Mama Mia Page 6

  I was so gutted to have my ambitions thwarted, I could barely look at her as she spoke but I’ve always remembered her advice. ‘As an editor, you have to be able to commission writers and if you haven’t had enough experience writing features yourself and editing other people’s, the writers won’t respect you and you’ll do a lousy job.’ Of course Wendy was right, although I couldn’t accept it at the time.

  Soon afterwards, when she appointed someone from newspapers to be Cleo’s deputy, I had a tantrum and threatened to resign. ‘Please don’t,’ she urged me. ‘I know you don’t want to hear this but I’m doing you a favour. One day you’ll be an editor and you’ll be commissioning me. I’m just trying to help you build those foundations properly.’

  She was right about that too, although it didn’t stop me feeling humiliated and pissed off. Eventually, I got over it. The new deputy was a journalist who really did have different strengths from Wendy and me—the key one being an attention to detail that was vital in a good deputy. I learned an enormous amount from both her and Wendy.

  It was a rough year for Wendy who never sat comfortably in the editor’s chair. She was not a Cleo girl and had never had aspirations to edit it. She had been conscripted into the role almost against her will. She was particularly uncomfortable with being the public face of Cleo and—unlike most editors today who cultivate their public profiles as part of their jobs—she cringed every time she saw her photo on the editor’s letter page.

  One month, a decision was taken to give away a condom with every issue but it couldn’t be stuck on the cover due to censorship restrictions. So it went inside the magazine, on the editor’s page.

  Unfortunately, when the magazines were stacked into piles, the weight caused many of the condom packets to burst open. The first we knew of this was a shriek coming from Wendy’s office. We rushed in to find her with a newly printed issue open on her desk at her ed’s letter. ‘Look! There’s a condom on my face!’ she wailed. And there was. When the plastic packaging burst, the condom slid on its lubricant across the page and onto Wendy’s face.

  Just another day at the office.

  A few months later, when Wendy announced she was leaving Cleo to edit another magazine, for a brief and hopeful moment I wondered if I might be appointed the next editor.

  Nope. ACP decided to bring home the Australian editor of Singapore Cleo to do the job. That was it for me. In an instant, I knew I was done. The new editor was about my age and had never worked on Australian Cleo. I felt humiliated and infuriated all over again. The disappointment was crushing. My dream was flushed away.

  This time, I did resign. At one emotional and irrational point I decided to abandon my magazine career altogether and go work for the RSPCA. It was the furthest thing I could think of from my ambitions to edit Cleo. ‘Hey, I love animals,’ I reasoned. ‘Animals won’t fuck me over like the magazine industry.’

  With Lisa and Wendy gone, I’d lost my mentors and the magic years I’d had at my favourite magazine were well and truly over. As I worked out my three-month notice period, the new editor tried to talk me into staying on as her deputy, but I wasn’t interested.

  Instead, I decided I was going to move to New York and get a job in magazines over there. ‘That will teach them!’ I thought spitefully, although who ‘them’ was was never clear, even to me.

  Anyway, I was twenty-three, single and had no anchor embedded in Australia that would preclude me from heading to the magazine capital of the world. I’d almost done it before. Two years earlier I’d gone to New York by myself to explore the idea and had taken a portfolio of my Cleo work. The head of America’s biggest glossy magazine company, Condé Nast, was an Australian called Bernie Leser, and while I was there I’d taken a chance and hand-delivered my portfolio to his office—unannounced—along with a handful of Caramello Koalas and a letter of introduction.

  Impressed by my chutzpah or perhaps just nostalgic for Australian chocolate, Mr Leser had his secretary call me up the next day and invite me in for a meeting. I told him I wanted to work in New York and named the magazines I believed I was best suited to. He organised for me to meet with the head of HR, who in turn organised meetings at Allure, Glamour and Self magazines and sent me to see an immigration lawyer.

  The message was the same from everyone. There was a good chance I’d secure a job but I had to be there, on the ground, living in New York with the right visa. It couldn’t be done from Australia. I had to take a leap and make the move before anyone would offer me work.

