Pretty in Ink (19 page)

“It’s
my
write-up. I tested it. I figured I didn’t have to fill out a form. I promise I won’t sue. Scout’s honor.”

“Well, what about your partner?”

She actually has a point there. “Graham won’t care. He doesn’t even read the site.” It’s true. He’s faked it before: Once at a dinner party a colleague asked him his favorite article of mine, and he turned red in response and nearly choked on his cream of asparagus soup. I saved him with, “Graham particularly enjoys the posts on how to follow your passions and discover your true inner self,” and everyone laughed—some a little too heartily, I thought—and then I gave my husband the cold shoulder for the rest of the night.

“OK, I guess that’s all right,” May says. Wow, that was easy. Mimi should hire more of these lightweights; it would make my job a cinch.

I buy the pants and stuff them into an old Digital Strategy Expo bag I saved from last year; this way, it’ll seem like I’m returning from a work event. Back at my desk, I don’t have anything pressing, so I reach out to P.R. contacts to get myself on invite lists to all the Christmas showcases. I do this every year to help out the swamped junior editors who write the gift guide. The gift bags are to die for, too; I haven’t spent money on holiday presents for ages.

 

My sight is suddenly obscured by two hands. “Guess who?”

“OMG, Regina!” I shout.

“How’d you know?”

“Duh, you must’ve smoked an entire carton on your way here. You know everyone in NYC quit ages ago.”

“Not you.”

“That’s true. Lemme bum one?” The entertainment director nods, and I yell, “Yippee!” Laura eyes me warily.

Regina and I head downstairs and sequester ourselves in the smoker’s corner by the back entrance. “So what’s the 411?” I ask.

“Did you hear we snagged the mean teen Janine from
Worst Moms
for the November cover shoot?”

“Oh, she’s the worst!” Regina and I share a passion for terrible TV. The best part of my job is that I get to host the morning-after chats with the
Hers
reality TV e-club.

“Have you seen the
Real Housewives of St. Paul
yet?!” Regina trills, and I nod like a maniac. I was skeptical at first, but those women are clueless and catty all at once; it’s amazingly juicy TV. “Hey, Zo, how about an off-site meeting?”

“Yay!” I clap my hands, thinking that’s it for the day, since “off-site meeting” is Regina-speak for the bar. Regina is like my BFF in middle school: It’s a party when she’s around, and she’s always got some mischievous scheme up her sleeve. I’m forever counting down to her next visit to New York.

We hoof it to the Mexican joint around the corner. “Laura sent me the notes from the Twitter seminar,” Regina says. She throws back a shot of tequila, sucks on a lime, then scrunches up her face into a citric wince.

“Ugh, I hate to admit that it was really fab,” I say. “Good thing Jonathan’s ambitions seem to revolve solely around eye shadow and blush. I don’t want him crowding in on my turf.”

“Trust me, you’re safe,” says Regina. “If someone told him he could no longer spend half the day giving himself a makeover, I think he’d curl up in a fetal position and cease to function.”

“But really, my Randiest Rachel handle has exploded. I’ve got forty thousand followers. And a billion brands have started following me and offering me free swag. Tomorrow I’m getting a massage from the guy who used to train that captured soldier guy on
Homeland.
Can you believe?”

“Good for you, working it.” We clink beers. “Listen, I have an idea. I’m thinking we can drum up our own little scandal.”

“Ooh! I’m in.”

Regina laughs, a smoker’s hack. “You haven’t even heard the idea yet.”

“I’m on the edge of my seat.”

“Here’s the deal, and no one else knows about this, so don’t go running your mouth like I know you like to do.”

“Who, me?” I say, though it’s true that secrets have a tendency to leak out of me no matter how hard I try to prevent it.

“Everyone will be grateful in the end—and the press will be epic—but for now this has to be hush-hush, all right?”

“Check. Now tell me, before I pounce and rip it right out of you!”

“OK.” Regina lays out the plan, and I toast her genius.

