Girl Before a Mirror (29 page)

Sasha texts me that Lumineux is not happy at Holloway/Greene. Audrey screwed up a big meeting this morning. They wanted all different versions of the campaign for the international market and all Audrey did was pass off the same ones we used in the United States. And then Audrey tried to pin it on the team. That was when Preeti stepped in, telling everyone that wasn't what happened and pointedly asking Audrey if she needed time to collect herself.

It was the first negative experience Lumineux had with Holloway/Greene and one that made a Lumineux executive ask why I wasn't on the conference call. Sasha said he hadn't been told I quit. Apparently he was not happy. He finally said, “Please govern yourself more professionally in the future, Ms. Holloway. Ms. Wyatt was our point person on this account. Please let us not mourn her absence moving forward.” Of course, I'm conflicted. Cheese. Change channels. Switch the laundry. Troll the Internet for news on Lumineux. The phenomenon still rolls on. I pat myself on the back. Curse that Lincoln doesn't have any social media that I can stalk him on. More cheese. I change the channel again.

Sixteen Candles
.

I stop.

I set the remote control down, put my plate of cheese and crackers on the coffee table, and lean forward. I've watched this movie hundreds of times. But this time? I'm watching one thing.

Anthony Michael Hall.

The yellow oxford cloth shirt.
THAT? Is what the pictures are
for
. Drinking the martini in Jake Ryan's kitchen. I'm smiling. Laughing.
“My clean, close shave?”
“He really was the best,” I say in a reverent whisper. The iconic shot of Jake Ryan in front of the red Porsche. And as the movie comes to an end, I mouth the lines right along with them.
“Happy birthday, Samantha. Make a wish.”
I swoon. The song. That plaid shirt.
“It already came true.”
Sighhhh.

The credits. Anthony Michael Hall is literally called just The Geek. I think about Chuck's words. Could he have been right? I mean, it doesn't get much better than The Geek in
Sixteen Candles
—maybe Brian Johnson in
The Break fast Club
, but no matter what anyone says, Anthony Michael Hall is not better in
Dead Zone
. This? This is his sweet spot. This is what he's good at. I click off the TV, still humming “If You Were Here” as I clean up my all-cheese dinner.

I'm great at advertising women's products. This is the truth. I rinse my plate and put it into the dish drainer. My hand stays curled around the plate. Wait. The water from the plate dribbles down my arm. I don't move.

I'm great at advertising women's products.

Why is that a bad thing? Why did I take it as an insult? I pull my hand back from the wet plate and absently dry my arm off with the dish towel. I turn around and lean back against the kitchen counter. I scan everything in my kitchen.

Women are the most powerful, influential consumers. From bath gel and toothpaste to real estate and automobiles, the power of the buy lies with women. They are the decision makers. As in charge as my own father thought he was, it was my mother who gave him the nod about which car we could buy. It was my mother who bought everything in the house—from the furniture
to the milk in the refrigerator. Even the homes we lived in, my mother had the final say. And yet advertising insists on disrespecting, misunderstanding, and downright ignoring women.

I am great at advertising women's products.

I am also great at advertising to and for women.

Why is advertising products directed at women, for women, less important? Whose rules are those? Once again, why is that romance novel any less important than that slim volume of cryptic poetry you insist is groundbreaking?

It's not.

I walk over to my desk and find a legal pad and a pen. I sit back down on the couch and open up my laptop. Chuck wanted me to handle women's products for Holloway/Greene. What if I started my own agency specializing in just that: products for women, by women. I spend the rest of the night researching and writing notes and coming up with ideas and growing more excited and terrified as I sketch out a dream I never even knew existed inside me. A dream that's been waiting for me to be strong enough to believe in it. A dream that relied on me trusting myself. Acknowledging myself.

I look up at the clock. Three thirty
A.M
. My entire coffee table is littered with papers and sketches and complicated equations and information on 401(k)s and bank accounts and how much does that tiny office space cost a month?

I close my laptop. I flip the sheet on the legal pad and brush my hand over the clean paper. I take my pen and write in a black sharpie:

XIX

“
Nineteen
. After the Nineteenth Amendment,” I say. Out loud. A deep breath. No tears. No doubts. This is the most right
thing I've ever done in my life. This is what makes living a life of “fine” laughable. I'll open an agency specializing solely in women's products. And I'll be honored to do so.