  At the time, I hadn’t been ready to take the risk and move to New York. Now I was. So I resigned from Cleo and made plans to go.

  At my farewell dinner at a Thai restaurant, Lisa came along to give the speech. I was chuffed. ‘Mia is a lot like a puppy,’ she said. ‘She’s full of enthusiasm and energy but every so often she’ll get over-excited and jump on the furniture and wee on the carpet.’

  I laughed a lot. It was a good night. I had Cleo closure. I was ready to make my name in New York.

  ENTER CUPID

  Voicemail to me from Kim:

  ‘Hi, it’s 4.30 and this shoot is so bloody boring I’m ready to top myself. I think the model is bulimic. She keeps running to the toilet and has really bad breath. And her eyes keep watering which is pissing off the make-up artist because he has to keep re-doing her mascara. The photographer keeps saying, “Don’t worry, we’ll fix it later with Photoshop,” but I really don’t see the point in fixing everything later; I want to fix it now. Oh wait, the model’s boyfriend just turned up—or is it her drug dealer? Oh God, just let this be over. Anyway, I can’t remember if I told you about lunch on Sunday. Casual at our place. Just a few people. I think you’ll know everyone. Karen is coming. And Andy. Bring a cossie. I’d better go. The photographer’s assistant is cracking on to my work-experience girl and she’s only fourteen. Speak tomorrow.’

  Having just emancipated myself from Charlie and the worst relationship of my life, I wasn’t looking to jump into a new one. Or was I? Being single has never been my natural state, it’s true. I wasn’t great on my own.

  One weekend, Kim and her boyfriend decided to have a Sunday barbecue and invited me along. I knew most of the people there, except for one.

  I was sitting in the garden when Jason arrived. I looked up and saw him standing on the balcony. He seemed instantly familiar. I knew we’d never met and that I’d never seen him before but it felt uncannily like I had.

  When it came time to eat lunch, he sat next to me and our conversation was easy and natural. My usual style when attracted to someone was to try too hard. I’d make a big effort to sparkle and be sexy; I’d flirt self-consciously and become intensely aware of every word and gesture.

  With Jason, it could not have been more different. It didn’t occur to me to flirt or try hard, nor was I aware of him flirting with me. I simply felt happy and relaxed, two things I’d never associated with burgeoning attraction. I do remember noticing how grounded he was, how quietly confident and comfortable in his own skin.

  After lunch, we all jumped in the pool and the afternoon passed in a delightful, mellow mix of swimming and talking and eating. When it was time to leave, Jason and a guy we both knew said they were going to the movies and asked if I wanted to join them.

  For an instant, the goat in me wanted to return to my track. I’d planned to go home and eat my comfort food of corn, tuna and rice in front of ‘60 Minutes’. Because I was so often ‘on’ in social situations, I needed to retreat frequently to the sanctuary of solitude. But something in me that day said ‘fuck it’, and to them I said, ‘Sure, why not?’ We went to see some gangster film and it felt very natural sitting next to Jason while we munched on popcorn together.

  Still, I didn’t really think about him that next week, which was also unusual for me. Normally, I’d try to engineer another meeting or analyse to death if, when and how he might call.

  The following Friday night, my friend Karen asked me to come with her to a
party. We went for a drink somewhere first and for reasons I can’t remember we were both grumpy. We then proceeded to bitch and snark and grumble and complain our way through the evening.

  We arrived at the party around 10 pm. ‘I just want to go home; I’m over tonight,’ I whined.

  ‘One drink and we’ll go,’ Karen promised.

  ‘All right, but I’ve got to get away from this bloody music,’ I shouted, making my way towards some couches. The first person I saw was Jason. He came straight over and led me to a quiet corner. And suddenly, I didn’t want to go home any more.

  A few hours later, we left the party together and he dropped me home in a cab.

  I woke up the next morning thinking about him. We still hadn’t even exchanged phone numbers but I knew he could get mine from Kim in a second.

  Sure enough, later that afternoon he called me and invited me out to dinner. After that, we pretty much moved in together.

