Girl Before a Mirror (9 page)

There are moments I miss him, but now I realize I miss the promise of him. What I thought married life would be. Who I thought I'd be as a wife. What I thought it would be like to finally set down roots. Be a family. Have a home of my own. A home I could stay in for longer than eighteen months.

I pull out my phone and begin sending a text to Allison. And then I delete it. How do I even . . . Do I just say it? Do I even know what there is to say besides “Hey, screw the yearlong Time-Out, I just made out with a complete stranger in the hotel elevator. P.S.: I love the movie
Ladyhawke
. LOL.” Jesus. I exit out of the texting screen and tuck my phone back into my purse.

Somewhere along the line—probably in the septic tank that was my adolescence—I stopped believing I was the hero of my own story. Or that my story was worthy of a hero at all. I settled because that's all I thought I deserved. The Lincoln Mallorys of the world became those I dabbled with in the same way I learned not to splurge on sweets or any of the finer things. Moderation in
everything and when I did allow myself to indulge—whether on a big meal or an expensive piece of clothing—the guilt that set in within seconds made it never worth it in the end. In choosing to be good, cautious, and efficient, I talked myself right out of amazing.

In becoming someone's anyone, I became no one's only one.

But then I think about the chocolate fountain at the Opening Night Bacchanalia. I was hungry so I dipped and ate and reveled in the opulence of it all. I felt no guilt. However, the nausea that followed probably speaks to my inability to moderate my own newly found freedom. About a lot of things. Hm.

I pull Lincoln's business card from the depths of my purse. Of course all this introspection is based on knowing pretty much zero about Mr. Mallory and is absolutely because I can't think about Audrey and her looming interest in the Lumineux campaign. But that's why this is so jarring. It's not about Lincoln at all. It's about why I deny myself everything in the name of knowing what's best for me. As if I'm not strong enough to handle it if the waters get a bit rough for a change. I've always known I've had problems with trust, but I've never asked the biggest question of all: Do I trust myself? And why do I need my life to be so very calculable?

“You gonna call him?” Sasha asks, walking up to where I'm sitting.

“I think so,” I say, tucking the business card back into my purse.

“I mean, why not, right?” Sasha asks, scanning the now crowded lobby and excusing herself to a pack of ladies on their way to one of the many workshops just down the hall. “We should probably get going.” Sasha motions to the crowds of
women heading to where all the conference rooms are in the belly of the hotel. I stand and we join the throng.

Signs on easels announcing craft workshops, publisher spotlights, social media how-tos, and author talks stand sentry in front of every door as far as the eye can see. Getting into Helen's one-day workshop was definitely a perk of this ad campaign. Our two spots are highly coveted by the women who are scrambling for something else to do on the first morning of RomanceCon. While Helen is not in charge or connected with RomanceCon in any way, she is certainly this year's biggest draw. Which is exactly why we're here.

Sasha and I settle into a couple of seats in the very back row on the aisle. She and I both pull out our notebooks. There are about thirty women in this smallish conference room. Decanters of water, tea, and coffee are set up in the back along with various nosh—muffins, fresh fruit, etc. . . . I set my notebook on my chair and head to the back for some much-needed tea.

“Mrs. Brubaker would like a word,” one of Helen's assistants instructs me as I'm pouring hot water into my paper cup. This assistant is a wiry young man who looks like he spends most of his life pushing his glasses farther up his nose. I nod and finish, finding the lid to the cup and following him out into the hall. I motion to the assistant as Sasha gives me a concerned look. I'm taken into an anteroom just off where we were and am met with an entirely new level of luxury. I imagine this is what people call a green room. Beautiful white couches and fresh flowers line a room anchored by an exquisite Persian rug. Helen Brubaker lounges on a silvery-gray chair over in the corner and motions for me to approach. This is the closest I'll ever come to meeting the queen.

“Anna,” Helen says, motioning for me to sit on the couch just next to her.

