like team spirit devolves into a bitter game of backstabbing. Ellen Cutter, the blond, bland, Bergdorfed CEO of Nestrom Media, and Liz Alexander, Jill's publisher (and Ellen's conniving sidekick) are suddenly aligned against Jill, making her life a living hell. Reluctant to quit or to watch as her baby morphs into yet another cheesy rag, Jill fights back, even as Ellen and Liz plot her next move for her. With everything on the line, Jill realizes mean girls don't get left behind in high school--they grow up and work in publishing. . . "Magazine junkies who remember the original Jane will devour this cheeky roman á clef." --Publishers Weekly "Worth reading. . .you get your fill of backstabbing fashionistas." -- E! Online Karen Yampolsky, a graduate of New York University, has spent the past eighteen years working as an Executive/Personal Assistant to high-profile executives in the media and entertainment industries, including a nine-year stint at Jane Magazine as the right-hand to the Founder & Editor-in-Chief, Jane Pratt. She lives in Westchester County, New York, with her husband and two children.

Release date: June 1, 2008

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 284

Sample

Jill’s Ad Pages Suffer 10% Decline

—AdAge, October 2004

It started like any typical workday. At about ten minutes past noon, I chugged the last drops of my Diet Coke just as the elevators opened onto the eighth floor. I had forgotten my ID and had already been subjected to everything but a cavity search by building security. So I was relieved to see that the usual box of copy paper was propping the glass door open. The eighth floor didn’t have a receptionist, so if the box of copy paper wasn’t there, I’d have to call someone to let me in. Not a big deal, but I liked to keep my arrival into the office as inconspicuous as possible. Which, in actuality, was impossible. It was impossible due to “the walk.”

Because of the layout of the floor, there was no way for me to get to my office without being accosted by nearly every staffer along the way. Not that I had anything against my staffers—most of them I really liked. But “the walk” was just a ritual that made the act of getting to my office, and then actually getting some work done, an even longer, more drawn-out, time-consuming process than it already was.

I suppose I could avoid the problem by getting into the office before anyone else. Which meant before 9 A.M. Which was completely, absolutely out of the question. It’s not that I was a total diva about early mornings; it’s just that after benefits, parties, and late-night live television interviews—all to keep the magazine’s PR profile up—combined with my lovely insomnia problem—I needed a few extra hours of sleep in the morning.

So to deal with “the walk” as graciously as possible, I sometimes liked to picture it as a “red-carpet” kind of walk. Celebrities who arrive at the Oscars, for example, don’t stop and chat with every person waiting on the sidelines. Otherwise they would never make it into the ceremony. But they oh so nicely blow them off, cheerfully waving and smiling, stopping only to offer a brief pose or sound bite.

So I put on my best red-carpet smile, pulled open the glass door, and started “the walk.” As I approached the sea of cubicles, I imagined the alt-funk blaring from a staffer’s radio to be sweeping orchestra strings. I pictured the unflattering fluorescents to be bright spotlights. And instead of must, dust, and rotting lunches, I tricked my nose into believing that the stench in my trail was some A-lister’s expensive French parfum. The cluttered stacks of CDs, books, and back issues became ivory pillars, lining the way. But the Sharpie-defiled Britney Spears poster plastered near the conference room…that always stayed in the picture, ensuring that my red-carpet smile stayed in place.

I know it’s all a terribly egotistical fantasy, but the illusion amused me. And it gave me my game face—the jeez-Jill-is-so-pleasant-and-cool-and-in-control visage behind the smile. I needed it so much more now, since our managing editor recently had jumped ship. Without her, I had a lot more work and…one less barrier from the accosters.

Their barrage began.

“Jill! Will you be able to look at my copy today?”

“Jill! What do you think of this as a ‘Hoax’ for the March issue?”

“Jill! Do you think I’ll be able to get your approval on this layout? It ships tonight.”

