Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,18
They stood, unmoving, waiting for more.
“Please come by and introduce yourselves.” I took a step backward to indicate that the show was over, crossing my arms so no one could see how badly my hands were shaking.
Si slipped away and Gina went to her office. Nobody else moved. At last a small round woman detached herself from the crowd. “I’m Robin.” She tapped my arm. “I’m the editor’s secretary. Would you like me to show you Gail’s office?” She went red and quickly corrected herself. “I mean your office.”
Unaware that she would be one of the most important people in my new life, I followed Robin gratefully down a hall. She motioned to a door, and I went through to a large, bright, windowed room. She indicated the seat behind the solid wooden desk and waited while I sat down. Then we studied each other.
She was, I thought, aptly named: With her bright eyes, small round body, and tiny feet, she reminded me of a plump little bird. “I’ve been working at Condé Nast for twenty years,” she chirped, “and I hope you aren’t planning on bringing in your own secretary.”
“I have no secretary.” I tried to decipher the look that crossed Robin’s face. There was relief but also something more elusive. Could it be triumph? Why?
Sporting a satisfied little smile, Robin began organizing the editors, leading them in one by one. They were polite. They were eager. They were desperately obsequious. But as they explained why they were all essential to the operation, my anxiety level rose.
“I’m very good at dealing with the teeosee,” said the first editor. I stared at her, wondering if I should admit that I had no idea what she was talking about.
The next was even more mysterious. “I’m a wizard with inadequate sep,” she announced. I felt a headache lodge itself behind my right eye. It did not help that I had a hard time telling them apart; they all seemed to be blond women with names ending in “y.” “I kept telling Gail,” said the next one—was she Hobby?—“that we need to enlarge our well.”
I pounced on the soothingly familiar word. “I’ll look into it,” I promised. “Good water is so important to a cook.” She looked confused, and I saw I’d gotten it wrong. Flustered and embarrassed, I tried for an ironic smile, hoping to imply I’d meant it as a joke.
Now Robin was towing a formidable-looking woman into the office: the executive editor. “I’ve always admired your work”—Alice Gochman embarked upon an obviously rehearsed speech—“and I’m looking forward to improving the magazine. I’ll work very hard to help you revamp Gourmet.”
I had to tell her the truth. “I’m sorry.” I hoped I looked as distressed as I was feeling. “I’m sure you’re a very important part of this magazine, but James Truman said I could bring in my own people. I don’t have many, but I do have someone I’m trying to persuade to be my executive editor. I’d like you to stay; surely we can find something for you in another capacity.”
The woman’s face shut down.
“I’m not sure Laurie Ochoa will come,” I temporized, “but we worked together for almost ten years at the Los Angeles Times, and we’re kind of joined at the hip. I’m hoping she and her husband will move to New York. But there’s a lot to do, and I’m sure we can find a job that will suit you.”
She was saying, “I’ll have to think about that,” when an assistant ran in, calling, “We have a serious problem with an adjacency!”
Caught off guard, I failed to control my face, and Alice immediately saw the truth. Her lips turned up in an involuntary grin. “Excuse me.” She rose gleefully from her chair. “I’ll have to go deal with that.” She walked off, a little skip in her step, the assistant trailing behind. Soon, I thought, the entire staff will know that the new editor in chief has never heard of an adjacency.
When the door closed behind them, I slumped across the desk, burying my face in my hands. I’d only been here an hour and already I was out of my depth. Gourmet felt like an alternate universe whose citizens spoke a language I did not understand. I needed a translator.
I peeked out of my office, thinking Robin might be able to help. But she was whispering into the phone. “And listen to this: She doesn’t even have a secretary!”
Humiliated, I tiptoed back