Girl Before a Mirror (25 page)

Ferdie looks over at me and I shake my head . . . I'm sorry I'm crying. I'm sorry I'm almost hysterical, I try to get across. And he smiles, pulling me in. I tuck under his arm.

“Okay, it's time for birthdays,” Joe says. He counts back from twenty years. A gray-haired woman in a pressed pantsuit stands up at eighteen years. Fifteen. Ten years. Five years. Three years. And at a year a handful of people rise and Joe presents all the people who are celebrating a birthday with a cake. We clap and the cake gets swept off and cut and set out on paper plates next to the terrible burned coffee.

“Okay, nine months . . . six months . . . ninety days?” Joe asks. A few people stand and accept their chips from Joe. We clap and they can't help but smile. This sneaking smile that just breaks my heart. They tuck the chip into a pocket or slide it onto a key ring with the others. Whatever they do with it, it's clearly a treasure.

“Sixty days?” Joe asks. One man steps up and Joe presents him with the chip. He has much to say. How he got here. How he's an inspiration. I hear Ralph whisper, “Well, he has it all figured out, doesn't he?” to Ferdie. And Ferdie smiles.

“Thirty days?” The people who appeared in a line from behind the podium all stand and approach Joe in the front of the room. Joe presents them each with a little chip. It looks almost like a poker chip from where I'm sitting. The men and women thank him and they smile. Hope. Fear. Stooped shoulders on some and others walk tall. Ferdie takes his chip and he
just . . . holds it, lovingly curling his fingers around it as he walks back to us.

Ferdie settles back in next to me and shows me the little chip. There are words inscribed on it:
TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE.
I smile. I hand it back to him and he just cradles the damn thing. This from the kid who used to use state hockey trophies for shooting practice.

“I want to thank y'all for coming, and as we always do we're going to say the Lord's prayer and then end with the serenity prayer.” Everyone in the room stands and starts folding up chairs, stacking them along the wall. I follow, folding my chair up and handing it to a gentleman who stacks it along with the others. Everyone gathers back into the middle of the room. I stand next to Ferdie on one side and Ralph on the other. Ralph takes my hand in his and I see that everyone is forming a circle, hand in hand. Ferdie's fingers curl around mine. Everyone starts speaking the Lord's Prayer as one. Then we begin the serenity prayer.

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

And then Ralph and Ferdie both take up my hands and shake them out with each word: “Keep coming back, it works if you work it.”

We let go of our hands and clap.

As the crowd disperses and Ralph says his good-byes, I hold on to Ferdie. I won't get to see him until he gets his sixty-day chip. He has to go. I'm so proud of him, I say. I'm babbling. I'm crying. And he just sweeps me up again in his arms, squeezing tighter and tighter.

“I'll eat you up, I love you so,” he whispers.

“Your assistant summoned me?” Audrey asks, knocking on my door first thing the next morning.

“Yes, won't you come in,” I say, motioning to my client chairs. I'm brain dead this morning. I didn't sleep at all last night. How could I? All the pieces are finally coming together. Why we are the way we are. Trust and safe distances. Having surface relationships and never being vulnerable with anyone wasn't a choice for us—it was a necessity. Acting like we cared or looking to someone else for any kind of validation meant either getting our noses broken or being ignored.

But something feels different now. And it's not about blame. This is my life. Ferdie and I are adults. Just like Audrey and Chuck. I am not my story and I certainly don't want to sit around and spend the next forty years talking about how everything is my parents' fault. What's the saying—that would be time spent drinking poison and expecting them to die? I'm not going to give them even more power and walk around like I'm some remora feeding off a sad childhood.

But it does feel like we've finally taken a flashlight and looked to see what was making all those scary noises just outside our bedroom window. And while it's certainly not nothing, it's nowhere near as bad as what we dreamed up night after night trembling under our covers. By making the decision to face our demons, Ferdie and I have given ourselves a shot at a future. But once again, making a decision to face demons and actually facing those demons are two very different things.

“Well, what is it?” Audrey asks.

“I spoke with Preeti yesterday. She said you approached her with some ideas about billboards?” I ask. I take a long drink of my tea.

“Yes, about that—” I put a finger up. She stops talking. I have every intention of laying into her, but then . . .

“Let's hear them,” I say. I'm tired of fighting.

“What?”

“Let's hear your ideas. She said they were good,” I say. Audrey walks me through her ideas, and just as Preeti said, they're not bad. They're not great or anything we can use, but they're not terrible. “Those are good.”

“Thanks,” she says. I am quiet. I don't even have to say it. “I know what you're going to say, that I should have spoken with you before going to Preeti, but I didn't know how you would react and—”

“You've just seen how I reacted.”

“Right.”

“And how was it?”

“It was good . . .”

“But?”

“Oh, please,” Audrey says.

“Oh please, what?”