I sailed on, smiling, responding in rapid fire. “Heeeeey. Hi. Leave the copy with Casey. Yeah, good ‘Hoax.’ Later, I promise.” I practiced my Queen Elizabeth wave. The fantasy was especially useful in making the utter crappiness of the floor melt away. When Nestrom Media first bought us, we moved to the fifteenth floor, sharing it with Fashionista magazine. But that didn’t last long. I could tell by the fashionistas’ consistently disgusted scowls that they couldn’t bear our tattoos; piercings; cheap, multihued haircuts; and general slovenliness for long. Before I knew it, we were being kicked downstairs, shoved in a corner behind the cafeteria, between the supply guy and the check-cashing lady. Now it couldn’t be any clearer where Jill fit into the hierarchy of the Nestrom magazine empire.

Just a few more feet to go. And the onslaught continued. “Jill! Do you really want me to call back Katy Hanson’s people and tell her we’re not interested in having her on a cover? Really?!”

That one stopped me in my tracks, snapping me right into reality. It came from Rosario, the entertainment editor. “Yes, really!” I snapped.

“But her album just hit number one,” she halfheartedly pleaded. “And you said we had to start thinking a little bit more mass appeal for the covers.”

I looked at Rosario, her blue hair matted in all directions. She of all people should know better, I thought. She was a downtown girl—a dj, for crying out loud. I guess she misunderstood me in last week’s meeting. “I meant someone more along the lines of a…Jennifer Aniston,” I explained. “Definitely not a cheesy reality show winner. The only way that Katy Hanson would end up on one of our covers would be via a cover line reading 10 REASONS WHY KATY HANSON BLOWS.

With that, I continued making my way to my office when I felt a furry presence brush my ankle. I stopped again and stooped to pick up Ruggles, Kyra the photo editor’s dog. I had no choice but to make Ruggles the office mascot since Kyra brought her in every day, despite more than a few threatening letters from HR. I held the Yorkie to my face, expecting a kiss. But she just yipped at me. I sighed before I tossed her back on the floor. No matter how hard I tried, that dog just didn’t like me.

Casey, my assistant, perked up when she saw me approach. I gave her my best don’t-let-anybody-in look when I reached my office. She knew better than to join the conga line from hell trailing after me, and she usually waited for me to get settled before she confronted me with anything, no matter how urgent. I could tell by her exasperated expression, though, that she had some really pressing, and probably unpleasant, news.

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.

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 attached 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 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, 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,” 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.

Now it was time for my “Miss America” walk. I felt on parade as I glided past yet another sea of cubicles, but these cubicles were painstakingly neat with gleaming, polished wood trim. My heels sank into the plush, thick new carpeting, so I had to concentrate extra hard on walking without tripping. I held my head high, taking in the décor—original, signed masterpieces and sleekly framed covers of best-selling issues. I noticed that not a one of them was Jill.

Continuing my pageant stride, I nodded at Michelle, Ellen’s assistant, as I flitted past. “She’s expecting you,” she said dryly.

I gave a quick, assertive knock on the door and opened it before receiving a response. “Hey,” I said, as nonchalantly as possible, when I entered Ellen’s spacious lair.

Ellen was sitting at her desk, with Liz looming over her. They looked up in unison from the paper they were studying, as if they were some kind of pearl-wearing, two-headed monster.

“Please take a seat, dear. We may be here a while,” Ellen said, nodding toward the Eames chair placed on the other side of her desk. Ellen was my peer—thirty-eight years old at the most. So her sudden, condescending way of calling me “dear” made my skin crawl. Liz’s green-eyed glower on top of that made me want to jump right out of it.

Ellen adjusted the crimson hair band that kept her unmoving bob in place and perfectly matched her red sweater set. I noticed Liz had recently gotten her hair cut into the same severe lines, a style that said, “I’m not only frigid, I’m a control freak, too!” Though today she opted for an unflattering, diarrhea-colored cashmere turtleneck, Liz was also fond of sweater sets. Two bitches in a pod, I thought.

“Jill is in serious trouble,” Ellen started gravely, yet calmly. “Ad sales have been dropping.”

