Girl Before a Mirror (3 page)

“Wait.” Charlton stops. Sighhhh. I turn back around. “What's in the bag?” Charlton asks, motioning to the bright pink gift bag.

“What?” I ask.

“The bag? What's in the bag? You bring me something?” Charlton asks.

“What? No,” I say.

“Are you seriously not going to tell me what's in the bag?” Charlton asks.

“It's a mug,” I say, pulling Allison's handmade mug from the bag with a flourish.

“Why'd you bring—” Charlton asks. Audrey walks over and stands next to him.

“It's my birthday. I was at my birthday dinner before coming here. It was a gift,” I say, tucking the mug carefully back within the folds of the pink tissue paper.

“I knew it was a mug,” Chuck says.

“You did,” I say.

“Happy birthday,” Charlton says.

“Thank you. So, the pitch is this week—” I say, not knowing why I feel the need to elaborate on a lie.

“You're talking about business again . . . ,” Charlton says, trailing off.

“Anna,” I offer.

“Anna,” he says. “Time for you to go.”

“Yes, sir.” I turn to walk out again. Charlton continues, “This is forty for you, right?” I turn back around, not mentioning that for someone who acts like he doesn't know my name it's downright sloppy to admit that he remembers how old I am

“I think she looks great for forty,” Audrey says. Ace Bondage
finishes with a crack of her whip and the crowd applauds or whatever it is that strip joint audiences do when they're—you know what? Let's stick with applauds. A woman in a Catholic schoolgirl's uniform strolls out on stage and I'm happy to learn that her name is The Lori Hole.

“At least you're younger than Audrey over there,” Charlton says. Audrey is thirty-eight years old. Just turned, actually. We had an office party. Charlton attended—gave a speech even, as he's wont to do.

I nod and stay quiet, not wanting to take Charlton's bait or be privy to whatever it is that Ms. Hole there does to earn her that moniker. Audrey slinks away without a word.

“You too. Off you go,” Charlton says.

“Yes, sir,” I say, my eyes flipping from Charlton to Chuck and then to the countless other Holloway/Greene ad agents whose pockets are filled with ones and who sport crooked Ivy League colored neckties around pressed, sweat-stained Brooks Brothers shirts. And then I see Audrey. Old Maid Audrey—according to Charlton—over in the corner buying another round of drinks and lap dances for everyone.

I continue walking.

Little do they know . . .

They've all been Marpled.

I plucked the shower gel I used this morning from the grocery store shelf for no discernible reason. Why that shower gel? Was it because it had shea butter in it—do I even know what shea butter is?—or was it because it promised to make me feel younger, more refreshed, or softer to the touch? Was it because the packaging was simple and clean or was it because I was rushing through the store and just needed some G.D. shower gel? As I take the Metro into the office the next morning, these questions haunt me. I have to convince Lumineux—then Quincy—that I am the person who can make it the brand women write down on their grocery lists—not just shower gel, but Lumineux Shower Gel. The one they reach for instead of the hundred other shower gels available to them. So how do I make it stand out? It'd help if the name weren't such a messy mouthful. The first thing on my list, however, has to be getting the pitch meeting.

I get into the office early, and with the go-ahead from Charlton Holloway himself dive into everything Lumineux.

It was Quincy Pharmaceuticals' first product back in 1917: Lumineux Medicated Arsenic Soap Wafers. It was how Quincy got its start, and the company hasn't rebranded it once since 1917 from the looks of it. Nope. Wait. Scratch that. I find some artwork that can only be described as a rainbow-suspender, side-ponytailed explosion when they announced the switch from soap to shower gel. I laugh and shake my head.

“Lumineux is the soap your mom's weird friend uses,” I say to myself. As I walk into the break room in search of another mug of tea, I allow that Lumineux isn't actually bad. It smells really good. Old-timey. Like soap. It's odd that that's what's revolutionary about it. I pull a tea bag out of the drawer and drop it into the mug Allison made me for my birthday. I pour in some hot water and let the quiet of the room settle in around me.

I am waiting until 10:15
A.M
. to put in my phone call to one Preeti Dayal, the unsuspecting vice president in charge of Lumineux marketing. She will have ingested enough caffeine, handled any emergencies from the weekend, and just started returning e-mails when—blammo—an intriguing phone call from whom? Why, she doesn't have another meeting until eleven
A.M
. (I checked), sure she'll take the call, and that's when I'll strike. And a year later I'll be handling all of Quincy Pharmaceuticals' ad campaigns and running through a sun-kissed wheat field in a white linen sundress laughing. (Or some version of that . . . )

I walk back to my office just as Audrey hurries through the front door of the agency.

“Surprised to see you here this early,” I say, stopping at the door to my office.

“You really shouldn't be,” she says. Her voice is sharp.

“No, you're right.” A smile. “Have a good one,” I say and walk into my office.

“I apologize,” she says, appearing at my door.

“For what?” I ask.

