Pretty in Ink (10 page)

“What?!” I yell.

“I said, how was your day?” he shouts back.

“Fine.” I wander into the living room. “Louisa’s still gone, Laura’s still a total ice queen, the coffee machine’s still acting up, and the guy I love got canned.” I leave out the they-hired-your-replacement part. “New day, same old crap.”

“Yeah?” Mark puts down his brush and pulls me down onto the couch.

“We should crack a window,” I say, feeling suddenly light-headed from the paint fumes, like my brain is filling with soapsuds. Mark’s fingers are working at the buttons on my shirt. “And how was your day?” I ask.

“Shitty commute, boring meetings, bad coffee. But I scored a surprise afternoon off.” He kisses me, his breath ripe.

“And then you got wasted, huh?”

“And then I got wasted.” His hand inches up my skirt. “Now, no more talking, my sweet spice.”

 

Mark’s drunken snores are like the honks of an 18-wheeler, bellowing over the wheezing air conditioner. I give up on sleep and instead watch the night shadows shift from one menacing shape into another on the wall. When I moved into Mark’s place three months ago, I painted these walls slate gray. I brought hardly anything with me besides my clothes, my cameras, and my TV, so the painting was my one special thing, the one marker that this space would become my home, too. It was a new beginning, a fresh coat over the pale yellow that Mark had shared with his ex. But now I wonder what I was thinking; the gray looks dreary and ominous, and I feel as if the walls might start closing in on me.

Anxious thoughts fling about my head like pinballs, jolting me further and further from the possibility of sleep. I forfeit exactly half of my salary to Mark each month, which comes to just over a third of our rent, and now I wonder how much Mark has saved up, and how much severance he’ll receive; he is notoriously cagey about money. I hoped to stay at
Hers
for another few months, socking away enough to be able to quit and then refocus on my own art or try something else; but now I fear how essential my regular paycheck will be. I wonder if I’ll have to dip into my savings, which are meager. I wonder how long it will take Mark to find a new job, and how much drunken finger painting he’ll have to get out of his system before he even begins looking. I wonder how long before I’ll be able to share anything substantial about my workday without considering how it will affect my boyfriend’s feelings. I’m starting to tremble. For fear that I might emit a howling scream à la Munch, I grab my camera. I start snapping photos, first of the shadowy shapes on the wall and then of Mark sleeping, curled up on his side, mouth agape. Perhaps there’s some artistic potential to this situation.

 

“I love this place because the waiters are all so darn fuckable and they humor you by pretending they’d actually consider taking you to bed.” Lynn, Mark’s replacement and my new boss, is treating me to lunch at Applebee’s on her third day. “Look at that one’s fresh buns,” she says, tittering and peeking out from behind her menu at a waiter carrying a bread basket.

Lynn wears a gauzy floral dress that floats behind her when she walks, or, more accurately, glides. Gemstones speckle her boxy pumps, and delicate silver bangles climb up her forearms. Pendant earrings reach nearly to her shoulders, over which is draped a colorful knit scarf, and her shock of orange hair is slicked back from her head like a flame. Suffice it to say her look is not exactly standard Schmidt & Delancey.

“You have got to try the breadsticks,” she says. “They’re both delectable and abundant—finish one basket and another arrives without delay. Like magic!” Up until an hour ago, I was certain that no Manhattan resident had ever stepped foot in the Applebee’s in Times Square. “This is my absolute favorite restaurant,” Lynn says, and I can’t tell if she’s screwing with me. “I’m from Ohio, you know.”

I didn’t know. When Mimi introduced Lynn to the staff, she didn’t go through the usual résumé rundown, and the rumors of Lynn’s mysterious past are rampant: She taught graphic design to women prisoners at a correctional facility upstate; or she oversaw the catalogs for Bergdorf’s back in the nineties; or she was selling her abstract paintings at a roadside farmer’s stand in the Poconos when a headhunter from a major advertising agency discovered her; or she’s an ex-con herself. Google has proved surprisingly reticent on the matter. That Lynn is not of the magazine world is as clear as the glass of water she’s now tapping at with her spoon.