“Plummeting is more like it,” Liz added snidely. “Existing accounts are complaining about the recent content. And forget about getting new accounts.”

This was getting to be like Groundhog Day. We’d had this discussion before. I made my usual retort. “But circulation is up. Newsstand is up—”

Before I could even finish, Liz interrupted: “We’re talking about ad numbers, Jill.”

Fine, I thought. Let’s talk about ad numbers. I was the only one who was selling ads, it seemed. When I showed up on ad calls, I didn’t leave without closing the deal. Liz knew it. And so did Paul….

Where was Paul anyway? In the good old days, Paul Thomas, Nestrom’s creative director, would have been my ally, sticking up for me in situations like this. Now the Twins didn’t even invite him to meetings. Still, I thought of what he might say. “Are we approaching the right advertisers?” I asked. “And have these complaining accounts ever bothered to look at a copy of Jill? Do they understand what they are buying into? It’s not for everyone. It’s not supposed to be for everyone.”

“It’s not only the advertisers, Jill,” Ellen continued, giving me a cold stare. “Nymph Airways is upset about that stewardess story. They don’t advertise in Jill but their CEO is extremely well connected.”

Liz jumped in. “And Watley Brown is infuriated that you printed her photo shoot rider. Her publicist called Ellen last night and threatened to cancel all of her clients’ upcoming interviews and shoots for not only Jill but Fashionista, too.”

“Liz, you know as well as I do that publicists are full of shit,” I scoffed, knowing that the only reason they brought it up was that someone was pulled from their biggest title because of lowly Jill. “The minute she has a C-lister she needs to promote, she’ll be back. Besides, that’s what Watley gets for her ridiculous demands. I mean, two dozen lavender-scented candles? Peruvian peaches, pitted while facing east, cut into precisely half-inch squares, and marinated in honey? A six-pack of purified oxygen in ten-ounce cans complete with attachable face mask? That woman is insane! And the readers should know it.”

“That’s really beside the point,” Ellen continued evenly. “And we can’t change what’s been done. But I’ve been looking over the next issue’s cover.”

She pulled the layout from a folder and stood it up on her desk. She read from it in a halting, disapproving monotone.

“How to sleep with someone famous.” Long pause, accompanied by a tense glare from Liz.

“His penis is not a toy.” Pause after nearly choking on the word penis. “Or is it?” she finished. Pause. Glare.

Ellen continued, “Another reason not to quit smoking.” Another, even longer pause. Another, even longer glare.

“We need to tone these down, Jill,” Ellen said.

“Way down,” Liz echoed.

I knew how to play the magazine business game. It was all about ad sales; I knew that. But it was also about keeping expectations in check. And it was also about targeting the right advertisers for your publication. Jill was a niche publication, and when conceptualized, its circulation was never meant to be more than half a million. Eight years later, we even topped that, closing in on 800,000. And the advertisers, for the most part, understood that Jill wasn’t at all like the other glossies out there. Jill was unabashedly unapologetic about making young women feel good about themselves instead of pointing out their flaws. Jill had models of all sizes and color in its pages, not just the stick-figure heroin addicts the other publications favored. Jill favored subversive celebrities. And our core advertisers knew it.

“Come on, those are all obviously tongue-in-cheek. And what about our readers?” I asked. “Toning down the coverlines will alienate them.”

“Readers don’t buy ad space,” Liz said smugly. I wanted to strangle her by her string of pearls. She had no idea how to—or to whom to—sell the magazine. Not to mention that before she arrived the publisher, in essence, deferred to me. An editor at my level—with her own name on the magazine—should have the power to admonish the publisher. Liz apparently thought it was the other way around.

“I’m not saying you have to tone down the content,” Ellen said, softening a bit. Sometimes I thought she actually did get what the magazine was originally about. I thought about our onetime camaraderie. How did she get to the point of calling me “dear”? “But we do have to tone down the coverlines,” she went on.

“We…can’t…put…the…word…penis…on…our…covers,” Liz said in a staccato so tense I thought she wa. . .