 

That night, after Graham has gone to bed, and I’ve ordered a blingy rose gold watch from a very convincing saleswoman on QVC, I log on to the Twitter account for my alter ego @RandiestRachel, and type in the message Regina and I planned: “Hey Kev. I’m totally hot for u, cutie pie. Come over stat. Thank Gd ur wife’s away so we can play!” Then I attach the photo, the full-frontal one I downloaded from Xtube, a boobalicious woman with short blond hair and deep tan lines. Her face is blurred, but the rest of her—teeny waist, crazy curves—is on full display. I’ve blogged about a Kevin; Rachel is supposedly seeing him on and off. This is the first mention of a wife.

In the Twitter seminar, Jonathan was superclear about the difference between direct messages and those that get blasted out to everyone, in this case to all of @RandiestRachel’s forty thousand followers. But apparently Mimi thought I was too ignorant about social media to lead the meeting; plus, maybe I was in the bathroom during that part of Jonathan’s presentation.
Oops!

I can’t sleep all night, I’m so giddy with anticipation.

The first thing I do when I arrive at my desk, uncharacteristically right on time, is log on to Twitter. #RandiestRachel is a trending topic, my followers have ticked up to 56,000, and it takes me five minutes to scroll through all my direct messages. Amaze! My stomach flips as I imagine myself famous, a modern-day Monica Lewinsky or what’s-her-name who slept with Tiger Woods and then got a newspaper column and all those TV gigs.
I knew I could do it!
My voice mail blinks with eight new messages, and I see that Laura has added a morning meeting with Mimi to my schedule.

“Jeez, Zoe, what did you do?” Jane whispers. “Everyone’s freaking out. The
Post
has been hounding Mimi for a comment.”

“You’re kidding, the
Post
? OMG!”

“You don’t seriously think this is a positive thing. It makes us look so sleazy. You better come up with a good story fast.” This is exactly what Regina anticipated: first a bit of negative press, which would quickly fade into an excited buzz about the
Hers
brand, and then a bump up in subscriptions.

I step into Mimi’s office, assuming an appropriate sulk. Victoria and Regina are already seated, and Mimi reads aloud: “ ‘
Hers
blogger scandalizes the staid brand with racy Twitpic, plus home-wrecking to boot.’ ‘
Hers
sinks to all-time low with nudie writer photo exposed.’ ” Mimi has underlined the headlines in red ink, and after she reads them out, she tosses each paper my way. “Oh, here’s a good one: ‘What’s next for
Hers
? A line of pornography DVDs? A dating site for cheaters?’ ”

“Not such bad ideas,” I say, smiling at Regina, who strangely won’t meet my gaze.

Mimi looks at me with an expression of rage straight out of a cartoon; I’m half surprised steam isn’t shooting out of her ears. It makes me want to laugh and cry all at once. “Do you think this is some kind of joke, Zoe?” she asks. “Advertisers have been pulling out left and right.”

“OMG, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I say.

“I saw you goofing off in the Twitter seminar,” says Victoria. “Everyone warned me you weren’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but I never expected this level of stupidity. Do you realize how your actions have tarnished this brand?”

“Come on, Vic,” I say, my voice suddenly hoarse. I don’t appreciate this ganging up on me. I just have to make them understand. “Listen, Regina and I—”

“Regina first alerted me to this scandal in the middle of the night,” says Mimi.

“I happened to be awake,” says the entertainment director, not looking in my direction. “Thank God for jet lag.”

“And she’s been working like a madwoman ever since, trying to talk dozens of publicists and advertisers off the edge of a cliff.”

“But everyone’s talking, right?” I say. “Won’t that ultimately be a good thing?” I’m repeating what Regina laid out for me yesterday, and meanwhile boring a hole through the crown of her head with my eyes. She won’t look up from her iPhone.

“Janine’s rep isn’t sure she wants her to do the cover anymore,” says Victoria.

Oh, this is rich. “You’re telling me that TV’s worst mom is scandalized by one little nudie shot? Give me a break!”

“What I don’t understand is, Randiest Rachel is a figment of your imagination, yes?” Victoria spits this out as if she wants zilch to do with my imagination. “So then who the heck is this Kevin?”

