Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,15

happy?

Suddenly I understood: He’d been afraid I was off to The New Yorker, GQ, or Vanity Fair. One of the important magazines. I sat up straighter. “Do you ever read Gourmet?” I asked.

He looked incredulous. “I don’t have time for food magazines.” The disdain in his voice was palpable.

“That’s exactly why I took the job. I plan to make a magazine you’ll have to have time for.”

“I wish you luck” was all he said.

Back at my pod, I dutifully dialed Maurie. “Get out, get out,” she commanded. “You don’t want to answer questions from the Times. It would be best if you came here.”

Condé Nast had not yet moved into the modern skyscraper that would transform Times Square from a derelict honky-tonk district into a squeaky-clean tourist attraction. The company occupied a venerable old edifice, which had started life in 1922 as the home of the Borden Company, but when Si moved his magazines in he’d given the place modern polish. As I walked east toward 350 Madison Avenue, leaving the still-gritty theater district behind me, the sidewalks became cleaner, the stores more elegant, the pedestrians better dressed. I passed Prada, Gucci, Chanel. Even the guards, I thought as I entered the lobby, looked classier at Condé Nast; their backs were straighter, their uniforms crisper, and there was not a paunch among them. As I waited for the elevator, someone who looked a lot like Graydon Carter strolled up. The editor of Vanity Fair fascinated me; he’d co-founded Spy magazine, where he’d invented wonderfully nasty nicknames for a host of people (Donald Trump was a “short-fingered vulgarian”), before transforming himself into a card-carrying member of the social elite. I studied him; with his wild mane and beautiful suit he reminded me of a superbly self-satisfied lion. In the research I’d been doing on Condé Nast, I’d learned that Graydon hired a private architect to design his office.

Maurie also fit so perfectly into this elegant atmosphere that the image I’d had of her instantly vanished. Blond and petite, dressed in cashmere, tweed, and diamonds, she reminded me of a miniature poodle fresh from the groomer. She placed the first call and to my discomfort stayed on the line, listening intently as I fielded questions from Keith Kelly. It was awkward having her listening in, but when I protested she insisted that this was common practice. One more reminder that I had just entered a new world.

Maurie dialed again, and again, and again; I hadn’t known there would be so many interviews, but I seemed to be doing okay. She never interrupted as I sat for what felt like hours, talking to the press. Between calls she tried to reassure me, offering a smile as conspiratorial as a wink. Now that I was officially on board, she acted like we’d been friends forever.

Around midday Si’s secretary called, and Maurie jumped as if a shot had been fired, manicured fingers making small shooing motions. “Go. Go. Go.” There was that smile again. “Don’t be afraid. Last time he called I was so terrified. Then I got to his office and it was worse: Steve Florio was there too! The owner and the CEO? I was positive I was being fired. And what did they do? Handed me the keys to a new car and thanked me for doing a good job.” She walked me to the door, practically pushing me out.

But Si did not have cars on his mind. “I want you to come to Gourmet’s offices on Lexington Avenue tomorrow morning.” The words, as always, emerged slowly, as if he could not bear to part with them. “The staff will want to meet you.”

“But I don’t start for three more months!” I’d agreed to stay at the Times while they sought my replacement, and as far as I was concerned the Gourmet job was off in the distant future. What was the point of meeting the staff now?

“Everyone in New York will be talking about this tomorrow! You must be introduced. It cannot wait.”

I had not anticipated this. Then I thought of Maurie’s time line and felt like a fool. The old editor of Gourmet was already gone; of course the staff would want to meet the new one.

* * *

—

OUTSIDE SI’S OFFICE another assistant pounced; she had clearly been lying in wait. “Mr. Truman wonders if you have a few minutes for him?” She pointed to another door.

“There you are!” Truman was on his knees unrolling a large set