Pretty in Ink (30 page)

“It’s hilarious to you, is it?” says Mimi. “All of this is some big joke?”

“Lord, calm down,” says Johanna. “I’m going to try to talk some reason into her tonight. We’re meeting for drinks at her flat.”

“Her
apartment!
” yells Mimi, cookie bits flying from the corners of her mouth. “In the United States of goddamn America it’s called an
apartment,
not a fucking
bloody flat!
”

“Mimi,” says Abby, steadying our boss with a hand on the shoulder. “Johanna is doing all she can.”

“She better be. Her job is on the line. Now everyone scram this instant. I can’t take any more bad news for the day.”

I skulk back to my desk and survey the rows of cubicles. How can I get some relevant information, and from whom? I wander over to Zoe’s desk. “Hey,” I say.

“That was not cool earlier when you kicked out that reporter from the party,” she says. “I was working on swaying his opinion in our favor.”

“Oh yeah, by performing some kind of kinky sexual rite with a cupcake? Clearly very effective.”

Zoe rolls her eyes. “If nothing else I was delaying the inevitable fact of him getting back to his desk and writing up that total skewering of us.”

“Zoe, we can’t have
Post
reporters fraternizing with the staff during this kind of crisis.”

“Did you just say ‘fraternizing’?”

“Also, did you see he ate three whole cupcakes? He was disgusting.”

“Whatevs. TTYL.” Zoe turns away from me and begins filing her nails.

Well, that was a total failure. I decide to try Jane, and sidle up to her cube.

“Hey, Laura, what’s the scoop?” Jane asks, not looking up from her screen. “You were just inside Mimi’s office, right?”

“Nothing much, they were, um, discussing final tweaks to November pages. So what’s new with you? What kind of gossip do you have for me?” I’m trying to sound casual, but it comes out wrong, like I’m both interrogating and chastising her.

“Uh, nothing,” she answers, sounding defensive. “I’m just sitting here, getting my work done.” Ugh, I’m hopeless.

I meander over to Jonathan, who’s buried in the beauty closet trying on lipsticks. “Hey, how’s it going?”

“Listen, I feel as morose as Little Miss Muffet,” he says. “Why hasn’t anyone written anything yet about Helena’s makeup?”

Seriously?
“I guess because it’s not really relevant, right?”

“In the before
and
after shots, that coral lipstick is beyond hot—and it was my pick! It’s going to be the next big color, thanks to
moi,
and no one has even deigned to mention it. I’ve been trolling the blogs all day.”

“Wow, I’m sorry,” I say, completely confused.

“Yeah, well, I’m cheering myself up with a makeover.” Useless.

I return to my desk, defeated, and dip into my own Oreos supply.

 

Mimi is still at her desk at seven p.m., when I see a call come in from the thirtieth floor. I let her pick it up. Her voice is as singsongy as ever, punctuated by her signature laugh, but through the glass of her office I see her larger-than-life features straining to stay sunny. She looks tired. Old. I find I can’t bear to keep watching the conversation, and for the first time since I began working for Mimi two years earlier at
Starstruck,
and nearly four months ago at
Hers,
I shut down my computer and leave the office before she does.

Back home, even though it’s the Friday of a holiday weekend, I decide to stay in. I partake of my usual evening-in diet of E!, TMZ, and celebrity blogs, but after a couple of hours my stomach begins aching from overindulgence. I click off the TV, set aside my laptop, and grab my purse. From its special safekeeping pouch, a side zippered pocket, I remove and unfold the printout of Mimi’s November editor letter. It’s just an old draft, one she crumpled up and tossed out last week when she decided it was too earnest, but I adore it. I smooth out the paper and read it over for the tenth time:

When I overheard Mimi read this draft to Victoria and ask for feedback, Victoria said she thought it would open a big can of worms, encouraging readers to write in with all their silly opinions; they’d insist we run stories about their kittens and their favorite brands of laundry detergent. The current version of Mimi’s editor letter announces the redesign and promises readers flashier, more forward-thinking content. I prefer the original.

