Pretty in Ink (9 page)

“What are you copying there?” I ask. Sylvia holds up a packet:
Hers
’ research guidelines, which I happen to know she’s painstakingly compiled and updated on a biannual basis for the past decade. They now fill eighteen pages.

“I know most people will probably chuck them out immediately,” she says. “But maybe they’ll at least glance at the contents beforehand. It’s not popular or hip to say so, but the first and foremost duty of a magazine is to be accurate.”

“Right on.” It’s so dignified, Sylvia’s grace in the face of her firing. As a tribute of sorts, I decide I’ll display her guidelines on my bulletin board. “We’ll miss you.”

“Not everyone,” she says with a dry laugh.

“Well, I sure will.” I take in the sight of her, spine straight as a yardstick, looking like no one could knock her over. I make an effort to stand a bit taller, and then leave Sylvia to her photocopying.

 

After work, Mimi and I head to a nearby Mexican joint. I feel like a bit of a traitor since it’s the same place I used to go with Liz before her maternity leave, and Leah, too, before she had her triplets. Our monthly tradition consisted of pigging out on tacos and getting tipsy on margaritas, and then Liz would start in on mocking the models who mill about the Schmidt & Delancey building. Liz could perfectly impersonate their pouty lips and big alien eyes; even while she was pregnant, suffering through virgin cocktails and stone sober, she could pull off the impressions. I really miss Liz. I kind of hate it when my friends become moms.

Turns out, margaritas are Mimi’s favorite—and she demonstrates it by sucking back three in the span of an hour. “I haven’t had drinks this good in months,” she says. “In fact, I haven’t had drinks at all. My friends keep saying we should go out to celebrate my new job, but I’m too preoccupied with the actual job to make it happen. Ha!”

I’m not sure what the motive is for this explanation: if she’s trying to prove to me her diligence at work or maybe the fact that she has friends, or if it’s a rationale for why she’s already slurring her speech. I nod silently. “You know who can mix up a mean margarita?” Mimi says. “My ex-husband. In fact, both of my ex-husbands! Ha!”

“Who doesn’t love a delicious margarita?” I say, trying to keep the conversation innocuous.

“We should tour the city’s offerings, you and me. We could do a bar crawl of all the
restaurantes Mexicanos
.
¡Ole!
” Mimi winks and clinks her glass against mine, and I’m surprised to find myself thinking that might actually be fun. I’m realizing how it must be lonely in Mimi’s position, all alone up at the top. “Hey, wanna do shots of Patrón?” Mimi asks.

“Uh, OK.” I mentally note to make sure this tab doesn’t end up on her corporate card.

I can hold my liquor, but after taking her shot Mimi demonstrates further that she cannot. She’s mooning at the bartender, beginning to embarrass herself. “How about I call you a cab?” I offer.

Mimi shakes her head and comes dangerously close to toppling off her stool. “José and I are having fun.” Oh boy, I’m fairly certain the bartender said his name was Joe.

“All right, you have your fun.” I order a soda water and sip at it, scrolling through my BlackBerry.

“Hey, José, guess what? I’m the new boss in town.”

“Oh yeah?” he responds, uninterested. He looks like my eighteen-year-old nephew—that young, too—and I’m mortified on Mimi’s behalf. I pretend to be absorbed in my e-mail.

“I’m the boss,” she repeats. “That means I’m in charge, and I get to say ‘Yes, yes, yes’ or ‘No way, José!’ Whatever I want. All it takes is a single nod, or one stroke of my red pen. But let me tell you,
mi amigo,
it’s not all fun and games. Everyone looks at me like I’m gonna eat them alive. I’m a big girl, I know, it’s a funny joke, ha! Really they should be kissing my big, fat ass because I am going to be the one to save this freaking magazine.
Jesus Christo,
you should have seen this piece of crap before I came in, trying to be all top-shelf when the drinkers—I mean, when the
readers
—wanted the shitty well brand, you know? I know exactly what I’m doing, and I’m going to make this brand some serious
dinero.
” Oh, Jesus. “Hit me, José. Another Patrón for me and
uno
for
mi amiga
here.”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” the bartender says, eyeing me.