  My relationship with Jason was unlike anything I’d experienced before. Naturally, it was intense and fast. That’s the only way I know how to do things. And he seemed equally smitten. Our pace and infatuation was in sync. Imagine that. But still, it was just so different from my other relationships.

  ‘He has a car!’ I marvelled to my friends. ‘And a wallet! And a job!’ I hadn’t dated a guy in years who had any, let alone all, of these things. One thing Jason didn’t seem to have was a bong. Was this possible? Indeed it was.

  I kept waiting for the catch but it never came. Our relationship was healthy and supportive. We were equally matched financially, intellectually and socially—we were both past the partying stage and happy to stay home. We were ambitious and close to our families.

  Within a month, our delighted parents had organised to meet each other for lunch. Our friends thought this was hilarious. Some of them had been together for years before their parents met.

  We seemed to be a great match. He was supportive of my career, interested in my friends, keen to meet my family. Within a month or two, his lease ended and we moved in together at my place. He was wary about this because he was very independent, but it seemed like the most sensible option and we were dying to live together. He did it on the proviso that he’d be paying for everything—bills, groceries, going out. This was new. I’d always been the responsible one, the nurturer. Who knew it was possible to have a mutually supportive and equal partnership?

  The physical, mental and emotional connection between Jason and me was extreme. I was giddy. In love. Deliriously happy. Besotted. Secure.

  So it was hardly a surprise when we bought our first house together. We’d known each other less than a year.

  DOING INTERVIEWS IN MY PYJAMAS

  Voicemail message to Tracey Cox, ‘sexpert’ and friend, from me:

  ‘Trace, help. Major dilemma. Only you can understand. I need to workshop my life over coffee. Any chance you’re free this arvo?’

  ‘What should I do?’ I asked my friend Tracey over a berry muffin and a cappuccino. ‘Really, what should I do?’ It was an insane question. I’d just been offered the editorship of Cosmopolitan. And I was dithering. It’s rarely easy being a Libran when you’re faced with a decision, but even for me this should have been a no-brainer.

  The correct answer, of course, was ‘grab it with both hands you silly moron’, but Tracey was circumspect, which is why I’d sought her counsel. She’d been Cosmo’s deputy editor but had left two years previously to concentrate on a new career as an author. Better than anyone, I thought, she could understand my reticence at the idea of going back into That Building and climbing back on the magazine treadmill so soon after jumping off it.

  Now that I’d fallen in love and had no immediate intention of moving to New York, I was freelance feature writing for a handful of women’s magazines including Marie Claire, New Woman, NW and Cleo. I had lots of work and after five years cooped up in a windowless office, I was relishing the freedom of working from home. Sort of.

  I began with excellent intentions and a strict set of rules. No daytime television. No spending the day in pyjamas. No bare feet.

  My fear about working from home was that it would turn me into a sloth and a slob. With no one to see me and fairly loose deadlines, it was highly likely. To counter this possibility, I made myself go to the gym each morning before returning home to shower, get dressed and blow-dry my hair. I put on make-up. And shoes. No ‘Oprah’. I never went out for lunch or coffee because I was fearful I might never return to my desk.

  This worked splendidly for a brief period. Soon enough, I was sleeping in and doing phone interviews for my articles from bed, sometimes with my eyes still shut, half asleep. This was bad. Also bad was my growing sense of isolation. It would be years before texting, email and the internet transformed the working-from-home experience. I was lonely. ‘This would be a great lifestyle if I had a baby,’ I thought most days. ‘But since I don’t, I’m just a bit…bored.’

  Once the novelty of not sitting in an office all day wore off, I discovered being at home alone all day made me a bit crazy. Life as a freelancer was more precarious than full-time employment and was a breeding ground for insecurity. I was terrified to say no to any commission in case I never worked again. When I’d submit a feature idea and didn’t hear back immediately—or sometimes at all—I’d become paranoid that the features editor hated it. And me. Invariably, it was just at the bottom of her in-tray and she didn’t have time to call me and discuss it. Magazine people are busy and don’t have time to stroke fragile freelance egos.

