The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

by Taylor Jenkins Reid

She was part of the reason I took this job. I have looked up to her since I was in journalism school, reading her pieces in the very pages of the magazine she now runs and I now work for. And if I’m being honest, there is something very inspiring about having a black woman running things. As a biracial woman myself—with a Black father and a white mother—Frankie makes me feel more sure that I can one day run things, too.

“To be honest,

Now I’ll be honest,

So, simply

to be honest,

I once read that charisma is “charm that inspires devotion.” And I can’t help but think of that now, when she’s holding my coffee for me. The combination of such a powerful woman and such a small and humble gesture is enchanting, to be sure.

We were married for two months before he started hitting me.

I looked right at him and said, “Absolutely. Positively. Not.” And he smacked me across the face. Sharp, fast, strong. It was over before I even knew what happened, the skin on my face stinging from the blow I could barely believe had come my way. If you’ve never been smacked across the face, let me tell you something, it is humiliating. Mostly because your eyes start to tear up, whether you mean to be crying or not. The shock of it and the sheer force of it stimulate your tear ducts. There is no way to take a smack across the face and look stoic. All you can do is remain still and stare straight ahead, allowing your face to turn red and your eyes to bloom. So that’s what I did. The way I’d done it when my father hit me. I put my hand to my jaw, and I could feel the skin heating up under my hand.

I was the sort of beautiful that women knew they could never truly emulate. Men knew they would never even get close to a woman like me. Ruby was the elegant, aloof sort of beauty. Ruby was cool. Ruby was chic. But Celia was the sort of beautiful that felt as if you could hold it in your hands, like if you played your cards right, you might just get to marry a girl like Celia St. James. Ruby and I both were aware of what kind of power that is, accessibility.

“Celia, you can’t really expect us to fall for this ‘aw shucks’ routine,” I said. She looked at me. And the way she did it made me feel as if no one had ever really looked at me before. Not even Don. “That hurts my feelings,” she said. I felt a little bit bad. But I certainly wasn’t going to let on. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said. “Yes, you absolutely did,” Celia said. “I think you’re a bit of a cynic.” Ruby, that fair-weather friend, pretended to hear the AD calling for her and took off. “I just have a hard time believing a woman the entire town is saying will be nominated next year is doubting her ability to play Beth March. It’s the chewiest, most likable role in the whole thing.” “If it’s such a sure thing, then why didn’t you take it?” she asked me. “I’m too old, Celia. But thank you for that.” Celia smiled, and I realized I’d played right into her hands. That’s when I started to take a liking to Celia St. James.

I found it insulting. Both being used and being underestimated.