The Affair - Danielle Steel Page 0,3

another cover of a naked star with a big round belly on the cover. I’d rather see the First Lady in one of her navy blue suits and a white blouse with a bow. We can’t do another pregnant star,” Rose said, starting to seem annoyed.

“It won’t show if we shoot her now.” Charity gave her a quelling look, as Rose went down a list of someone else’s suggestions, none of which grabbed her either.

“What about Michaela Lim?” Rose said, distracted. She was another new young star, and had just delivered a brilliant performance in a recent movie.

“Next year,” Charity countered. “No one’s heard of her yet. She’s not nearly as glamorous as Pascale. And she really is too young. She just turned nineteen. She needs to be more seasoned before we put her on September.” Rose nodded agreement. She had a valid point. “Let’s face it, Nicolas Bateau is a hunk, and if he leaves his wife for Pascale Solon, it’s going to be news around the world, and our September issue is going to be the hottest issue on the stands. I want to grab that,” Charity said with dogged determination. Pascale was heartbreakingly beautiful, and there was no denying that she would look fabulous in anything they put her in. It was a no-brainer, but Rose didn’t like it.

“It will also seem as though we endorse infidelity, and men cheating on their wives. This is America, Charity. Americans don’t like men who cheat. This isn’t France.” Charity had worked for a French fashion magazine before coming to Mode, and it came dangerously close to tabloid journalism. Rose’s face was expressionless and her tone cold when she turned her electric-blue gaze on the senior stylist who was so determined to put Pascale on the cover. “We’re not a tabloid or a movie magazine,” Rose reminded her sternly. “There are plenty of other magazines to cover that. Let’s not forget who we are.” Charity looked frustrated, and they went on to other details of the issue that had to be decided in the coming weeks. When the meeting ended, they hadn’t agreed on the cover yet.

“I think he’s fooled around before,” Charity said, as the meeting came to a close. “I forget who he’s married to, someone ordinary but nice looking. I think she’s a writer or a journalist or something.”

“She’s a well-known interior designer,” Rose corrected her. “And they have young children. I don’t like the story.” She stood up, which was the signal for all of them to go back to work. The meeting had lasted for two hours, and they had covered considerable ground on other points. There were a million component parts to their big issue. In the end, the final decisions would be made by Rose, but they all knew that without exception, Rose did what was best for Mode, and had unfailing instincts for what that was, whatever her personal opinions. They respected her for it, even Charity, who didn’t agree with her in this instance. Their other options all seemed like such a bore to her. She was the youngest of the senior staff, and on most occasions, Rose liked the spice she brought to it, but not this time.

* * *

—

Rose left the conference room quickly after the meeting. She knew there would be a mountain of emails and messages on her desk. Jen Morgan would handle as many as she could, but most of them would require callbacks from Rose to reach resolution. The proverbial buck stopped with her. She never complained about it. Even her rivals agreed that she was one of the best editors in the business, and courageous about the stands she took. She was a strong defender of women’s rights. Integrity and honesty were important to her, vital in fact, and were at the heart of every interview and editorial.

She flew past Jen’s desk, barely looking at her, clutching a thick stack of files from the meeting to her chest. She had appointments lined up all day long and was in a rush.

“Do we have a cover?” Jen smiled at her.

“Not yet. I have to make a confidential call. I’ll probably be on for fifteen or twenty minutes. Hold my calls till then,” she said, as she reached her office and paused in the doorway. Jen sat just outside.

“The stack on your desk is already pretty bad,” Jen reminded her. “Another twenty minutes and you’ll be buried.”

“Can’t be helped. I’ve got to make