“Mrs. Brubaker. I'm very much looking forward to your workshop,” I say, holding on to the paper cup that is slowly burning my fingerprints off. I quickly scan the side table. No coaster. Dammit. I switch it to my other hand. And back again.

“So, we're thinking breakfast tomorrow morning, is that right?” Helen looks up to her assistant and he nods, tablet in one hand and smartphone in the other.

“That would be great. Thank you so much for taking the time.”

“My assistant will give you the details,” Helen says.

“Thank you. I look forward to it,” I say.

“It's time,” the assistant says.

“Thank you, Hector,” Helen says to the wiry young man. She stands. I follow.

“A piece of advice, Ms. Wyatt?” Helen says, stopping the herd of Team Brubaker in its tracks. I brace myself. “When something is burning your damn hand, say something.” She eyes my tea and then makes eye contact with me.

“Yes, ma'am,” I say. Helen waits . . . a cocked eyebrow. “Something is burning my damn hand.”

Helen laughs and I am supplied with a fresh cup of tea in a real teacup within seconds.

“Now that wasn't that hard, was it?” Helen asks with another slap on the back—which I am ready for this time and make sure not to spill the hot tea on my damn hand. I follow behind Team Brubaker back into the workshop. The span of, say, twenty feet between the green room and the workshop room all of a sudden feels like a gauntlet. Fans want autographs, their
books signed, and pictures of Helen Brubaker or with Helen Brubaker. Her assistants and team control the mob as much as they can, but the distance that took me less than a minute to walk is now going to take Helen Brubaker more than fifteen. I wend my way through the horde and head back into the workshop.

“We've got a meeting,” I say, settling back in next to Sasha.

“Are you serious??” Sasha asks.

“Tomorrow morning. Her assistant is supposed to get me the details,” I say, finally taking a sip of the tea. This is definitely not the same tea that I got from the workshop.

“Any word from Preeti?” Sasha asks.

“Not yet,” I say.

“Okay, well. If nothing else, this Brubaker meeting is a good sign.” Sasha is doodling in her notebook: the workshop room, the chairs, the shoulders and heads of the women in attendance.

“That's really good,” I say, nodding toward the notebook.

“Oh, thanks. I'm just bored,” she says.

“When I'm bored I doodle arrows and stars, so . . .” Sasha laughs and continues doodling. The women she's drawing look like every woman we know. Different sizes, different hairstyles, different ages. Everything that I noticed about the gala last night. And what Sasha has captured gives me another piece of the puzzle.

“What if the woman in our ad was just . . . and I know this is going to come off as revelatory . . . what if she were just normal?” I ask, pointing at the women in her doodle. “Like these women.”

“Real,” she says.

“Right.”

“I like that,” she says, looking from me back down to her sketch.

“Of course, the guy has to be phenomenal,” I say, knowing how hypocritical that is.

“I'm comfortable with that,” Sasha says with a sniff. I laugh and am just about to continue speaking when the door to the workshop room is swung open and Team Brubaker pours into the small space. The hubbub outside infests the quiet workshop room and then is just as quickly silenced when the door is closed by conference volunteers.

Team Brubaker settles itself in the front of the conference room. Helen's smoky laugh fills the room quickly as microphones are tested, papers are straightened, and bottles of water are kitted with straws. As they busy themselves, I set my tea under my chair and pull my phone out of my purse to text Ferdie.

So, I think I met someone. Don't know much about him, but . . . I don't know
. I stare at the rambling, everywhere text for a second and add,
I know this is out of nowhere, but as you're well aware I'm starting mid-thought, so
. . . I hit send before I think better of it. I also know that Ferdie won't be up for hours, so I feel safe in just . . . his text swoops back into my screen.

you've been gone a daym
.

hahahahahaha

minus m
, Ferdie corrects.
why not see where it goes?

My fingers hover over the keypad. How to begin. My fingers zip and flash over the letters, unleashing the kraken of reasons, when Ferdie's text swoops in.