“C’mon, Mimi. He’s cutting us off because I’ve had a few too many. Let’s go, we’re getting a car.”

But Mimi won’t budge. “Abby, does everyone at work hate me?” she mumbles, head suddenly in hands.

“What? No!”

“I can bring in people and pay them to like me, but it’s not the same. My little puggle-wuggle Pookie likes me, but that’s not the same, either.” I sigh and start rubbing circles against the small of my boss’s back, like I’ve seen Julia do to the stomachs of sick animals. I’m thinking how in all the years I worked for Louisa she shared perhaps a total of five sentences with me about her feelings.

Eventually, with the bartender’s help, I manage to drag Mimi outside and into a cab. She immediately conks out, head pressed up against the window. I have to extricate her driver’s license from her wallet to find out her address. She snores softly as we cross Manhattan and fly up Park Avenue.

The taxi pulls up to Mimi’s building, a luxury high-rise on the corner of Seventy-fifth and Park. Mimi topples out, and the doorman catches her forearm. As we pull away, I spot my boss in the rearview mirror, removing the doorman’s cap and running her fingers through his hair. Oh dear. I bury this nugget in the let’s-try-and-forget-this-ever-happened portion of my brain, and then do my best not to imagine Mimi leaning over the lip of her toilet and vomiting for the rest of the night.

“Park Slope, Brooklyn,” I tell the driver, and then start scrolling through e-mail. I open one from Julia, which contains a photo of her holding a hamster, her own hand uncurling the creature’s tiny paw into a wave. She knows a hamster is my idea of the perfect pet, cute and cuddly, but also pocket-sized and manageable—no big messes or wild personalities to contend with. Julia has banned all animals from our home, her rationale being, I leave my work at work, so why can’t she, too? A fair point, although I don’t think she realizes how many middle-of-the-night hours I spend awake worrying about my job.

Just as I suspect, the hamster photo is a teaser for yet another sperm donor option. I scroll down, and this one reads like the dating profiles I sometimes see up on coworkers’ computer screens: He loves horror movies and crime novels, he appreciates a well-placed pun, and he rolls his eyes at all the gluten-free, farm-to-table, and caveman diet trends that seem to take hold of our culture for six months at a time. I laugh out loud at the last part (Julia is often imposing these fads on our home). I catch myself wondering when the guy and I can grab drinks, though, not whether I’d like his genetic material to make up half of my theoretical child.

I peer out the cab window and see we’re soaring over the Manhattan Bridge. I take in the New York City skyline, the glistening East River, Lady Liberty. I enjoy the same sights every morning on my way to the office, and again each evening on my commute home—and amazingly, all it usually costs me is the couple of bucks for the subway ride. I often wish I could figure out how to translate this concept of “the best things in life are free (or nearly so)” to my job; it would be much easier to stick to the budget.

I’m feeling anxious, and I fear it’s due to more than the four stiff drinks swirling around my bloodstream. I try to shake the image of Mimi slurring her words and slipping off her barstool, and instead focus on the familiar panorama. I am a creature of habit, and just as I depend on my elliptical-and-NPR morning routine and my very intricate, very effective filing system at work, I rely upon this twice-daily view of New York City to ground me and make me feel, if only for a glimpse, that all is right with the world.

7

N
ow that a new regime has begun, we’re being extra careful, Mark and I. I make sure to put at least three seats between us in the art department’s daily meetings. Mimi has taken to dropping in “for a listen,” and then it becomes like a poorly acted play, all of us delivering stilted lines as we strain to sound dazzling and visionary. I avoid Mark’s eyes for fear of breaking character and collapsing into giggles.

“Which stories are on tap today?” Mimi asks, propping herself on the table’s edge next to Mark.