My clock flashes 10:00. I wonder if Mimi is still at her desk, working furiously or passed out across an empty package of Oreos. Perhaps she’s out at a bar surrounded by friends and throwing back round after round of shots. Or maybe she’s made it home and is sitting on the couch with her beloved dog, zoning out to the Home Shopping Network. Or she could be tucked into bed in a deep, restful sleep. I resist the urge to pick up the phone, and I will my boss to call me instead. It’s like we went out on a first date and now I’m trying to appear aloof. My phone doesn’t ring all weekend.

On the Monday that honors laborers nationwide, on the day when everyone who has toiled so hard all year pauses for a collective, well-deserved rest, I do not partake in the celebration. I do not hit the beach or attend a barbecue. Instead, I mark the occasion by staying holed up in my bed and paging through back issues of
Starstruck
and
Hers
. I admire the photos of the stars who have inspired me to eat more veggies and to get my butt to the gym several days a week. I examine their perfectly sculpted jaws and cheekbones, their shiny hair and eyes, and the expensive dresses that hang just so on their trim hourglass figures. I don’t care how much the photos have been altered; they’re beautiful, and I am in awe.

 

Tuesday morning I’m the first one to the office, as usual. I love the quiet buzz of white noise, all the sleek surfaces, and the decades of big, glamorous
Hers
covers lining the walls. I admire the breathtaking view of early day lighting up the trees in Central Park and the office pristine and pretty before the inevitable bustle and complications of the coming workday. I pour my first cup of coffee and plop myself down in Mimi’s chair, spinning around my ritual three times, briefly masquerading as editor in chief.

When Mimi texts me, “I’m on my way down,” I assume she made a typo and meant to write, “I’m on my way
up
.” Knowing she likely downed a few too many glasses of wine last night, I set out on her desk two aspirin; a strong coffee; and a bacon, egg, and cheese I picked up at her favorite deli around the corner. I’ve already erased all the hate mail from her e-mail queue, turned down the volume on her phone, and arranged her set of red pens in a neat row on her desk. She walks in wearing big black sunglasses, her skin pale and clammy.

“You are such a lifesaver,” she says, sinking her teeth into the sandwich. “What will I do without you?”

Will.
I swear she says “will,” not “would.” My arms perk up with goose bumps and I find I can’t catch my breath.

Mimi, however, looks calm. She kicks her feet up on the desk and I see she’s wearing loafers—beat-up, worn-out, moss-colored loafers.

I begin to cry. It’s mortifying, but I can’t stop the fat tears from plopping down and depositing dark stains onto my silk shirt.

“Oh, Laura,” Mimi says, removing her sunglasses and scrutinizing me with pity. “Here, share the sustenance.” She hands me half of the breakfast sandwich.

“Thanks.” We sit there in silence, chewing and swallowing, the grease and salt and fat lulling each of us into a sullen stupor. “Listen, Mimi,” I finally say, but she holds up her pointer finger.

“Here’s a life tip, my trusty assistant. You win some, you lose some, and then you win some again. Ha!
C’est la vie
.”

Mimi dabs a napkin at the corners of her lips, then swivels in her seat to face her computer, where she begins typing rapid fire. Willing the floodgates of tears not to reopen, I smooth out my skirt, gather up the trash from our breakfast, and tiptoe out of my boss’s office, careful not to disturb our editor in chief at work.

21

I
’m willing the stalled A train to get its act together and book it uptown, to not make me later than I already fear I’m going to be for my appointment on the thirtieth floor. I hopped on the subway in the first place, forgoing my usual walk uptown, to speed up my commute, not to get myself stuck underground in transit limbo, packed armpit-to-nose with hundreds of other passengers, plus the cat-sized rats and a decade’s worth of garbage beneath us.