“My father is a good man. He's just doing what his father did before him and so on,” Audrey says.

“You certainly don't need to explain anything to me,” I say.

“It's Chuck,” she says.

“Chuck seems harmless enough,” I say, finally able to take a sip of my tea.

“To you maybe,” Audrey says, her voice sharp again. I can't have this conversation right now. I'm nowhere near focused enough to navigate the shark-infested waters that are Audrey Holloway's gripes with the politics of her family. Maybe I should give her the number of my therapist. But right now? I have a life-changing phone call to make and I need to get ready for it before the office begins to fill up.

“No, you're right,” I say, hoping to speed her exit along. Audrey lingers at my door. And lingers. And now it's getting weird. Fine. “Not to you?” Audrey swans into my office, closing the door behind her. Great. This better not take long.

“He's Elizabeth the First,” Audrey says, floating into one of the client chairs across from me.

“I'm sorry?”

“He's Elizabeth the First and I'm Bloody Mary,” Audrey says.

“I'm not following.”

“I am the rightful heir to the throne and yet . . .” She trails off as if that's all it will take to clarify this situation.

“Bloody Mary ruled,” I say.

“What?”

“Mary the First ruled England for around five years,” I say.

“No, I mean—”

“Are you thinking of Mary, Queen of Scots?” I ask, as the clock ticks ever closer to 10:15
A.M
.

“The one Elizabeth had beheaded.”

“Mary, Queen of Scots. She's a cousin. It's rumored Mary the First died of cancer.”

“Cancer? Wait . . .”

“If anything Chuck is Edward the Sixth.”

“You're confusing me,” she says. I put my hands up and give her my full focus.

“You fear you will be skipped. That when Charlton retires, he will pass the corner office and all that comes with it to Chuck and not you, just as the throne was given to Edward the Sixth despite Mary being first—solely because he was the male heir,” I say, boiling down wildly complicated events in history to fit Audrey's needs.

“And who says community colleges don't teach anything valuable,” she says. I am quiet. A beat. “But yes. I'm first.”

“Yep.”

“Chuck is Charlton Holloway the Fifth and he enjoys strippers and golf and I don't. I went to Princeton, too, you know,” she says.

“You're doing the best you can,” I say, not wanting to bring up that while Audrey may have her eye on the throne, she hasn't exactly been burning up the track to make her mark in the kingdom, if you will. She has yet to bring in one big account, whereas even Chuck, the village idiot, brought in some terrible energy drink that a couple of his frat brothers at Princeton invented. Maybe instead of eyeing the throne, Audrey should roll up her
sleeves and get to work. Still, if Audrey were a man, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Her father would be grooming her to take over Holloway/Greene, and that'd be that.

A knock on my office door. Thank God. I tell whoever it is to come in.

A young woman so extraordinarily beautiful I can think of nothing to say except “Casting is down the hall” walks through the door.

“I'm sorry?” the woman asks.

“You're here for the car commercial, right?” I ask.

“Um . . .” The woman tucks a luxurious black tress behind her ear; her flawless skin is downright dewy. She nervously runs a hand down the length of her perfect figure before letting it rest at her side.

“Anna Wyatt, this is Sasha Merchant. Chuck hired her. We're apparently supposed to find a place for her in our art department.” Audrey's voice is cruel. Sasha shifts in the doorway.

“Hi . . . um, hello,” Sasha says.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, standing and extending my hand to her. She takes it, and instead of shaking it, she uses it to anchor a bizarrely childlike curtsy and becomes immediately mortified. I offer Sasha a seat. She sits. Audrey has yet to look at her.

“Chuck said to put Sasha on whatever account you were going on about last night,” Audrey says, making her way out of my office.

“Lumineux?” I ask.

“I'm sure I don't know,” Audrey says. I begin to speak, but Audrey cuts me off. “Something wrong?”

“No. Nothing. Please thank him for being so thoughtful,” I say.

“I will,” she says with a smile, and I'm left alone with Sasha. We are quiet. I take a sip of my tea. Sasha clears her throat.

“I have to make a quick phone call. Is there any way I can come find you after I finish?” I ask.

“Oh . . . oh, sure,” she says with a quick nod as she unfolds her nearly six-foot frame out of my client chair and turns for the door.

“I'll be there around ten forty-five?” I say.

“Sure . . . sure,” she says, and just before she closes the door behind her she adds, “I can't wait to get to work.”

Aaaand I'll deal with that whole thing in due time. Sasha seems like a nice enough kid, but Lumineux and I aren't going to need any help, thank you very much.

A deep breath. A look at the clock. And I dial. And then I'm lost in some maze of press one to speak English and if you know your party's extension just . . . I press zero. And zero. And zero. And scream “Representative” into the phone and when that doesn't work I say “Agent” and then more options and I have no idea how far down the yellow brick road I am, but now I'm being asked if I'm calling from a doctor's office and if this is an emergency and another screamed “Operator!” and finally I get the click and then, “One moment, a Quincy representative will be right with you.”

