It’s 2001 at a Manhattan fashion magazine, and its young women summer in the Hamptons and sport shiny hair. While the distinctions that distinguish the nepo-baby Show Horses from their middle-class Workhorse colleagues may be subtle, they are damning.
Caroline Palmer’s novel Workhorse is nastier and more sophisticated than The Devil Wears Prada, its luxury labels balanced by literary allusions, targeting readers who, like its characters, can correctly pronounce both “Loewe” and “Edward Said”.
Clodagh Harmon is an editorial assistant from the suburbs of Philadelphia. That she’s Irish-American Catholic, “an obvious mick with my blue eyes, shapeless legs”, makes her, in these WASPish halls, almost as much of a diversity hire as the occasional “Black British person”. Also, Clo has an “astoundingly shitty moral compass”, which makes her akin to another fictional sociopath. “This whole Talented Mr Ripley thing?,” one character confronts her.
Clo’s story is rife with violence, lies and stolen art. Palmer, a former Vogue editor, is handy with vivid descriptions (one editor is a “slender, angry human wind chime”) and an acerbic quip (Show Horses have “an emotional understanding of Maine”).
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She’s correct about the often-spartan aesthetics of the elite: there’s little make-up, no cleavage and the most perfect perfume is that of plain, pure ivory soap. There are ugly moments that reflect that era’s sexual politics. As Clo explains, “It doesn’t matter if I like him, which I don’t particularly, because we girls don’t get to make these distinctions.”
The weakness of Workhorse is its length, taking a third of its 560 pages to introduce a twist that assures you it’s darker than other strappy-sandal tales. Numerous plots sag, losing their deviousness and dread. Then there’s Clo, whose self-loathing becomes wearisome. The greatest anti-heroes are the ones you root for, like Tom Ripley; Tom may have no conscience, but he loves life and the glittering wonder that it contains. In lacking his infectious élan, Clo’s not just unlikeable, she’s no fun.
There’s still much to be enjoyed, including Clo’s clever editor Isobel, who introduces her to the serial comma and the cringe of corny puns such as Prints Charming. Is Clo’s girl-crush Davis – with her sitcom star mother – modelled on Chloe Malle, Candice Bergin’s daughter and Vogue’s new editor-in-chief? However, Workhorse is about the pursuit of perfection, and so to appreciate it is to also wish that it itself was more winnowed. With luck, the next book Palmer writes will be a trifle more svelte.