God, I’m a wreck. It baffles me why I should care about arriving late to a meeting where the sole agenda will be to fire me—especially when they scheduled it at eight in the freaking morning, making me jump through hoops to get Maria to the house at the crack of dawn. Still, when the train conductor repeats his announcement about more delays ahead, thank-you-for-your-patience, I groan.

My body is so heavy with exhaustion that simply standing still in kitten heels makes me feel as if someone is tugging at every one of my muscles, daring me not to keel over and collapse. I fear I may not be able to keep myself upright. So I make a decision. I glance around to make sure I don’t recognize any of my fellow commuters, and then I pull my trick: I place one hand on my belly and begin rubbing big, heartfelt circles, then I literally gaze at my navel as I purr sweet nothings to my belly button. So ashamed am I of this deception (and the fact that I’ve been relying on it semiregularly ever since becoming a severely sleep-deprived mother), that I haven’t told a soul. The thing is, it works: Usually it’s thirty seconds or less before someone in my vicinity offers me his or her (usually
her
) seat. But now I’m going on one minute, two minutes, three minutes—the train is still stalled midtrack—and no one has noticed, or perhaps cared about my delicate (if phony) condition. Forget it, I think. I halt my hand’s circling and suck my stomach back in its semiflat state. God, am I achy.

In addition to my usual I’ve-got-three-flipping-toddlers exhaustion, today I am sore from an entire long weekend of packing up boxes. After the antics I pulled at our first open house, Rob took the initiative to schedule the next one during one of my onsite workdays, on an evening when he knew I had to stay late; then he conveniently “forgot” to fill me in. The house sold in half an hour (Rob wouldn’t give me any details about the buyers, I think for fear I’d call them and convince them to pull out).

“Baby, the timing’s perfect,” my husband declared when I arrived home and saw the picked-over platters of cold cuts on the counter. “You’re getting fired next week, you’ll pick up your severance check, and then we can skip town the moment all the sale details are finalized. Bing, bang, boom.”

I don’t think he expected me to burst into tears.

The truth is, no matter how long I’ve worked to prepare myself for the inevitable, no matter how many times I’ve assured myself (as has Rob, and Abby, and Liz, and even my mother) that this situation is totally political and not at all personal, and that I’m just a victim of circumstances outside of my control, deep down I know I am not ready to be fired. Despite all my posturing and flippant joking, I am not cool with it. I am not accepting of it. I am not blasé or Zen or go-with-the-flow about it. What I am is scared shitless. In fact, I think, maybe if this train flew off the rails and toppled all of us passengers into a disastrous, injurious heap, then I wouldn’t have to face Mimi or Suzie in H.R. or anyone at Schmidt & Delancey ever again, and they could just messenger over my pink slip to my hospital room. Bing, bang, boom.

Just as I start getting into this trauma fantasy, trying to decide whether my hospital gown should hang in a sympathetically baggy or flatteringly fitted way, the train jolts forward. Three minutes later, it screeches to a halt at Columbus Circle, the doors swing open, and suddenly I’m being spit out into the world along with all the bankers, teachers, and whoever the hell else starts their workday this early. Climbing the stairs from subway platform to street, I see the Schmidt & Delancey building rise before me like a leviathan, its shadow stretched two blocks long. I peer up at all its thirty storys and feel myself getting sucked in and—
sigh
—suc-cumbing to its powerful pull.

I decide to pit-stop at my desk to change into my Louboutin pumps. I expect the office to be empty, but as soon as I spot Laura at her station, dutifully typing away, I think,
Of course
. I wonder if she keeps a sleeping bag under her desk. “Hey, Laura.”

“Hi. You’re here early.” She looks surprised to see me; I would’ve expected she knew about my morning meeting. She also looks like she hasn’t slept in a week; the dark circles under her eyes give me a glimpse of what she’ll look like at my age. Scary.

“Are you all right?” I ask. I’m about to place a palm on her shoulder, but her withering look stops me short.