“We were talking about October, figuring out visual concepts for the features,” says Mark. Mimi’s ass is perched inches from his hands, which he usually flails around in large mad-scientist-like gestures, but now he’s set them folded on the table. He looks like he’s wearing a straitjacket. “We already nailed down the free stuff shoot. Drew’s on it.”

My niche at
Hers
has become still shots of products for the giveaway and shopping pages. Pretty boring, but it also leaves me lots of time to zone out and think about my personal photo projects, or whatever else is on my mind. This gig has been great. Before
Hers,
I was sick to death of my starving-artist diet of Ramen noodles and dry cereal, not to mention my roach-infested digs in Bushwick. And ever since Debbie learned I like to cook, she sometimes sends me home with leftover ingredients from her recipes: half a pint of cherries, most of a wedge of Asiago, and last week a few ounces of truffle oil (I think the latter was just plain charity, since oil keeps). It’s a pretty good deal.

Mimi picks up the list of October features. “Ooh, the cheaters story! What are you guys thinking for that?” I silently root for Mark to blurt out something brilliant. He’s a genius in his sleek, minimalist way—I first fell for him when he showed me his series of stark black-and-white shots of suspension bridges—but it’s becoming clear that his design vision does not complement Mimi’s more-is-more sensibility. Rumors are flying about who’s interviewing to replace him. This is something he and I do not discuss.

Mark is still stammering. I hesitate before breaking in: “How about we shoot traditional-looking portraits of each married couple along with the person one of them is having the affair with? Like they can wear matching outfits and pose in those ridiculous Sears kind of setups, and they’ll all be smiling. But underneath the smiles you’ll be able to tell, for example, that the wife is furious, and the husband is all tense, and the other woman is triumphant, or sexually satisfied, or something like that. If the real people won’t do it, we can use actors.” I’m not sure where this concept came from but, looking down at my hands, I’m thinking it might not be such a terrible idea. For the tenth time this week I promise myself to stop biting my nails.

“Love!” says Mimi. “She’s got the plan. Mark, let’s schedule the shoot.” She slaps our creative director, and my secret boyfriend, on the shoulder; it’s playful, but I happen to know he bruises easily.

 

This office runs on meetings. Meetings to set deadlines, meetings to pitch ideas, meetings to review ideas, meetings to schedule more meetings. On my first day at
Hers
about a year ago, I recognized a fellow sensitive soul in Mark, and to survive this onslaught of meetings with some semblance of our spirits intact, the two of us began exchanging glances; they translated to “When will she give it a rest already?” and “Think it’s safe to take a little nap?” and “Please wake me up when this is over.” It all began harmlessly, until six months ago, when I was going through a breakup and started noticing Mark’s eyes: intense and smoldering, like a soap opera star’s. Apparently Mark liked the looks of me, too. Eventually our intrameeting looks came to mean “Meet me in the supply closet—
stat.
”

It’s a doubleheader today: After the art meeting is a full staff one to discuss the notorious November relaunch, when everything the
Hers
brand has been up to this point will be crumpled up and tossed in the trash, and we’ll reinvent ourselves into a brand-new, suitable-to-sell-tons-of-ads magazine. At least, that’s the idea. I’ve wagered a bet with Mark that the redesign will be nothing more than a handful of tweaks that Mimi will pass off as a grand revolution.

I arrive early to the conference room and position myself against the back wall, far from the thin pane of glass that’s the only thing separating us from air, nine stories high. The seating arrangement is a clear marker of hierarchy. The top editors and directors all seat themselves at the table—the higher up in editorial, the closer to the front—and the art senior staff sits at the other end; we peons perch ourselves on the ledges around the perimeter, or hover in the back. Even those of us who find this pecking-order organization reminiscent of the middle school cafeteria have fallen in line.