Now.

I'm going to need Sasha. And I'm going to need Preeti.

Sasha sneaks into the restaurant in oversized sunglasses and a giant floppy hat the next day for lunch. She sees me and slinks over, sliding into the booth with a conspiratorial nod.

“'Ello there,” she says, her voice breathy and is that . . .

“Are you speaking with a British accent?” I ask.

“Now you're just being daft,” Sasha says, sweeping off her sunglasses.

“You know you actually stick out more with all that stuff,” I say.

“Oh, I know. It's awesome, though, right?” Sasha asks, taking her hat off and primping her perfect black ringlets.

“You're ridiculous,” I say, happy to see her.

“You look good. Out of those clothes,” she says, setting her floppy hat on the table.

“I know. I should do a ritual burning,” I say.

“Not of Ferdie's jersey, though,” Sasha says.

“No, of course not,” I say.

The waitress comes over and we order our drinks, promising
her we'll look at the menu and be ready to order by the time she gets back.

“I wish I could have recorded what happened at that meeting the other day. It was so perfect,” Sasha says.

“What went wrong?” I ask.

“It was exactly like you said it would go down. She doesn't know the campaign like we do, so she doesn't get the ins and outs or the nuances well enough to tailor it for the U.K. or Germany or South America, and on and on. She just looked up where the product was going to be advertised—like geographically—and aside from translating it into that language, she just used the U.S. ads. I mean, take Lumineux out of the picture, she has no idea how advertising works. At all. And unlike me, she refuses to learn.”

“Oof.” However badly I want to be irreplaceable, I don't want Lumineux or Preeti to have to shoulder the cost and pay for Audrey's learning curve.

“Audrey was just shell-shocked. I don't think she had any idea what went wrong. Kind of felt sorry for her, truth be told. Then she called me Clara and . . . oh, look at that, sympathy all gone,” Sasha says. The waitress comes back and is very disapproving that we haven't had time to look at the menu yet. Sasha and I make a point to scour the menu for what we want and are ready when she returns with our drink refills.

“So, I have an idea,” I say, once the waitress leaves us alone.

“Oh?”

“What if we started our own agency?”

“What?”

“And all we did was women's products. That's our hook. Our thing,” I say.

“Just—”

“Women's products.”

“Anna, I—”

“With the bonuses that Charlton gave us for that Employee of the Year thing, plus 401(k)s and savings, it could work. Fifty-fifty. We'd be partners. The buzz we have on Lumineux could get us some meetings and then in four or five yea—”

“Anna, I—”

“If Lumineux is unhappy, we can meet with Preeti. I'm sure she would come over to us—at the very least get us a meeting. And that account alone could bankroll us while we bring in new clients. And I'm thinking? Why not New York? Ferdie is doing so well now and I think moving to New York would actually be a good thing. It'd prove that I trust him. That I'm—”

“Anna—”

“And we could meet with Helen. I sent her an e-mail yesterday—about quitting Holloway/Greene and my idea about the agency. I want to call it Nineteen. For the Nineteenth Amendment? Where women got the right to vote? And the logo would just be roman numerals. Just an XIX. It looks really cool. And you could design the logo and be in charge of the art dep—”

“Anna—”

“Don't say no. Please? Can you just thi—”

“Anna! I'm in. I was in twenty minutes ago,” Sasha says.

“Really?” I say, standing up awkwardly in the booth trying to hug her, but really only grasping her arms and kind of touching her hair in the process.

“Are you kidding? It's the opportunity of a lifetime,” Sasha says. “And I love the idea about just repping women's products.
That's genius. Oh, and Preeti? Has already asked if you're starting your own agency. So . . . we're so in.”

“She has?”

“Yep. After the fiasco with Audrey she came to my office. Asked about you and, of course, I told her everything. She especially liked that you did the entire thing dressed as Princess Leia.”

“It's actually odd—or maybe it's just my survival skills kicking in—that I keep forgetting that fact,” I say.