  All my friends were busy too—at work. They envied me for being my own boss but I was lonely at home which made me needy. When Jason arrived back from the office each evening, I’d greet him at the door. ‘What happened at work? Who did you see? What did you do next? Where did you have lunch? What did you eat? Then what happened?’

  I was desperate for information and conversation. For stimulation. For company. He was desperate for a little space so he could breathe at the end of a stressful day. It wasn’t an ideal combination.

  Overwhelmingly, I felt like I’d stopped running before I’d reached the finish line—the finish line being my ambition to become an editor. I was only twenty-four. Had I given up too easily?

  And then the new Cleo editor—having agreed to pay me a certain amount for a regular monthly feature—tried to cut my word rate. This infuriated me and provided the impetus I needed to go see the editor of Cosmo about doing some freelance work for her.

  For the first few months after leaving Cleo, this would have been inconceivable because I was fiercely loyal to the magazine I’d lived and breathed and loved and reluctantly left. After all those years of intense competition with Cosmo, it was hard to shake the sentiment that they were the enemy. Until Cleo fucked me over and suddenly, the enemy looked rather appealing.

  I went in to Cosmo expecting to talk about possibly becoming a regular contributor and came out with a job offer to be the editor.

  The current editor, Pat Ingram, had been looking to replace herself for some time. She’d edited Cosmo for many years and was taking on more responsibility with a new role as Editor-in-Chief of several of ACP’s women’s magazines. She told me she’d followed my work over the years I’d been at Cleo. ‘You know I’m looking for an editor,’ she said casually, after we’d been chatting for a few minutes. ‘What do you think?’ We’d clicked straight away—she was warm and smart and motherly—but her question absolutely floored me. In my myopic mission to edit Cleo before I turned twenty-five, I had totally missed the fact there was an almost identical magazine in the same company with a vacant editor’s chair. Duh.

  ‘I’m not really interested,’ I said quickly, without thinking. ‘I’ve just left ACP after five years and I’m not looking to come back right now.’ What I didn’t tell her was how much I’d loved Cleo. How my heart had been broken by Cleo. How it hadn’t occurred to me to jump into another relationship, I mean job.

  If Pat was surprised by my
response, she didn’t show it. Well within her rights to say ‘Get out, you arrogant little shit,’ instead she kept chatting with me about the two magazines, commissioned all the features I’d pitched to her and suggested I stay in touch.

  At home over the next few days, thinking about it more, it slowly dawned on me that I was nuts. I was being offered an incredible opportunity, one I arguably wasn’t even ready for. Editor of Cosmopolitan. And I’d turned it down flat. So I called Pat and asked if we could have another chat about it. We did. And then I called Tracey.

  ‘Here’s what you need to do when you can’t make a decision about something,’ she advised while spooning sugar into her long black. ‘Think to yourself, “Yes, I’m definitely taking the job,” and see which emotions immediately come up. Do you feel excited? Sick? Trapped? Happy? Spend half the day thinking that you’re going to do it and monitor how that makes you feel. Then, say to yourself, “No, I’m definitely not taking the job,” and see how you feel about that. It’s a great way to cut through all the surface shit and get in touch with your base emotions, your gut.’

  It was genius. And it worked. When I thought about taking it I felt scared but excited. The idea of not taking the job made me feel slightly relieved but predominantly disappointed. I talked it through endlessly with my close friends Jo, Jen and Karen, and I confided in Wendy and Kim. Do it, they all urged. Why wouldn’t you?

  Jason was also supportive. One hundred per cent behind me. I imagined briefly how Charlie would have reacted in the same situation, how threatened he would have felt, and I was reminded yet again that this relationship was the happiest and healthiest I’d ever had.

  So I said yes, and Pat and I agreed on a start date. Two months before my twenty-fifth birthday. Ha! By finally loosening my hands from around the throat of my dream to edit Cleo by twenty-five, I’d made space for a slightly different dream to come true. As it turned out, this one was far better.