Stop. Erase whatever screed you just typed
.

My fingers pull up from the keypad. Another text from Ferdie swoops in.

Erase it. I'll wait
.

I delete everything I just wrote.

Fine
, I text in its place.

see where it goes
.

He's not . . . I'm not sure . . . I think he might be a player, you know? I get a player vibe from him. And I kind of attacked him in the elevator. I mean
. . .

The conference volunteers buzz and move around the room. I'm running out of time. Ferdie's text swoops back in.

you're not attack in the elevator kind of kid
.

I know
.

you're not you and this might be good
, Ferdie texts.

Good for you maybe
, I text back.

finding people who fall for your bruce wayne side is easy. finding people who fall for the batman side is hard
.

What. Are. You. Talking. About
.

Attacking someone in elevator is your batman side. real you. bruce wayne is cool billionaire, you know . . . ordering salad and laughing at his jokes. Fake. Everyone falls for that
.

right
, I text, feeling my face flush again. Every time.

So, let him in the bat cave a little
.

That's not a double entendre is it?

No
. A moment.
And gross
. A pause. A terrified, now-that-I've-talked-about-it-with-Ferdie-this-is-real pause.
And now you're overthinking it
.

ahahahahahahah
, I text back.

“Welcome to the
Be the Heroine, Find Your Hero
workshop
with the one and only Helen Brubaker!” the moderator announces. The workshop erupts in applause.

Gotta go. Thanks
, I text to Ferdie.

no problemo
, he texts back. I slide the phone back into my purse and pick up my notebook, which I set under my seat, next to that damn tea.

Helen Brubaker's workshop is nothing short of amazing. It's a roller coaster ride on a clear day with your hands raised high into the air. It's a church revival and you've got the tambourine. It's that first cup of tea in the morning and there's a breeze coming through the kitchen window. She is beyond clever and makes me yearn for a time when women bonded around a kitchen table or a fire instead of just liking one another's photos on social media. My notebook is lousy with notes with not an arrow or star to be seen because there is no time for doodling. Helen ends the session with the bombshell that the publisher made her add the line about “finding your hero” to the title of her book.

“Frankly,” Helen says in that raspy voice of hers, “finding your hero doesn't deserve top billing. I'm a huge Nora Ephron fan. That's where this whole idea started. Be the heroine of your life, not the victim.” Sasha nudges me and I smile. See, I gesture. See?? “Nora said that and it got me thinking. And then it got me writing. Living passively versus living actively. That's what's at the heart of my book, no matter what the title would have you believe.” I hear myself mutter a “yeah” as if I'm intoning an “amen” in church. Living passively versus living actively.

More pieces of the puzzle come together for the Lumineux campaign. How can we make women feel powerful enough so
they don't just read the book? How can Lumineux embolden women to become the heroines of their own stories in real life? Can it even do that? Can I?

And on that note:

The Pirate Booty Ball.

I'm standing, once more, on the fringes of the party, holding yet another club soda with lime. Preeti Dayal, the Lumineux executive, stands next to me. She's said maybe two words since she arrived earlier this afternoon. I've been trying not to loom. I don't think it's working. Sasha is on the dance floor with Helen Brubaker. I'm still on a high from the workshop and am on the verge of doing something very stupid with Lincoln Mallory after this party ends.

“Did you know that eighty-five percent of people who buy books are women?” Preeti says, scanning the room. Tonight, the cover models are swarthy rogues. Ryder Grant, last year's Mr. RomanceCon, is chatting up Sasha now that she's stopped dancing in the safety of Team Brubaker.

“Not sure of the number, but that sounds about right,” I say.

“As true as any of those statistics are,” Preeti says.

“Well, whatever the number, the gist is that a lot of women buy books,” I say.

“And most of those women are buying romance novels,” she says.