“Hard to, really,” Sasha says, miming huge cinnamon buns on the sides of her head. “I'll give my two weeks, but in the interim why don't we set up a meeting with Preeti. She's still in town. You know what? Why don't we see if she's free for drinks later?” Sasha asks, pulling out her phone. She e-mails Preeti just as the waitress brings us our food. I dig into my lunch. Sasha has pulled a pen from her purse, pushed her meal to one side, flipped over her place mat, and is now doodling several versions of a logo design. As I eat, Sasha is lost in her design. After a few minutes I try to make idle conversation.

“Depending on what work we get initially, we'll have to think about hiring. A receptionist, interns, support staff. It's going to be—”

“Amazing,” Sasha says, turning the place mat around with the logo.
The
logo. XIX. It takes my breath away.

“Oh, Sasha. It's perfect,” I say.

“I know,” she says, smiling. She folds the place mat up and slides it into her purse. “I'll dabble with it a bit. Finalize it.” She pulls her lunch back over and digs in.

Sasha and I meet with Preeti that night and she's beyond excited. She can work her magic over at Quincy and move
Lumineux over to the newly formed XIX straightaway. She'll set up a meeting. She says it'll be easier for her to sell it because it's me at the helm and XIX will be in New York. Apparently, Holloway/Greene being in D.C. has always been a sticking point for the Quincy higher-ups. And fortunately for us, Audrey's screwup will encourage Lumineux to jump ship that much more.

As I'm getting ready for bed that night I get a text from Lincoln. It's a picture of his computer keyboard covered in tea and he's giving it the V sign, which I quickly look up on the Internet and learn that that's basically the British middle finger. I cringe. Spilling tea on my keyboard. My worst nightmare. I walk into the bathroom and brush my teeth. As I'm looking at my hair in the mirror, I spy one single gray hair—right in front, of course. Before I pluck it out with a vengeance, I take a picture of it and send it along to Lincoln.

Two weeks later, with Sasha no longer at Holloway/Greene, we head up to New York early to meet with Helen. We've sent our business plan ahead for her to review. On the train ride I give notice on my apartment and start poking around to find a new one. My heart rate slows down. Because moving? I'm good at.

Do I schedule a dinner with Michael and Allison? Or is this just another aspect of being an adult? It's a two-hour train ride, we'll still have our book clubs and the kids' birthday parties, as well as the impending birth of their newest. And what about Hannah and Nathan? How does that work? Hey, let's have dinner and how's that separation I'm not supposed to know about going? I've got time, I'll figure those out. And Ferdie. I can't deal with Ferdie right now, because believing that moving to New York is treating him as an adult seems very far away. I
still want to Bubble Wrap him and make sure he's okay, and I know that's called enabling now, but that doesn't mean it doesn't feel completely foreign to not do those things. It took everything I had not to clean out his apartment now that we know for sure he's not returning. He has to take care of it.
He has to take care of it
. But if I could just e-mail him this company's information that does this sort of . . .
No
. Walk away from the to-do list, Anna.

Sasha and I stand in front of Helen's drool-worthy brownstone on the Upper West Side. I hold the slip of paper with the address, my workbag slung over one shoulder, my purse tucked just underneath it. Sasha pulls me over and looks at the address again.

“Central Park is just—” I say, motioning to the beautiful park just behind us.

“I knew people lived here, I just didn't know
I knew
people who lived here,” Sasha says.

We walk up to the imposing limestone face and brick façade, careful not to touch the Grecian columns and in awe of the triangular pediment looming large above us. We pick our way up the marble steps, taking in the elaborate topiaries adorning either side of the imposing brass door. There's a call button on one side.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Nine twenty-seven
A.M
.,” Sasha says, checking her phone.

“Okay,” I say, pushing the call button.

“Yes?” the voice asks.

“Anna Wyatt and Sasha Merchant to see Helen Brubaker?” A buzz and I push open the heavy door. We step into the black-and-white marble-tiled foyer. Beautiful floral arrangements
pepper the hallway as chandeliers twinkle and illuminate the room high above. To the left are a couple of French doors and a woman behind a reception desk. Sasha and I proceed with caution.

“Helen will be right down. Can I get you anything? Tea?” the woman asks.