“This meeting is an aberration. I didn't bring you those ideas because you can't not roll your eyes when I'm speaking,” she says, and it's all I can do not to roll my eyes. “You almost did it right there.”

“You've done everything you can to undermine me and you wonder why I don't rejoice at your ideas?”

“I've done what I've had to do. Just like you.”

“I'm not your enemy, Audrey. Are you hearing that? I just want to come to work and do my job. Why is that, all of a sudden, something you find offensive?”

“I'm not threatened by you,” Audrey scoffs.

“I never said you were.” Audrey is quiet. “You want to be on our team? Be on our team. Roll up your sleeves and get to work. We'd be happy to have you,” I say.

“I don't need you to welcome me to your team, Anna.”

“Stop. Stop already. God, do you hear yourself?”

“Of course I hear mys—”

“We used to grab dinner after work. Do you remember that? Remember when we met that one client at that hotel and he was all nervous so he ordered—”

“Jam,” Audrey says.

“I mean, maybe he thought it was going to be a fruit plate? But either way he spent that entire meeting eating a ramekin of jam with a fork like he meant to do it.” Audrey laughs.

“Didn't even order toast,” Audrey says, smiling.

“He was in too deep,” I say. Audrey laughs and then the smile fades. “Please,” I say. “We can do this. Let me be your ally. As you said, there are so few women in this office—”

“You don't understand,” she says.

“Make me understand.” She shakes her head and won't look at me. A deep breath and she throws her head high. She recrosses her legs and her mouth settles into a hard line. “Audrey.”

“Look. You don't need to worry. I don't want Lumineux,” she finally says. The truth. For once.

“What?”

“I mean . . . really?”

“It sure doesn't look that way,” I say.

“I think it's adorable what you guys have done, but Lumineux just . . . well, it's not really where I see myself.”

“Finally. We agree on something,” I say.

“Oh, relax,” she says. Sasha knocks on the door.

“Oh.
Ohhhhh
. I'm sorry,” Sasha says, her face draining of all color upon seeing Audrey.

“No, no. Come on in. Don't let me keep you,” Audrey says, standing.

“Think about what I've said. Please,” I say. Audrey just stares at me for a long moment. She looks at me as if I'm a busy street and she's trying to figure out how to safely traverse it to the other side. A breath. A resolution. Her head held high. And she turns toward the door.

“Excuse me . . .” Audrey trails off.

“Sasha. You know my name is Sasha,” she says, her voice quivering.

“What?” Audrey asks.

“You do,” Sasha says, crossing her arms across her chest.

“Hm,” Audrey says and closes the door behind her.

“What was all that about?” Sasha asks.

“Preeti calls me and says that Audrey approached her with some ideas about billboards,” I say, standing. “Tea. I need tea.”

“Oh . . . sure.” Sasha and I walk to get more tea. “What about the billboards?”

“Meh.”

“So, why didn't she come to the group with them instead of going straight to Preeti?” Sasha asks as we wend our way through the outer office.

“From what I gather her reasons are twofold: one, apparently I roll my eyes whenever she speaks and, more importantly, two, her grand plan only involves Lumineux insofar as it can get her closer to scoring Quincy for herself,” I say. Sasha makes a face.

“Oh, well, that's kind of good news then. I mean, on the Audrey spectrum of things, but still on the good end,” Sasha says, as we finally get to the break room. I pull a tea bag from the cupboard and drop it into the mug Allison made me for my birthday. I pour in the hot water as Sasha tops off her coffee.

“That was pretty amazing what you said,” I say.

“Right?? I felt like such a badass.
You know my name is Sasha
,” she repeats in what sounds like a slight Austrian accent.

“It was pretty great,” I say, and Sasha beams. “And we'll just keep an eye on Audrey. It's all we can really do.”

“We'll just be extra aware,” Sasha says, putting her finger on the side of her nose along with an elaborate wink.

“Keep your friends close . . . ,” I lead.

“Definitely.” Sasha agrees, missing the opportunity. “So, we're going to be in New York, huh?”

“Yeah, Josh on Monday and—”

“Isn't that where Lincoln is?” I narrow my eyes at her. “And we know where he works, right?” Sasha asks.

“We do.”

“I mean, who's to say that you couldn't just accidentally bump
into him, you know? And . . . what's this? Oh, you know—it's just a picnic basket and maybe some red wine in it. I don't know. Is that a baguette and some cheese?” Sasha is, of course, acting this whole scenario out.

“And we're back to the romance novels,” I say.

“Or maybe? He'll know you're in New York and find you,” Sasha says.

“Running through the rain,” I say.

“Oh my God. That would be awesome.”

“Because calling me would be too—”

“Ugh, boring,” Sasha finishes, not even looking up from taking a sip of her coffee.

“Sure.”

“Leaves changing all around you, strolling through Central Park,” Sasha says, now completely swept away.

