Table 1 - The Fashionable Seats

The Meteoric Rise and Subsequent Demise of the Modern Girl

April 4, 2004, Toronto, Ontario
Violet sailed through the sanctuary anteroom looking fabulous, or should I say pretty? Pretty is the new fabulous. Her eyes scanned the crowd for the rest of us. She was dressed in navy. Pick your palette, stick to it and you’ll never falter. Her handbag and high-heeled boots were the exact shade of her narrow wool skirt. Monochromatic dressing provides visual relief, letting you dominate your look. I watched her for a bit before catching her eye. She was still lovely, if less polished. Her skin had thinned exposing the angles of her cheekbones more clearly. A slick of lip gloss was the only reference I could detect of her beauty editor past. She stilled briefly, glancing at the closed coffin in front. I felt rather than saw her quick intake of breath. She resumed her search for us. I raised my hand in a discreet wave. She saw it and looked at me, her expression warmed. Suzanne spotted her next and rushed over to hug her. Leslee and Nat clustered around. I waited my turn; after all, it had already been five years and the last words we’d spoken were angry.
I stepped forward as she grabbed at my hand. “Ton, Christ, this is like the opening scene in The Big Chill . . .”
“Except no William Hurt.” I responded.
“Hmm, hurt me, he was hot.” Nat agreed.
“Here everyone is shallower, but better dressed,” Leslee interjected.
“Speak for yourself, I feel positively dowdy in this suit. It’s two seasons old,” Suzanne responded, then added with a raised brow and fashionistas authority, “Still, it’s more respectful and funereal than an up-to-the-minute ensemb.” She looked at Nat. “It’s ghoulish buy a new outfit for a suicide.”
Nat’s a gorgeous French\Asian fusion, who would look hot in burlap, not that she’d ever wear less than designer ready-to-wear. She clicked her David’s heels on the parquet floor, and whispered, “Fuck off, I’d buy a new outfit for my own suicide, why not hers?” loudly. We all shrank visibly. She smoothed the fur trim of her dark chocolate suit and in a moderate whisper said, “Anyway, we’re not attending the suicide, it’s the aftermath, everyone is here.”
Violet smiled, falling into her old glib way of talking. Irreverence never stops being fashionable. “Ahh, the job angle, sweet. I can see the header now: Multi-tasking in The New Millennium, ‘When attending a funeral for a colleague, always look your best. The well-turned out attendee not only shows her respect for the departed, but impresses potential employers saddled with unexpected vacancies.’”
Leslee, Suzanne and I snickered, Nat just glowered. “Mock away ladies, I am at least more honest than the lot of you. Perpetua had a great job. And I, for one, would not mind replacing her.”
We circled in to shush her, as if at a dance. Nat rarely bothered to lower her voice on any occasion.
Suzanne poked her finger at Nat’s fur trim angrily, “Perpetua did not have a great job you twit, she was a great editor, our editor for a long time.” Suzanne was, as usual in a red button mood.
“Yeah, till she ditched us.” Leslee interrupted.
Suzanne continued, ignoring Leslee. “She would have a great job wherever she was because she would make it into a great job, that’s the difference between people who work for magazines and people who are the magazine.” Leslee started humming ‘O Canada.’
“You all have matured so much since MW,” I smiled at Violet. Modern Woman was the magazine we worked on over six years ago. I held myself separately because I’d been out of the business since maternity leave with my first born. Later that year we moved to Virginia, so my contact had been infrequent at best.
Violet nodded, “How many vultures do you think are here?”
“You mean, besides are own nest full?” She nodded again, “I dunno,” I replied, “Perhaps five hundred. From what I can tell it’s the entire magazine industry.
“All job hunters?” Violet smiled affectionately at Nat. Nat glared back.
“No,” Suzanne replied emphatically, “We all want to know why. Isn’t that why you flew back?” Suzanne raised an over-plucked eyebrow in Violet’s direction. Never pluck from the top when shaping your brows, angle from beneath to avoid the dreaded bald brow look.
Violet frowned and admonished Suzanne lightly, “I flew back to attend the funeral of someone who passed a lot of freelance work my way when I was starting out, who was my mentor, and who I spent endless hours of overtime with and apparently never really got to know.” then she looked at me and curled her lips to the side, “Why did she do it?”
I didn’t know. Suzanne was right, pious rationalizations aside, that was why we were here, that and of course, we were media, and she was media, which made this a media event. Perpetua was easily the most successful magazine editor in Canada, the Babe Paley of style and decorum, elegantly pretty and married to a surgeon, she had accessorized her 5000 square foot Rosedale home with four beautiful, blond girls, 5, 7, 9 and 10. The only odd step she’d made before this was spearheading the creation of Modern Woman. It was not the high end glossy title that most insiders would have assumed the high-end glossy Perpetua would invent. But then again, she bailed when the advertisers did and righted that error by producing Fashion Gate, a sexy oversized fashion/gossip vehicle more in line with everyone’s expectations.
I looked around. Not surprisingly the crowd was subdued. When faced with such earnestness as suicide, these people, paid for their frothy phrases, bon mots and ironic pith had little to say to each other. The absence of irony left them little language at all.
“Shit, Tonya. They’re here.” I looked up at Violet, she was a good six-inches taller that me, and in those boots she might as well be Magic Johnson. I followed her gaze and saw Perpetua’s girls file into the front pew. My chest tightened. My own little girl was now five, very blond, and exceedingly beloved. Leslee grabbed my hand, her little girl was eight. Suzanne and Rick had been submitting to I.V.F. for two years with no success. Nat and Violet remained childless by choice. Still, it was a bitch to see.
“Poor babies,” Suzanne whispered. Tears were already running down her cheeks. The hormones they pummeled her with each month to boost her fertility were taking a toll on her emotions, her marriage and of course, the people could let down her guard with, us.
“What the fuck was she thinking?” Even Nat was pissed. The kids really were gorgeous. I’d seen artful black and whites of them in Perpetua’s office many times, but in color they were startling. Blond with glacial blue-eyes, like Perpetua herself, they had a surreal quality of retouched perfection. More Cyan for the eyes, the eyes are the prime real estate of a cover.
“Never mind her, what is he thinking?” Violet gestured to the husband or widower, now, I guess. “Why drag them into this? Couldn’t they have avoided this public-ness?”
“They are going to speak too.” Leslee said quietly. “The three oldest are going to recite Pet’s favorite poetry. They’ve been practicing for weeks.”
Nat turned sharply to face Les, “She just did it five days ago.”
Leslee nodded, “She told them it would be their mother’s day present for her.”
My stomach felt like it had folded inside itself.
Suzanne motioned for us to sit down. The minister now stood at the front of the church. The service was to begin. We settled onto the cushioned pew. The older churches have all the perks. In my parents 1950’s Anglican Church everything was designed around blond wood and discomfort. St. James was a stunning cathedral built by Italian craftsmen nearly a century before - ancient in Canadian terms. Though Pet was a Catholic she spent as much time at St. James as anywhere else. She chose it no doubt, because of its central casting gravitas and elegance, the church stood disdainfully on King Street East, opposite the Saatchi and Saatchi advertising agency. A multi-taskers dream locale, Perpetua could meet with advertisers and flip a quick Hail-Mary on the way back to the office. Still it was Catholicism that suited Pet, impossibly high standards, abundant accessories. She had a different rosary for every business trip. A thought occurred to me.
“Hey I thought suicide was a Catholic no no?” I whispered to Leslee, who seemed the best informed of the five of us.
She shrugged, “That’s why were in an Anglican church – Catholic-light.”
A well-fed priest intoned from the altar, “Let us pray.”
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