“Have you never heard of a little online flirting, Vic?” I say. “I thought we were trying to liven up this brand.”

“But what’s the deal with the photo?” she asks. “I mean, you’re a brunette.” Jesus, and she calls me dumb. Even Mimi gives her a look, like,
Are you kidding me?

“Zoe, you can understand the difference between pumping in some fun new energy to the brand and alienating half of our subscriber base, right?” Mimi is wearing a scowl that reminds me of Louisa.

“So,” I say, “you’re telling me that the fifty-five-year-olds who flip through
Hers
between their freaking Bunko tournaments and their scrapbooking socials are signed on to Twitter and following Randiest Rachel?”

“That’s a very flattering view you have of our readers, Zoe,” says Victoria. “But guess what, those fifty-five-year-olds watch the
Today
show, which covered the story this morning.” See, this is what Regina was talking about—
the press!

“Several A-list celeb moms have unfollowed
Hers
on Twitter and put out statements condemning the brand,” Regina says, finally making eye contact with me. I can see it in her pupils, the usual smirking glint replaced by a pulsing panic. I search in vain for the wink from last night that says,
Trust me, this will work out wonderfully
. Her blinks are anxious twitches.

The gravity of the situation hits me like a two-by-four. This has gone much further than Regina predicted. My mouth goes desert dry and my stomach gurgles with nerves. Until this moment I’ve taken it as a given that Mimi would go nuts for my charm and talent and probably promote me. Now I’m freaked out.

Regina continues: “It’s not just celebrities who are taking a stand that they don’t want to be associated with such filth. People are unfollowing us in droves and
Hers
is being taken off the shelves in Walmarts in two counties in Georgia.”

My head’s pounding muffles her words. My breath speeds up like I’m on crack. I gulp at the air, which seems suddenly absent of oxygen. I flash on an image of Graham’s boring dinner parties with his coworkers: Mostly they leave me out of their debates about politics and the economy and other snooze-worthy topics, and when I do chime in I can see the dismissive looks they think they’re exchanging so subtly. Graham always tells me I’m being ridiculous and paranoid, but I know what his colleagues think of me. Still, I’ve never really cared. I mean, every one of them would trade all that brainy babble for landing a fun job like mine. The thought of having to face those stuffy dinner parties as simply the unemployed wife of Graham—ugh, it makes me just want to give up.

“Listen, Zoe,” says Mimi, “whether or not this happened accidentally—”

In a panicked rush, I cut her off. “You know who’s blond? You know who that picture’s of?” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it, and Regina whips her bleached bob around to face me. If she shows any indication of a truce, I tell myself, I’m prepared to backtrack and make peace. Just a flicker of a smile, or the tiniest gesture of compassion, and I’ll halt what’s coming, unite with my coconspirator and work to fix this mess as partners. But I watch as Regina narrows her eyes.
What are you doing?
her look pleads, but it’s with contempt, not concern. And with that, she seals her fate. I meet her steely gaze with a silent memo of my own:
You’re out of your league, lady.

“Excuse me?” Mimi says. “Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?”

“Why don’t you ask Regina?” I say. She fits the profile: blond, California tan, curvy but fit (I’m betting she’s got a pair of perky silicone sacks tucked under that cotton scoop-neck), and not so old that it’s impossible.

“I have no idea what Zoe is talking about,” Regina says. She’s back to freezing me out, staring straight ahead. It’s infuriating; I hate to be ignored.

“Really?” I ask, indignant. “Then how about all the other shots you sent me along with that one we posted? That rose tattoo on your inner thigh?” Regina once told me about getting a tiny pink flower inked after a breakup, how it made her feel sexy again. My mouth is motoring faster than my brain, and I just keep chattering: “Regina wanted to post a photo of herself in her birthday suit. Who knows why? Probably to get some sort of sick thrill. I’ll be honest, I was skeptical. But she said it would get us loads of attention, and I went along because I figured when it comes to P.R., she’s the more experienced one. After all, she’s
so
much older than me.” At this, Regina’s jaw drops.