Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 140874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
“I know you do. She misses you, too. I just hope that her pride…” She didn’t finish the sentence.
“There’s been so much change lately. I mean, good changes, too, obviously.” I shook my head and looked over at the photo hanging in the booth. A model styled strikingly to resemble Audrey Hepburn.
“Ugh,” Deja said, and I noticed her studying the print, as well. “I’m sorry, I get that it’s classic, but it is really overdone. If I had a magazine, I vow I would never run some ‘tribute to white Hollywood glamor’ bullshit.”
“Wouldn’t it be cool to race bend some of those images?” I mused. “Black Audrey Hepburn, black Marilyn Monroe.”
“No, Asian Audrey Hepburn,” Deja corrected me. “It’ll remind people how racist Breakfast at Tiffany’s is.”
“Ooh, good one.” I sighed. “Too bad we’re not in charge.”
It was like a bolt of lightning had hit the table between us. We stared at each other, wide-eyed, barely breathing.
“Can we…” Deja’s tongue rolled across her bottom lip. “Can we do that?”
I had the money. We both had the experience. And we both had spotty ethical pasts…
My ribcage swelled with decisive breath. “Yes, we can. We can do this.”
* * * *
I found Neil in the turret balcony, lying on the big double chaise longue. His black sweater and dark jeans broke the black-and-white striped pattern of the cushions. He glanced up from his Kindle when I stepped outside, but his eyes quickly returned to the words on the screen.
“You’re back sooner than I expected.”
“I have to admit, the helicopter is convenient.” I took a few steps toward him. The day was unexpectedly chilly, and the breeze coming off the sea made me glad I was wearing a cardigan. Neil, on the other hand, was sitting there in his bare feet. When he was immersed in a book, it was almost like he didn’t feel any physical discomfort. “You should have socks on, at least.”
“Thank you, Mother,” he said, never looking up, but a faint smile bent his mouth. “Let me finish this chapter, and I’m all yours.”
I hated to bother him while he was reading, but this was important. I walked over, the Birkin bag hidden behind me bumping my thighs with every step. I loomed over him a moment, then dropped the bag on his knees.
He looked up.
“I’m selling it.” I stood with my hands on my hips. “It’s going to auction. Deja has a connection at Sotheby’s.”
“You’re not still feeling guilty for buying it, surely?” He set his reader aside and pushed himself up.
“Well, maybe a little. But I am glad I did. Because it’s going to provide the capital for my new magazine.” I said nothing else and waited for the information to sink in.
Now, he was interested. He folded his arms on his chest, and one ankle over the other. “You have my attention.”
“A women’s magazine. Career stuff, beauty stuff, health, fashion, etc. Featuring all body types, all ethnicities, and absolutely none of this ‘trends guys love or hate’ bullshit. I want this to be a real women’s magazine. Not a magazine about women pleasing men.”
“So, less Cosmopolitan, more Ms.?”
I shrugged. “More like a bastard child of the two of them.”
He looked like he was considering the idea, and I quickly added, “I’m using our money to do this.”
“Oh, I assumed so.” He bracketed his chin with thumb and bent fingers, stroking his jaw absently. “I would recommend you discuss your budget and start up with our financial adviser, though.”
“I will.” This was the part he might not be all that enthusiastic about. “Deja and I are doing this. Together.”
“I think that’s a wise choice. Deja has worked in the industry long enough to build up a wealth of necessary contacts.”
“So…” This was a tough question, one I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to. But Neil had been in this business far longer than I had, and I needed to hear his honest opinion, which I could always trust him to give me. “Do you think we can pull this off? I mean, not as a hobby. As a real thing? Do you think we can do it?”
He scooted over so I could sit beside him. “I think you could do anything, Sophie. I really do.”
“That sounds like some generic ‘believe in yourself’ bullshit.” I had to call him out on it. If we didn’t keep this conversation a hundred percent real, I would always wonder, in the event that I failed, if he’d just placating me.
“No, it isn’t. I employed you. I know how hard you work. And I’ve seen your frustration over the past year when, with the exception of your book, you haven’t been working. You have the drive, and it sounds like you have a very practical idea.” He shrugged and slipped his hands into his jeans pockets. “I’m not going to tell you that you won’t fail. Starting a magazine, hell, even running one, is incredibly difficult. But you’ll have a lot of support, emotionally, practically, and financially. You have a good start. So yes, I think you can do it.”