“That's definitely true,” I say. The women here are dressed up in their eye-patched, parrots-on-shoulders best. One of the cover models approaches Preeti and me. I think this one's called Josh. With pitch-black hair and piercing blue eyes, he's not as gym-fit as the others; he's more lumberjack-fit. Like he could actually lift something besides a dumbbell. Unlike Blaise, who is just wearing a tiny pair of red-and-white-striped short shorts with a gold codpiece (?!), Josh is wearing—

“You're the Dread Pirate Roberts,” I say, smiling up at him.

“It's my daughter's favorite movie,” he says with a shrug. “I kind of had to.”

“It's fine if you want to make up a daughter and not admit that
The Princess Bride
is your favorite movie,” I say. Josh and Preeti both laugh. “Josh, right? This is Preeti Dayal; she's the executive in charge of the Lumineux campaign.”

“Nice to meet you,” Josh says, clearly a bit taken off guard by Preeti's position and what she could do for his career. I can see him getting flustered, and I'm relieved when a couple of fans politely ask if they can take their picture with him. “Excuse me. It was a pleasure.” Josh shakes our hands once more and gets absorbed back onto the dance floor.

“It's like he's not even real,” Preeti says, taking a large gulp of her soda.

“I know,” I say.

“Why am I surprised that he has a daughter?” Preeti confesses.

“No, I was, too. I think I imagine them in their little Ken
Doll boxes, and they're only taken out to go back and forth from the cologne store to the gym or something,” I say.

“Standing in front of whatever fan they can find on the way,” Preeti says, laughing.

“Clothes being ripped from their oiled-up bodies,” I add.

“Leaving a wake of orgasming women behind them,” Preeti says. I throw my head back and laugh.

“Secret babies abound,” I say. Preeti laughs, barely able to catch her breath. We stand there laughing for several minutes, just enjoying each other's company. We watch as the dance floor fills up with women.

“God, I haven't danced in years,” Preeti says.

“Maybe at a wedding a few years ago,” I say, trying to sort through my memories of the last time I danced. Sad. Preeti and I are quiet. “Shall we?” I say, only realizing a bit later that those were Lincoln's exact words.

“When in Rome,” Preeti says.

“That was actually last night, but . . . ,” I say, smiling.

“Why not, right?” Preeti and I set our drinks on the table and walk out onto the dance floor, where Sasha has finally disentangled herself from Ryder.

“Hey!!” she says, raising her hands into the air. “Oh my God!! I can't believe you're out here!” she yells over the thumping music. The colorful strobe lights swoosh and whip around the dance floor. Everyone is hooting and hollering to the beat. Helen Brubaker shimmies her way back over to our little corner, her two assistants behind her.

“Well, well, well. Look who decided to start having some fun,” Helen says, looking from Preeti to me. We both laugh and nod like the party poopers we are.

It starts with some embarrassing rhythmic swaying. Maybe some shoulders. Maybe a foot shuffle here and there. Then there's some premier dancing face and a flurry of very incisive pointing. There are squeals of joy when that one song I haven't heard in forever bumps on. And then I whip out the lasso. Maybe a little sprinkler. And now the hips are in action. The head is down and I'm feeling the beat and the smile can't be wiped from my face. Preeti's blazer is now a scarf around her neck and Sasha has backed up into Helen, who's thrown her head back and is laughing.

I haven't had this much fun in years.

By the time we catch our breath, I'm sweaty from dancing and my face hurts from laughing.

Sasha, Preeti, and I are in line at the bar for something that will whet our whistles.

“I'm starting to see what all the fuss is about,” I say.

“I told you,” Sasha says. Helen sidles up beside us. Sasha attempts to hide her absolute glee.

“You know, I'm not much of a romance novel reader, either,” Preeti says in hushed tones. “And I don't mean to bring the party down, but it was when my mom was going through her chemo that I started even noticing them as something other than . . . well, other than unimportant. They were the only thing she read.”

“I'm so sorry,” I say.

“May I ask . . .” Helen trails off.