Like a cartoon thought bubble popping up over my head, I flash on Friday’s photo debacle. I’d rebelled that day, spending the majority of my at-home workday not in my basement office, but packing up my home, so I was barely tuned in to the situation. I did open an e-mail from Liz with the subject line, “What the hell is happening there?!?” and then glance at the MAGnifier.net link in the message’s body. But I was immediately called away by a crisis involving Lulu and a roll of packing bubbles, and I never remembered to follow up with an Internet search or to check in with Abby about the fallout. Part of me figured, hey, it was no longer my problem, anyway. The bags under Laura’s eyes tell me all I need to know about the effects of the incident.

“How are the troops faring after Friday?” I ask tentatively.

“Fine, everyone’s fine,” Laura snaps in a way that convinces me not one bit.

“That’s good,” I say. “I’ve got to skedaddle up to Corporate. Can you believe it, an eight a.m. meeting? I don’t think I’ve ever been in the office this early. It was a huge pain in the butt to coordinate with my nanny. Though I suppose she could use the extra hours while she has the chance. I figure they’re finally getting around to giving me the old ax.” I make a gesture like I’m chopping off my neck. I must be more nervous than I thought, rambling on like this to Laura, of all people. “Well, wish me luck,” I say.

Laura offers me nothing but a blank stare. God, what a snot.

In the elevator, ascending the twenty-one flights to the corporate suite, I whip out my phone and scroll through my e-mail, hoping without hope that Suzie has canceled our meeting. No such luck. Instead, I see a “BREAKING NEWS” alert from the
New York Post,
which I promptly open and read:

My jaw goes slack. I find I can’t clamp it back shut. I feel my tongue hanging loose like I’m an overheated dog. I gape at the screen until the text looks like gibberish, a mishmash of symbols that can’t possibly contain any meaning.

“Good morning, Leah.” I look up and there is Suzie greeting me from the other side of the elevator doors, now open onto the thirtieth floor. She’s holding out a coffee, which is apparently for me. In my entire career no one has ever brought me coffee. I grab it, grateful for something to do with my hands, and gulp it down. Even the scald against the back of my throat can’t snap me out of my shock. “Come with me,” Suzie says, all smiles. Somehow my legs carry me down the hall beside her. I am numb.

We enter a space that cannot possibly belong to the H.R. rep: It’s twice the size of Mimi’s office, with floor-to-ceiling windows that afford even grander views of Central Park; it boasts not one but two separate sitting areas.

“Welcome, come on in.” The voice is familiar, but all I can see of the speaker is the back of a head, and a thick gray bun balancing atop it. When she swivels her chair away from her computer, I discover it’s Mrs. Winters, the editorial director of Schmidt & Delancey. I haven’t laid eyes on her since way back in April, when she visited
Hers
to deliver the news of Louisa’s demise. I’m starting to wonder if I misread that
Post
news alert.

“A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Brenner,” she says, extending a hand. “I’ve heard so many things about you.” It’s just like Mrs. Winters not to modify “things” with “wonderful” or “terrible” or some other telling descriptor; the phrase “so many things” could mean so many things. I accept the handshake, my palm clammy; Mrs. Winters’s is dry and cool.

“Take a seat,” she says. The chair’s cushion is plusher than my living room couch. I sink in about a foot, so that I feel like a child looking up at Mrs. Winters from across the desk. Suzie plops herself down in the chair next to mine, letting out a small yelp when she too sinks into its softness. Despite what I read in the
Post
e-mail, I keep waiting for Mimi to walk in and deliver the official “We’re letting you go” spiel (after Liz was fired, I made her repeat the speech to me over and over again until the words were etched into my brain like the Pledge of Allegiance).