“Speech! Speech!” she announces. “OK, I know I’m new, and that life is a little wacky back at the ranch, what with folks getting the ax left and right.” She beckons the waiter, keeping her glass held aloft. “We’ll have the spinach artichoke dip and the classic wings for the table. We’re just going to have to make like glue and ride out this storm and see where the chips land, OK?” The server looks confused, like this convoluted pep talk is part of our order, and Lynn shoos him away. “I’m not saying we’ll all make it through the battle with all our limbs intact, but we’ve got to dig out our little foxholes and try. And that means choosing the most dynamic photos to go on page and designing the most wow-a-riffic layouts we can possibly create, OK?” I nod, and we clink our water glasses. “Don’t worry, I’ll order us a round of Bahama Mamas on the double,” she adds.

 

Back in the office and both of us a little drunk, Lynn shows me the new, brighter palette we’ll be working with for the redesign. I’m scrolling through the photos for the cheaters story—the shoot was yesterday—altering the color on the subjects’ clothing and eyes so the pictures pop in a kitschy retro way, when my phone rings. My home number flashes up; it’s a strange sight on my work phone.

“Hi. I can’t find my magnet,” Mark says. “You know, ‘Earth’ minus ‘art’ is just ‘eh.’ Last I saw it was in my office.”

I roll my eyes. I’ve always thought that magnet was moronic. “OK. And?”

“Well, can you check if it’s still in my office?” My stomach flips. I haven’t yet told Mark that
his
office is under new management.

“Maybe later, love. I’m in the middle of something right now.”

“I know, you’re very busy with your long, important to-do list at your big, fancy job. Such a busy little bee.” I can’t tell if he’s purposely being mean or if he’s just drunk again. I hear the TV on in the background. Mark didn’t own a television before I moved in, and I’ve never seen him pick up the remote, much less turn it on; I’m curious what he’s found to watch. “Look, I’m sorry,” he says, switching to the sweet, quiet tone that always gets me. “That magnet is just very important to me and I’d love to get it back.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Make sure you eat something today, OK?”

“I will. Bye, love.”

“Bye,” I say, then realize Jane is standing by my desk.

“
Psst,
was that Mark?” she whispers. “How is he?”

“Driving me crazy at the moment.” I keep my voice low. “He’s throwing a fit about losing a magnet with some stupid catchphrase on it.”

“Oh, the one about art? I thought that was so clever.” I remember that Jane’s cubicle walls are plastered with inspirational quotes from important female journalists.

“He’s transformed the living room into a painter’s studio,” I say. “I come home and he’s working on these big, crazy art projects, stuff he never did when he was toiling away here. So that could be good, I guess. Though he’s pretty much replaced all food intake with alcohol.”

“I don’t blame him, considering. When Jacob and I were dating, all it took was his boss shooting him a dirty look and he’d turn to a bottle of Jack and slip into a funk for the whole night.”

“It’s hard,” I say, thinking it’s a good thing Jane is no longer with that guy.

“And how are you doing?” she asks.

“Shitty, I guess. Or fine. I don’t know. It’s been kind of nice to not have to walk around hiding our relationship all day.”

“I bet. Hey, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Okay,” I say tentatively.

“I’ve never been into older guys myself. So what’s the appeal—is it like a power thing, or a daddy thing?”

“Thank you for your astute Psych 101 insights, Jane,” I say, feeling my stomach turn over despite myself. I think about how my father has always referred to my work as “your little pictures.” Mark examines each of my photographs like it’s hanging on the wall at the Met.

“Sorry, that was over the line,” Jane says. “It’s just that I’m editing a story about couple dynamics and what makes people stay in love. Jacob was six months younger than me, and I’m starting to think one of our problems was that I was older and somehow made him feel emasculated.”

“Believe me,” I say, “that can be an issue even if a guy’s fifteen years older
and
your boss.”

“The plot of like half the romances out there is some brilliant boss seducing his innocent little underling. Or a genius professor falling for his eager young student. It works because he’s the one in charge, right?”

“I’m guessing those stories are all written by men, or at least
for
men,” I say. “Notice how the brilliant boss never gets fired? If he did, the heroine would probably find him even more irresistible because he’s all vulnerable and stuff. Utterly the stuff of male fantasy.”

“Hmm. Well, if it’s the power thing you’re into, you could always shack up with Lynn now.”

“There’s a solution,” I say, laughing at the thought. For the first time it feels like a relief to have a coworker who knows about Mark and me.

