Dating isn't easy. Finding love is harder. But being a Delaney makes it all a thousand times worse because let's face it, with parents like theirs, the NextGen never stood a chance.
11 short stories following the disastrous love lives of:
Seraphina...
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A Mexican standoff would seem less hostile than the current atmosphere in the office of Vogue's Editor-in-Chief. Yesterday afternoon, Dax Brockhouse made his premature arrival, throwing Lavinia Woods into a tailspin, culminating with a hastily arranged staff meeting at eight am and followed up with a welcome debrief at nine am.
The team meeting went by without a glitch. Lavinia's late-night memo about everyone being on their best behaviour and strict dress code for this morning had done the trick, plus, I'd been cc'd into a follow-up email to a select few editors that contained a script of all the questions Lavinia would ask, and the suggested response required to impress Mr Brockhouse. The only flaw in her plan is that Vogue is full of natural-born bullshit talkers, none of whom can act. Honestly, it was painful to see some editors trying to rattle off the information and make it seem unrehearsed. One editor even looked skywards as she attempted to remember her lines, nodding like an idiot when she managed to get all the words out, in the right order.
No one was looking at Mr Brockhouse's bemused expression, nor the way he and Ollie turned to look at each other and proceeded to smirk. I noticed. Just as I noticed that Mr Brockhouse could not have cared any less about the meeting, nor could he have cared less about Lavinia's pathetic attempts to ingratiate herself with him.
"I hear you like baseball," Lavinia had said when we were walking back to her office. Mr Brockhouse shrugged. "I love baseball. It's a shame that we don't have the sport here. I had the pleasure of seeing the Yankees play once."
Mt Brockhouse's response was, "I'm a Mets fan."
Ollie, who had been dutifully walking behind his boss, turned to me, and through the fakest cough I've ever heard, said, "Liar."
The fake pleasantries from Lavinia continued until finally, Mr Brockhouse demanded that Lavinia get him up to speed on the state of British Vogue. The first few questions were generic enough, how many staff are there at Vogue, what's the general circulation like, and what are the short-term plans to increase consumer engagement.
Then came the question that threw Lavinia way off-kilter. "Please name the assistant in Wardrobe, the name of the man who delivers the mail in the morning, and the name of the woman who was here until ten pm last night, cleaning this very office?"
And that is how we find ourselves in this situation, where Lavinia is glaring daggers at Mr Brockhouse, while the man in question is sitting back, waiting for her response. Of course, Lavinia can't name anyone outside of her tight-knit group of worshippers; ask her to name an editor, an artistic director, and a stylist, and she could rattle off more than a single name for each, but as it happens, all Lavinia is only concerned with herself and what benefits her. In her mind, JoJo Valentine, Andrew Marsham, and Karolina Novotná don't benefit her.
"Mr Brockhouse-"
"Ms Woods," Dax retorts in the same exasperated tone. Internally, I cringe at the altercation, but at my side, Ollie can barely contain a small laugh. Dax turns and gives him a stern glare for his troubles. Then he motions towards Ollie's notebook, and says, "Make a note that she doesn't know the names of the three staff. Then ask the next question."