“Tea would be lovely,” I say. Sasha and I settle onto a white tufted couch. White. Everything is white.

“Do you take anything?” the woman asks.

“No, thank you,” I say. The woman looks from me to Sasha.

“Nothing for me, thanks . . . thanks you. Nothing for me, thank you,” Sasha says. The woman walks to the left of reception and into a little kitchenette.

“It's okay to ask for the beverage you want. It lets them know that you belong here,” I say.

“I just feel so guilty, you know?” Sasha whispers. “Like who do I think I am, right?”

“It's okay to let her do her job, and you deserve to be here,” I say.

“Okay,” Sasha says, situating herself in her chair. The woman comes back with my cup of tea. Fortnum and Mason, just like in Phoenix. “If I could trouble you?” Sasha says. “I'd love a coffee.”

“No problem at all. What do you take?” the woman asks with a smile.

“Soy milk and sugar, please,” Sasha asks.

“Just like Helen,” the woman says, smiling. Sasha beams.

“Just like Helen,” Sasha repeats once the woman excuses herself to the kitchenette.

“Fancy,” I say, letting the scent of tea calm me. I close my eyes and inhale.

“I hope I don't spill. Everything is white white white,” Sasha says.

“Have you ever spilled coffee before?” I ask.

“What? No, of course not,” Sasha says.

“So, there's no precedent. You're not a coffee spiller,” I say.

“Right. I am not a coffee spiller,” Sasha repeats.

“And if you do? It's white, they can bleach it out. You don't think that receptionist has one of those bleach sticks in her desk right this very moment?” I ask.

“Right. She totally does. They can bleach it out,” Sasha whispers to herself. The woman comes back with a cup of coffee for Sasha. “Thank you ever so.” The woman smiles, albeit a tad confused. I'm holding back laughter as I turn to Sasha. “I don't know. I'm out of my mind. I can't . . .” She blows on her coffee and I know her hands are shaking by the tinkling of the teacup on her saucer. Sasha laughs and I can see she's lightening up a bit as we sit and drink our beverages in Helen Brubaker's perfect white waiting room.

“We should do something like this. I love it. And we could totally do it on the cheap. A waiting area that's feminine. Flowers. Tufted couches. Tea in teacups.”

“Right. It's so interesting because my worry was that it would seem unprofessional, you know? Like a girls' clubhouse, but I don't feel like that here,” Sasha says.

“No way, it's the ex—” The woman's phone buzzes and a yes, ma'am, and a sure and a straightaway. She hangs up and tells us that Helen is ready.

“Follow me, if you will,” the woman says, walking out of the reception area and down the marble-tiled hallway, under the
sweeping chandeliers, and the smell of stargazer lilies and fresh-cut flowers wafts as we pass conference rooms and copy rooms and offices.

Two grand doors at the end of the hallway. I can hear Sasha's teacup saucer begin to chatter again. I turn around and just smile. A deep breath. The woman opens the doors and motions for us to continue in. I thank her and she clacks back down the hallway.

“Come on in,” Helen says, coming out from behind her desk. The windows. The Persian rugs. The walls lined with filled bookcases. All you can hear are Sasha's and my clattering teacups. “Here. Put those down before you spill something.” Helen gestures to a meeting area on the opposite side of her desk. It's situated in a little nook surrounded by bay windows with a lush patch of green just outside, a fountain bubbling in the distance. Little birds flit and bathe themselves as we situate ourselves around the table.

“Thank you so much for seeing us,” I say.

“I'm your mentor. This is me mentoring,” she says. The woman comes in and sets a pot of tea down in the middle of the table. She hands Helen a perfectly made cappuccino with a heart in foam on the top. Sasha and I shoot a look at each other. “I know. She spoils me.” Helen takes a sip of her coffee, licking her top lip of foam with a dainty shrug. “So, you two are opening your own agency.”

“Yes. I had this conversation with Chuck Holloway—Charlton Holloway's son and the next in line—where he said that I was great at marketing women's products. At the time, I took it as an insult.”

“As you do,” Helen says. Another sip.

“I wanted the important accounts. The ones on the website. The ones—”

“For men,” Helen says.

“Exactly,” I say.