At least we used to. Today the new guy, Jonathan, commits
Hers
blasphemy. (Ever since Mr. Powder Puff showed up I’ve been teasing Mark about his new male colleague, someone to talk football with. Mark, possessing perhaps even less knowledge about the sport than Jonathan, and sensitive about it, doesn’t find this very funny.) Jonathan saunters right up to the front of the table and plants himself in Abby’s usual chair. Victoria then seats herself next to Jonathan, surprising no one in her displacement of Leah. The rest of us file in, more or less in our appropriate places, until just one spot remains at the table. Laura and Leah are the last ones to enter, and Laura nonchalantly plants herself at the table—the first assistant who’s ever dared such a move—leaving Leah, our co-second-in-command, seatless. Zoe gasps. I’m surprised at how shocked I feel, too. As inane as the seating politics are, I’m no fan of this Laura character, whom I overheard telling Mimi that she thinks the whole magazine looks flat.
It
is
flat, you idiot,
I wanted to blurt out.
A magazine page is two-dimensional
.

Mark glances in my direction, his demeanor stark. He’s usually game to poke fun of the seating silliness, but today he looks staid sitting at the head of the art side of the table, proud to have claimed his position, however tenuous.

“OK, announcements first,” says Leah, who’s taken the seating blow in stride and is standing at the front of the room to reestablish her authority. (Mimi is absent, taping a
Today
show segment based on a
Hers
story about the best ways to prevent heart disease, a story commissioned and edited by her predecessor.) “Mimi has decided that the big feature for the relaunch will be about extreme plastic surgery.” Leah makes no effort to mask her distaste at what she’s saying.

“You guys,” says Jonathan, “we found moms across the country who had at least ten procedures each. We’re going to do a before-and-after kind of thing, and explain each procedure and whether or not you should do it, too.”

“Actually, it’ll be more along the lines of ‘don’t try this at home,’ ” says Leah. “These women are narcissistic freaks. The story will be a cautionary tale.”

Laura jumps in: “Not necessarily, right? I bet some of our readers are eager to hear which surgeries might make sense for their lifestyles.”

“I can manage the photo shoots,” I blurt out. All eyes land on me, and I feel my skin sprout up with goose bumps.

“That’s the spirit, Drew,” says Victoria. Abby marks down the update on her clipboard, registering no reaction. Mark is less subtle, but I avoid his condescending stare. Something about photographing women with so many fake parts intrigues me. I picture shooting them like dolls, limbs stiff and expressions fixed, the backdrop a kind of real-life Barbie’s Dreamhouse meets horror film set. Maybe we can find a crazy, plastic-surgeried man to play Ken.

“I have an announcement to add,” says Abby. “I just got word that GladWare and Crystal Light are upping their advertising for November, so we’ll be blowing out the Thanksgiving entertaining package into a ten-page feature, like a mini-magazine within the magazine. We’ll supplement our usual coverage with leftovers recipes and low-cal cocktails for cold weather.”

“Deborah says she’ll have recipes to me for editing by end-of-week,” Victoria says. I happen to be glancing at Leah just then, and in one flash I see her expression morph from outrage to hurt and back to neutral, then she fixes on a smile so bright one might mistake the water pooling in her eyes for a twinkle. I guess no one told Leah that Victoria was taking over as editor of the food coverage.

“Ahem, and for those of you who need a cocktail today,” Debbie says, “and I’m guessing that’s everyone”—she eyes Leah—“I’ll be bringing down Hot Toddies and Dark and Stormys this afternoon for testing.”

“Fun!” says Victoria. “Though let’s push back the happy hour until after six, so everyone can get all of their work done beforehand.”

Debbie nods, but at four o’clock on the dot she appears in the office carrying a large tray of drinks. Only Victoria and Laura remain at their desks.

I’m halfway through my Dark and Stormy when Jane approaches, wielding a page layout. “So I’ve only got room for about ninety-seven words here,” she says, pointing to a text box that easily fits two hundred words. “Do we really need this enormous image monopolizing the page?”

“That’s one of our standard layouts, Jane.” Of course she knows this already; she’s been producing the love and marriage section for years, and there’s the same room for text that there always is on a one-pager.