“As you know,” Mrs. Winters says, which is when I start trembling. There is so much I know, and I fear for which sliver of that knowledge she’s going to select to repeat back to me and somehow wield against me. “
Hers
has gone through quite a shake-up these past few months. Louisa Harding struggled to keep the publication afloat during what was admittedly a difficult time, economically speaking. When she couldn’t hack it, of course we brought in Mimi Walsh, a wonderfully talented editor with a standout track record and stellar reputation in the industry. We had high hopes that Ms. Walsh would pull in newer, younger readers and revive the
Hers
brand to its former glory.”

To hear the past year of my professional life summed up into this tidy little trajectory—the demise of my former boss meriting a mere sentence fragment—makes me understand just how powerful Mrs. Winters is, reigning from her throne on the thirtieth floor. Powerful and ruthless. I know what’s coming next, and I wonder if Mrs. Winters realizes she’s already been scooped by the
Post.
I feel a bizarre urge to defend Mimi, to say that the leaked photos could not have been her fault, that no single person can control every little action of her whole staff and all the random hangers-on at any given photo shoot. It’s such a heartless industry we work in, and so hard to be at the top, and how fast any one of us can topple from glory. “Have you guys seen the redesign?” I blurt out. “It’s beautiful.” Because as much as I hate to admit it, it
is
beautiful. Still, I’m not sure what I’m doing.

“Yes, the pages have turned out very nice,” Suzie says, smiling nervously.

Mrs. Winters looks puzzled. “Well,” she says, shifting in her seat, “it’s my job to face up to some hard truths. In this case, the devastating impact of Friday’s debacle with that pop singer on your cover. I’m not sure if you’re aware that
Hers
’ subscriber base has fallen by fifty thousand in just the past three days.” Wow, I’m actually kind of impressed that our readers are so plugged in to media news, and also willing to take a stand against the Photoshopping of cover images. I feel a strange surge of girl power. Mrs. Winters is still talking: “And fairly or not, nearly the entire blogosphere plus about half of the talking heads on TV have rallied to have Mimi burned at the stake. Something had to be done. We really had no choice.”

“I understand,” I say, although I’m not really sure I do. I’m distracted by the thought that I could never stomach having Mrs. Winters’s job, and also the question of why she’s offering up this whole explanation to me.

“Which brings me to why you’re here,” she says. I try to sit up straighter in my cushiony seat—to no avail. “Mrs. Brenner, you have demonstrated exceptional talent through your years at
Hers,
rising in the ranks to the prestigious spot of second-in-command and acting as a rock to the staff during these recent bumpy times.” My mind goes fuzzy.
I’m being praised, aren’t I?
After an entire summer of putting up with all the backhanded compliments and hits to my pride and harassment both subtle and blatant, it’s hard to trust my ears. But if I’m not mistaken, I am sitting here before the Schmidt & Delancey editorial director, in the largest office on the building’s top floor, being applauded for a job well done. “So, what do you say?” Mrs. Winters asks.

I realize I’ve zoned out. “Excuse me, can you repeat that?”

Mrs. Winters and Suzie both laugh. “I said, will you do Schmidt & Delancey the honor of accepting the position of the new editor in chief of
Hers
magazine?”

Everything stops. All is white noise. I am alone at the top of this mammoth of a building, not about to get thrown off, as it turns out, but to be exalted. I look from one face to the other—are they serious? Is this for real?
It must be.
Suddenly the events of the past fifteen minutes sprint to catch up in my brain. It’s a pileup of images and thoughts and sentences, until all that’s left is a solid feeling of certainty.
Of course
this is what would happen.
Of course
after all my hard work and dedication and experience,
of course
after enduring the kind of summer that even Job would cower at,
of course
I am finally being rewarded.

“Well, what do you say?” asks Suzie, which makes me realize I haven’t yet said a thing.

“Of course!” I exclaim. I sense my daughters’
we’re-getting-ice-cream!
look of glee spreading across my own face, and I immediately dial it back. I affix a pleased-but-demure expression that I imagine would be fitting for an editor in chief. “I would be honored,” I add in my best professional tone.