“She's in remission now and she hasn't stopped reading those damn books. She said they made her happy and anything that can manage that during those circumstances? Well . . . needless to say, I stopped making fun of them.” Preeti gets a little choked
up as she ends her thought more abruptly than she expected. Helen smiles, passing her a tissue. We get to the front of the line and order our drinks, thankful for the distraction. “It's why I think I was more open to your pitch, if that isn't getting too personal.”

“No, it's what happens. Why we're on the right track with this campaign. It demands that each woman who comes in contact with it gets personal,” I say, loving the turn this conversation has taken. If Preeti makes this campaign personal to her, she will champion it to the higher-ups at Quincy. This is a good sign. Helen tells us she'll see us tomorrow morning and vanishes out of the Booty Ball.

“Well, I just love them,” Sasha says, shrugging. We gulp down our drinks and spend the next few minutes talking about how great Helen's workshop was, taking in the general splendor, and trying to forget how Hector the Bespectacled Assistant's dancing was oddly arousing. “Well, I'd better be heading back to the hotel. We've got a big day tomorrow,” Preeti says, setting her empty mineral water down onto one of the passing trays. I check my watch. It's way past nine
P.M.
I can't believe the time. My stomach drops as I remember Lincoln and his invitation for a post–Booty Ball field trip.

“Where are you staying?” I ask as coyly as I can.

“The Biltmore,” Preeti says.

“Oh really? Wow, us too,” I say.

“Shall we caravan back then?” Preeti asks, fishing her valet ticket out of her purse.

“Sure,” I say, giving Sasha a wink as we walk out of the still-hopping Pirate Booty Ball. Sasha and I follow Preeti's rental car through the streets of Phoenix.

“Ryder Grant slipped me his hotel room key,” Sasha says, pushing the air-conditioning vent toward her.

“Of course he did,” I say, slowing down behind Preeti at a red light.

“I don't want our guy to be someone who does that,” she says.

“Our guy?”

“Our Lumineux spokesman. I don't want him to play this hero and then slip women he barely knows his hotel room key.”

“Is this about our guy or your guy?” I ask, ever so carefully.

“What? It's about Lumineux. This is . . .” She trails off. “Not about Lumineux at all.” She heaves a long, weary sigh. “All of this stuff . . . it's screwing me up. That workshop, all this talk about being your own heroine. Do you know how much I would have given to have a guy like Ryder Grant want me? I mean, wasn't I just saying that he was hot a few days ago?”

“You were,” I say.

“I'm so crazy,” she says.

“You know who's not crazy?”

“Who?”

“People who think they're crazy.” Sasha allows a small smile and I can tell she doesn't believe me. “I don't know . . . I think we just need to be kind to ourselves,” I say. “Clearly we've fallen into an alternate universe where up is down and . . .”

“I'm saying no to Ryder Grant,” Sasha adds, pulling his room key from her purse as proof. “And I know that's not even his real name. Ryder Grant. Come on.”

“What would happen in the romance novel version of this?” I ask, trying to change tactics.

“Ryder Grant would turn out to be—”

“This isn't about Ryder Grant.”

“Right.”

“Be the heroine,” I say, and then I roll my eyes at my own ridiculousness.

“No, you're right,” Sasha says. I don't make her say it. I don't make her map out that turning down Ryder Grant was exactly the moment she started to respect herself. Or at the very least it was a moment of note. But I'm all hopped up on Helen Brubaker workshops, Booty Balls, and field trips with Lincoln, so I want to make it as sweepingly epic as possible and believe a medal is in order because I keep my grand theories to myself . . . for once.

Sasha walks in front of me as we sweat our way into the Biltmore lobby. She tosses Ryder's room key in the bin just outside the hotel. Preeti is waiting inside with her husband, whom she introduces to us. He's lovely, of course. They say their good-byes. We'll see her tomorrow, she says before turning for the elevators. Once she's gone—

“Is it okay if I did that because I don't trust myself? That I would totally cab it over there later on tonight if . . . no,
when
I got lonely?” Sasha says as we walk farther into the lobby. The air-conditioning surrounds us, as does the din from the raucous hotel bar.