And then we're on set in New York and it's beyond anything I could have imagined. As the crew hustles, Lumineux executives look on, and makeup fusses with Josh, all I can see is Sasha's drawings come to life and everything we've talked about finally there—right in front of us.
Just Be. Lumineux Shower Gel. The everyday luxury all women deserve
. I take a sip of my tea and try to bask. Try.

“It looks amazing,” Preeti says, taking it all in.

“I know. It's exactly what we envisioned,” I say. Sasha scurries over to the set and moves a textbook here and a dish drainer there. She stands back from the scene, her hand on her chin. She pulls the costume designer in and starts talking about what the kids are wearing. She keeps saying it's too hipster. It's too hipster. The costume designer takes the kids back and they emerge in
much more appropriate attire. Of course, Sasha was right. She joins us once more.

“Yes, these are everyday people, but oh look the kids are wearing designer shirts? Come on,” Sasha says, making a face.

“And the light? From the kitchen window?” I ask.

“I know. It should be duskier,” she says.

“Exactly,” I say. She takes off and is speaking with the lighting guys; I see her motioning to the window and explaining that this is supposed to be at the end of a long workday. The lighting guys are nodding and the light from beyond the faux kitchen window dims as night falls in our little made-up world.

The director we hired for the shoot starts barking orders and moving people around as the photographer stays quiet, shooting and looking at his product on the computer screen. They fuss and perfect and discuss. And we wait. And we sit. And I scroll through e-mails. And laugh with Preeti and gossip with Sasha and we pull out Sasha's initial sketches and then we get into it with the director about a detail we see differently than he does.

And Sasha is lamenting her Time-Out as she watches Josh move through the shoot like a very professional deer in the headlights. I think about what she said about accidentally happening upon Lincoln by his work. Maybe that's a compromise between waiting to see if he shows up to my birthday dinner and letting go. I'm beginning to think it's not the worst idea I've ever heard.

We huddle around the computer screen and watch as the photos of our campaign stream in. The lighting, the composition, the casting is perfect. And as the day continues there is less and less for us to do except sit back and let it sink in. This is happening, this is finally real, and it is everything we hoped it would be.

We crawl back to the hotel late that night and are up bright and early the next day with Lantz. And then we're back at it again on our final day with Jake. And each day it becomes more real and yet it's hard to believe that this is what I get to do with my days and with my life.

I'm good at my job. Really good. I think about what Jake said when we landed Lumineux. About Sasha and I opening our own agency. And now I think that maybe that's not as crazy of an idea as I once thought. If Lumineux is as huge as I think it's going to be and I move up the ranks at Holloway/Greene as I know I will, even with Audrey and Chuck's ridiculousness, I could have my own agency within five years, if I play it right. We can take on all clients and no one could cryptically school me on Quentin Tarantino's accomplishments ever again.

As we wrap on our final day, there is a buzz. We all know we've made something exceptional. What was once a concept has become something extraordinary. Lumineux executives are excited and, while we're all exhausted, all we can do is float back to the hotel on a cloud.

“Chelsea Market is right there,” Sasha says, motioning to the beautiful brick building just at the end of the street.

“Oh cool, maybe we'll go there for breakfast tomorrow,” I say, scrolling through my phone. We decided to stick around New York for one more day just in case there is an issue with the product or Preeti wants to meet, or, you know, Quincy wants to call us in and hire us on the spot for all its advertising needs.

“I'm going to meet some friends for breakfast tomorrow,” Sasha says as we wait for the elevator.

“That sounds great.” I look up from my phone.

“I used to model with them back in the day. It'll be great to see them again.”

“That sounds perfect,” I say.

“The perfect Time-Out activity. Drink?” She motions to the bar just as the elevator opens up. I nod. Why not? We walk over to the bar and settle in at one of the tables.

“A bottle of champagne please,” I say.

“Well, well, well,” Sasha says in what is probably supposed to be a French accent, but only sounds confused and a bit guttural. The waitress brings our champagne over and—
pop
—opens it tableside. Sasha and I just smile. We can't help it. She pours two flutes and sets them in front of us, resting the champagne bottle in a silver bucket next to our table.

“To Lumineux,” I say, raising my glass aloft.

“To us,” Sasha adds.

We clink our glasses together and proceed to spend the rest of the evening drinking champagne. Somewhere around midnight, Sasha starts in.

“So. Tomorrow. Chelsea Market,” she slurs. “You are going to go over to Chelsea Market and buy adorable foods for your accidental meet-up with one Lincoln Mallory.” Of course Sasha says Lincoln's name in a terrible British accent.

“I am?”

“Yes. You'll just . . . oh, hello . . . is this . . . is this where you work? I was just . . . passing by,” Sasha says, acting the entire thing out.

“We've already talked about this. I'm trying to let go, remember?”

“This is kind of letting go. You're letting go of the original plan and coming up with a new one,” Sasha says.

“That's letting-go adjacent,” I say.