And then I hold. I sip my tea, scroll through e-mails, and dust my computer keyboard with the old napkin I got from the coffeehouse this morning.

“Quincy Pharmaceuticals. How may I direct your call?”

“Preeti Dayal, please,” I say.

“One moment.”

Ha!
Marpled
. A few clicks.

“Preeti Dayal's office,” she says in the silken voice of a woman who answers phones in the expensive high-rises in New York City.

“This is Anna Wyatt for Preeti Dayal,” I say as confidently as I can.

“And what is this regarding?”

“Lumineux Shower Gel,” I say.

“One moment, I'll see if she's available,” she says after a pause. I'm not breathing. Is she going to let me get through or come back and tell me that Ms. Dayal is “in a meeting” or “on a call”? I've been an assistant. I know the tricks. Still not breathing. Still not breathing.

“This is Preeti Dayal,” the woman says.
Huzzah!

“Hello, Ms. Dayal, this is Anna Wyatt from Holloway/Greene,” I say.

“I'm not familiar with Holloway/Greene, Ms. Wyatt.”

“We are an advertising agency in Washington, D.C.”

“Ah. I'm sorry, Ms. Wyatt, but—”

“All I want is a meeting, Ms. Dayal. Lumineux Shower Gel is prime for rebranding. It's retro without being dated. It's traditional without being stuffy. It's in a class by itself,” I say.

“Ms. Wyatt—”

“The soap is good, but people have forgotten about it. Whoever is doing your advertising is missing a golden opportunity. All I'm asking for is a meeting. Half an hour of your time,” I say.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but Lumineux Shower Gel is not looking—”

“Quincy Pharmaceuticals was built from Lumineux. It's been relegated to the shadows for too long, wouldn't you say?”

A long beat.

“It appears I've just had a cancellation.”
Woot!
“For tomorrow.”
What?
“If you're serious, Ms. Wyatt.”

“Oh, yes, I'm quite serious,” I say.

“Then I will see you in my office tomorrow morning at eleven
A.M
.,” she says and hangs up without further fanfare.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Before I can panic, I walk out of my office to look for Sasha. Looks like I'll need that help after all. Sasha is sitting by herself in the bull pen as a pack of men study her from afar. She acts like she doesn't notice as she doodles in her sketchpad. I wave her over. The panic, at this point, is dangerously near. It's in my throat. My brain is still whirlpooling around the information, unable to understand or catch or process the task at hand. It's just this spiral of: Yay! Ugh! Yay! Ugh! Yay! Ugh! Sasha walks into my office and closes the door behind her.

“Good news, bad news,” I say.

“Good news first,” she says.

“We got a pitch meeting with the vice president over at Lumineux Shower Gel,” I say.

“That's great!”

“It's for tomorrow,” I say.

“What?”

“It's for tomorrow,” I say, leaving out the whole lying, scheming, don't-really-have-an-account, trying-to-take-over-the-world plan of mine.

“I don't . . . wow,” she says.

“So, you've never worked in an ad agency before, right?” I ask.

“What?” A look from me. Sasha deflates. “No, but—”

“Oh, I don't care, Ms. Merchant; I just want to know where we stand,” I say, sifting through the file I've worked up on all
things Lumineux. I look up from the file and across the desk at Sasha. I've upset her.

“I just want a chance, Ms. Wyatt,” Sasha says.

“That makes two of us,” I say. She smiles and I can see her shoulders relax. She takes out her art supplies and pulls her chair closer to my desk. I reach across for Sasha's sketchpad. “May I?” Sasha is hesitant but finally hands it over. I flip through her sketches and, oh, thank God . . . they're good. Great, actually. Her drawings are modern but nostalgic, if that makes any sense. One after the other after the other. “They're beautiful. You're really good.” I hand the sketchpad back to her and I swear she looks as though she's on the verge of tears.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Now. Let's get to work.”

We spend the next several hours going down the wrong path. We get stuck on trying to advertise Lumineux as some nostalgic trip down memory lane. Use Lumineux, remember your grammy. Use Lumineux and remember when soap smelled like soap. Failed taglines and Sasha's sketches now litter my office. None of it works and we've wasted precious hours. But I know this is the process. We order out for a late lunch and Sasha volunteers to pick it up, which will give me a nice break from realizing that Sasha is too young for every pop culture reference I try to make. This movie? Blank stare. That one TV show and this famous scene? Nothing. How about this oft-quoted line and accompanying swoon? To which she offered that she could “Google it,” and then I opened up a hard candy in the middle of a theater and told everyone it was too cold and where was my sweater.

As I wait for Sasha to return, I can hear the bustle of the agency just outside my door. I turn around and face my window,
which overlooks Wisconsin Avenue. The brick buildings give way to the lush green of Georgetown Waterfront Park as the bustling pedestrians battle yet another humid D.C. summer.