“Yes. It's more than okay,” I say, reaching out to her and giving her hand a squeeze. She smiles.

“I'm going to go watch bad television and order room service,” she says.

“That sounds like a perfect evening, actually,” I say. She nods. As she's walking away I pull my phone from my purse. “Sasha?” She turns around. “I'll knock on your door just before seven
A.M
. tomorrow morning? Apparently we're dining in
Helen Brubaker's suite tomorrow,” I say, referring to the just received e-mail from Hector the Bespectacled Dance Machine.

“Oh, sure. Cool,” she says.

“Right? Nuh-night,” I say.

“You're going to text him, right?” Sasha asks.

“I don't know,” I say. Sasha is dumbstruck. “I might just call.”

“Oh, thank God,” Sasha says.

“Don't stay up too late,” I say. She just smiles and manages a weary wave.

I stand in the lobby, flipping my phone around in my hands. I pull Lincoln's business card out of my purse. Again. I flip the card over and dial. My fingers are tingling and this terrified numbness pings throughout my body, settling in my toes. I swallow. And swallow. Blink my eyes. It's like I'm giving myself errands to run around my body so I won't—

“This is Lincoln Mallory.” Vomit.

“Hey, hi. It's Anna. Anna Wyatt from the other night. From the . . . um . . . from the elevator? And the apple . . . breakfast time—”

“I'm going to stop you there, love. I know who you are even without the reminder of apple breakfast time,” he says. His voice is even better than I remember it.

“I apologize for my late call,” I say, still not having taken a breath in now going on nine minutes.

“I assumed you were busy at your Booty Ball.” Lincoln Mallory saying
booty
will go down in history as one of my favorite things in the world.

“You still hungry?” I ask.

“I've already eaten, but I did manage to get something for dessert.”

“And what's that then?”

“It's a surprise,” he says. My face flushes. “When your Booty Ball ran long—a sentence I never thought I'd say, quite frankly—I had to strike out on the field trip on my own.”

“So you're holding this dessert hostage.”

“You make it sound so devious.”

I scan the lobby. The hotel bar. The kiss. I close my eyes.

And leap.

“What's your room number?”

“409.”

“I'll be right up.”

“Cheers,” he says.

“But just for the dessert.”

“I do like a woman with her priorities in order.” Silence. “Anna?”

“I didn't know if you'd hung up,” I say.

“I hadn't.”

“Right.”

“But I will now.”

“Sure. Okay,” I say. Silence. “Hello?”

“It's never not funny, is it?”

“I mean . . . ,” I say, unable to keep from laughing.

“Why don't you walk toward the elevator while I stay on the line,” he says.

“Yes. I like multitasking,” I say.

“I feel like we're solving a crime together,” Lincoln says as I finally get to the bank of elevators and press the call button. Businesspeople with badges around their necks are taking over the entire lobby and hotel bar area. The elevator dings and the
doors pull open. I climb inside and press the button for the fourth floor.

“The phone might cut out, though. Elevators are never very . . .” The elevator doors close. “Hello?

“Still here,” Lincoln says.

“Oh wow, go Arizona Biltmore.”

“They should really put that on their website. Come one, come all—we have excellent elevator reception,” he says. I laugh and the elevator slows. And all of a sudden my surroundings come into focus. I step out of the elevator. “Other way.” I turn around and there he is. He's leaning out into the hallway from his room. I wave and mouth “hi,” still on the phone. I walk toward him. Another blue oxford cloth shirt, but this time there are suspenders involved. And he's in the process of rolling up one of his shirtsleeves, the phone tucked between his shoulder and neck. I swallow. He's barefoot. I stand directly in front of him, my hand now cramping because I'm gripping the phone too tightly. “Can we hang up now?” he asks.