A mysterious smile greeted her. “Oh, I believe so. You are an open book.”
“Let’s hear it, then.”
“If you insist.” Elena examined Maddie’s face. “I suspect, in order of desire, you require: love, approval, career success, and stability in all areas. The latter is probably why you were not in love with New York. You were too far out of your comfort zone. Possibly, you desire a pet. I’m thinking a cat—something cute and snooty.”
Maddie loaded up her fork and shook her head. “No cats. Allergic. I also have an unfortunate habit of killing goldfish. And dogs need walking all the time, and one of us doesn’t have a housekeeper to do that. So…no pets in my immediate future.”
“And the rest?” Elena dug her fork in for a stab of the cake.
“I’d dispute the order of wants, perhaps, but it’s pretty accurate—as it would be for everyone, even you. I mean, it’s obvious you want success, so no contest there. And, come on, if you were dumped far enough out of your comfort zone, you’d crave stability, too. That’s not just me. Of course, you also require love and approval. Who doesn’t?”
“No,” Elena said, voice firm, “I don’t require approval. And love is highly overrated—as was proved today. Or whatever it was I had with Richard.”
Whatever it was? Maddie would have loved to have gotten to the bottom of that comment. Instead she just chuckled at Elena’s absolute certainty. “Come on, sure you want love. Who doesn’t? Even approval—but I think you just pretend you don’t better than most. Be honest.”
Elena sighed. “Our word for the day. On that note.” She pulled out her phone and pushed a button. After a beat she barked, “Felicity? Email me a J11 form immediately.”
Maddie licked her fork, as her boss hung up and then dialled another number.
“Maxwell, Elena… Yes, I do know what time it is,” she said, almost purring into the phone as she watched Maddie eat.
Maxwell had to mean Max Giles, Bartell Corp’s chief financial officer. That was a very good sign that Maddie wasn’t about to be offered peanuts again. She chewed slowly, listening.
“A very good reason,” Elena continued. “It’s about a large, unbudgeted editorial payment I wish to make. I’ll text some numbers through to you so there are no mistakes. Call me back when you get it. And before you ask, yes, it’s worth it.” She ended the call, lowered her phone, and tapped out some figures.
Maddie caught a glimpse of the text just before Elena hit Send. She choked on her cake. There were six figures. Six figures. With zeroes. Many, many zeroes.
Tiny bits of chocolate cake sprayed across her plate, and Elena stalked behind her and slapped her back soundly, as her phone rang.
“Max? No, it’s essential,” Elena said without missing a beat, as though Maddie wasn’t flailing about in front of her. “A story we cannot pass by. It’s unprecedented.”
Elena walked to the fridge and returned, placing a bottle of water in front Maddie. “No, that is not all,” she said after a series of shocked verbal eruptions came from the phone.
Maddie cracked the bottle’s seal.
Elena returned with a glass and placed it in front of Maddie, barely looking at her. “I want to redo the next issue of Style globally—yes, every issue in all five countries—and drop in a new twelve-page cover story in time for Australian Fashion Week.”
Maddie choked again, this time in shock, and Elena’s amused gaze drifted to hers. She gave her a slow, feline smile, revealing how much she was enjoying this.
“Yes, I’m aware of that, but we both know they don’t actually print until midnight tomorrow, so you won’t have pulping costs, just overtime. Mm. Correct. We will be able to recoup the costs from onselling the story to international publications in countries that don’t sell Style. You will quadruple circulation for the next two issues; I stake my reputation on it. Just tell me you can do this. Tonight. Yes.”
Her phone pinged with an incoming message. “I believe I have the freelancer release contract, so I hope to seal the deal shortly and will send it to you and Tom tonight. Give him a call and let him know it’s coming, would you? All right. We’ll talk soon.”
Elena closed her phone. She opened the text message she’d sent to the CFO and showed Maddie the screen. “That is—honestly—my best offer. It includes global rights for your story and exclusive, first use of all your Duchamp photos. It’s higher than we’ve ever gone before—for anyone.”
Maddie stared at the sum, feeling numb. It beat anything she’d even remotely had in mind. That was a life-changing amount. She shot Elena a mischievous look. “Would Emmanuelle offer more?”
Elena’s mouth twisted in distaste. The silence dragged out. “Yes,” she said, as though someone was ripping her fingernails out. “I believe she would put an extra thirty thousand in. Possibly forty, if fiscal madness seized her. But she has a little more wiggle room on overheads than I do.”
“I see,” Maddie said. “Thanks for the honesty. So why would I go with Style, if it’ll cost me forty grand?”
Elena returned to sitting beside her at the counter. She considered the question. “Well, you know us. You know that my team and I would never distort your words or images in the editing process. I would ensure that you’d have a final say on the last draft. I’ll make sure that’s in the contract. You know my commitment to quality. And you know my reputation—it is well deserved. I expect the best, because I produce the best.”
“But you’re not the best anymore, at least not in Australia,” Maddie argued, playing devil’s advocate. “CQ is the leading fashion magazine in this country, right now, and at least half the story is about Australian Fashion Week.”
Elena’s jaw worked, as she seemed to digest that unsavoury statement. “Yes,” she said tightly. “But Style is the leading fashion magazine in the world. You’d get more readers total, just fewer here.”
“What if I didn’t want to sell to a fashion magazine at all? I have quotes for a terrific profile. I’m sure Vanity Fair, Rolling Stone, Time, and many other general mags would buy my story. I’d reach an even wider audience.”
“Yes. You likely would. But not a passionate audience. You would not reach people hanging off your every word, desperate to know more. You would not reach Véronique’s ardent followers. But let’s say you went with a mainstream magazine—do you know them? Trust them? Would you feel comfortable ringing up their editor and saying you hate what they’ve done with the layout and they have to drop the third photo on the eighth page, because you just don’t like it?”
“Elena, I wouldn’t feel comfortable saying that to you now.”
“Hmm.” Elena paused for a moment. “But you would say that to Perry, yes?”
Maddie nodded.
“So, that settles it. If you chose us, Perry would be your liaison. As art director, I’d want him involved anyway. His design eye is unmatched. And I’ll have our best senior editor help you with our in-house writing style.”
“Is all that worth forty-thousand dollars?” Maddie asked.
“CQ’s Australian Fashion Week issue went to the presses yesterday. Its next issue will be in a month. Your story would lack currency, if you had a series of photos about a fashion line that had already been photographed on the runway and seen on every blog and newspaper in the world. Your exclusive value would then only lie in the interview and the novelty of the photos, without their news value. You and CQ would look downright late to the party and silly. It would make you appear far less impressive. I wish you to be spectacular.” Elena smiled and reached for her hand, covering it. “Let’s be spectacular together.”
God. Maddie was having a hard time resisting that combination of words and smiles. And now touch? Elena’s fingers squeezed Maddie’s and released them. Maddie’s heart thudded like the pathetic organ it was. She doubted her business brain could withstand the onslaught of Elena Bartell in full charm-offensive mode, either.
“I forsee a two-part series,” Elena began with a flourish of the same hand that had briefly clasped Maddie’s. “Twelve pages this issue, just on fashion week content to whet the readers’ appetites. We’ll tease them about the next issue, which will contain twenty pages on the life and times of Véronique. I assume that’s all covered in your four-hour interview?”
“Yes. Everything—right down to her milking cows in the late eighties. Badly.”