 

I knock on Lynn’s office door, and she waves me in. “I’m hoping we can talk about the images for the shopping pages,” I say, and then rattle on for five minutes, reestablishing the most basic points about optimal lighting and camera angle. Meanwhile, I’m glancing around furtively in search of Mark’s keepsake. No dice. On my way out I conjure up the courage to ask Lynn directly: “Oh, hey, did you happen to see a little green magnet in here, up on the shelf over there?”

“Yessiree, let me see if I can find it.” Lynn spins in her chair. “Did your lover leave it?”

I freeze. Lynn laughs. “Oh, relax,” she says. “Listen, I respect the tricky position you’re in, and I commend the professionalism you’ve displayed in the face of it.”

“Uh, thanks.”
Who told her?
I wonder.
Surely not Jane.

“Here’s my advice: Break the toilet so he can show off his manliness by fixing it. And when you’re cooking dinner, burn the potatoes or undercook the pasta so he can feel superior. Most important, keep buttoned up about your work achievements—of which I can tell there will be many. Ah, here it is.” Lynn hands me the magnet, pats me on the shoulder, then shoos me out.

As I pass Mimi’s office, she beckons me in. She has her shiny pink stilettos propped up on the desk, the phone receiver cradled between her cheek and shoulder, and a lock of hair twirling between her fingers. “Yes, darling,” she says into the receiver, gesturing for me to take a seat. “Let me talk to her. Hello, my little-wittle Pookie bear. Did you enjoy your playgroup in the park and your big, special, yummy bone today? I know, Mommy will be home soon. I know. Ruff, ruff!” Mimi hangs up, and I try to mask my horror. “Oh, that was just Pookie, my dear sweet puggle-wuggle. She gets lonely at home with just the sitter”—
a dog sitter?!
—“so I have to call and let her know she’s still loved by her mommy. Look at how beautiful.” She hands me a photo: It’s Mimi pretty much making out with a slobbery dog. The lighting is terrible.

“Precious,” I say, wanting to gag.

“Now, I was hoping to touch base since I know you have a new boss all of a sudden. I see a great future for you here at
Hers,
and I believe Lynn will be a wonderful mentor.”

“Thanks. It was nice of her to take me out to lunch.” I’m not sure why I’m suddenly nervous.

“Yes, she’s very into ‘team building,’ ” Mimi says, miming air quotes and rolling her eyes. “Anyway, she’s a newbie in our magazine milieu, so please don’t hesitate to let me know if you’re having any particular problems, OK?” I think Mimi is suggesting I should feel free to rat out my boss, though I can’t be sure. I nod.

“Great, that’s settled then.” She hunches over to examine a layout on her desk, a fashion story about autumn accessories. I edited the opener photo—a big, splashy image of a girl in a chunky scarf, a crocheted bag slung across her shoulder; she’s at a street fair, holding up her red-gloved hands as if to show off her new purchase and also wave to the reader. “Gorgeous shot,” Mimi says, scribbling red notes across the page. “Oh, and I think it’s better for everyone that we’re rid of Mark now. We can’t have staffers in management positions chasing after their underlings, now, can we?” She looks up and fixes her gaze on me, just long enough to see how petrified I am, then bows her head back to the layout.

“Hmm, this headline won’t do,” she says, seemingly to herself. I watch as she exes out “Go big for fall!” and in its place scrawls “Caught—red-handed!”

“Here, why don’t you bring this over to Lynn?” Mimi hands me the page, and I skulk out of her office, sweating through my shirt.

 

That evening, it’s possible I’m trying to assuage my guilt when I pop in the 99-cent store and buy a Sno Ball for my boyfriend. Although if it’s true, or even partly true, that Mimi canned Mark because she discovered our relationship (who the heck knows how), there’s no way that plying him with snack food is going to right that wrong.

When I arrive home, Mark glances disinterestedly at the cellophane package before turning back to his canvas. The Sno Ball sits on the counter sealed and untouched for longer than I’ve ever seen Mark ignore one of those things: one night, then a full day, then a week, then longer. There are so many preservatives in the snack that I think—
I wish
—it might outlast my feelings of blame. In fact, I imagine it could outlast this whole work drama, and possibly Mark’s and my entire relationship, and maybe even Mimi’s reign over the magazine. I picture the Sno Ball sitting on the counter years from now—when
Hers
will likely feel to me like a distant, blurry memory, when hopefully I will have moved on to bigger, better things—that plump, pink half ball still intact, its sweet, pillowy give still appetizing to a select few. It’s creepy but also comforting to imagine, so I let the Sno Ball be.