“Can I please have space for just a few more sentences, or maybe a teensy extra paragraph? Pretty please!” I know I’m probably being paranoid, but I imagine in Jane’s plea the covert message:
You know what I know.
Namely, about Mark and me.

I cave: “Sure, no problem.” As I rejigger Jane’s layout, shrinking the photo to tiny and expanding the text box so that the page looks cramped and uninviting, I remind myself that at any point Jane could sabotage my relationship with Mark. A few months ago, after Mark had finally broken up with his girlfriend, and just when we were starting to relax out in public together, we had the luck of running into Jane at the movies, the two of us holding hands no less. I rambled on about who knows what—I can picture myself laughing too loudly and making a dumb pun about the film’s title. And although Jane gave me the “lips zipped” signal when we parted ways, I’ve been nervous, and sucking up to her, ever since. Coworker dating is prohibited at Schmidt & Delancey.

When I present the new layout to Jane, I find myself complimenting her skirt. “Thanks,” she says, all smiles.

 

I’m browsing the boxes of off-brand sandwich cookies and powdered milk, waiting for Mark in our postwork meeting spot, the 99-cent store in the subway station below the office. We’re careful never to leave work together.

Mark barges in. “Fucking
Me-me-me,
” he says, referring to our new boss by the nickname he’s coined for her; he believes himself very clever.

“Well, hello to you, too.” I peck him on the cheek.

“She calls me into her office to talk about the redesign. She shows me tear sheets from
Starstruck
and
Teeny Bopped
and
OMG.
The pages were so garish, I practically had a seizure right there at her desk. I actually asked if she was joking. Turns out, that load of garbage is what she wants us to aspire to for the redesign.”

“Well, she did show us that data about how
OMG
is the other magazine
Hers
subscribers are most likely to buy. Our readers are not exactly
New Yorker
fans.”

“Our readers are idiots, just like Mimi!
Idiots!
” He shouts it, making a passing woman flinch. Mark sighs and snatches a package of Hostess Sno Balls. I happen to know this is the reason he designated the 99-cent store our covert meeting spot. He would never admit it, much less let anyone else catch him eating the hyper-processed snack; after all, he prides himself on his rarefied diet of artisanal farmer’s market fare. My eating habits are not nearly as virtuous, but just glancing at a Sno Ball gives me a sugar headache, that cloying pressure that permeates the brain.

“Let’s go,” Mark says, tearing open the cake’s package. The cellophane squeak sends a shiver down my spine.

 

The next morning, Mark is fired. He emerges from Mimi’s office fuming. I am technically his employee, so I hope it doesn’t look remarkable that he immediately calls me into his office.

“That
Me-me-me
Walsh possesses a complete and utter lack of taste,” he says. “And our readers are total morons who couldn’t recognize fine design if it showed up and magically made over their living rooms.” Mark sits there like a lump as he rants and raves, and meanwhile he has an hour to pack up all his belongings. “I am so happy, I am goddamn thrilled to be free of this fucking place, to never have to return to this shithole ever again.”

I start clearing out Mark’s desk drawers, zoning out the rest of his diatribe and saying not a word. I don’t respond to his freak-out, nor do I point out that Mimi seems to be noticing and appreciating my taste. I don’t mention that I am still employed at this so-called shithole, or that I have already filled three boxes to Mark’s zero. Never mind the fact that now we can finally be open about our relationship. I keep my mouth shut then, and also an hour after Mark is gone when Lynn, the new creative director, moves into his cleared-out office, and also that night when I arrive home and Mark shouts out hello.

He’s in the living room, slapping thick swaths of paint onto a canvas. Flecks of red and green speckle the carpet. The guy who will pick a fight over a lack of a coaster under a glass apparently hasn’t laid down a drop cloth before deciding to pull a Jackson Pollock. An empty wine bottle rests atop the side table. Mark says something, but I can barely hear him over the music: Nirvana.