Pretty in Ink (20 page)

“Plus, she threatened to report me for slipping out of work to go to the Alice and Olivia sample sale yesterday. I admit it, I went! Guilty as charged. I’ve got the totally cute pants to prove it.” I can sense the energy shifting in the room, and I stand up and twirl around to show off my ass in my new jeggings.

“You took naked photos of yourself?” shrieks Victoria. Always several steps behind, that one.

“Zoe is a liar and everyone knows it,” Regina says, a tremble in her voice. “Have you ever heard her tell the same story twice? The details change so much you’d think she actually believed she could rewrite history.” I roll my eyes.

“Ladies, I don’t know what to say.” This from Mimi. “Both of your Twitter privileges are suspended and I’ll figure out what else by the end of the day. In the meantime, Regina, I’ll need a press release responding to this debacle, and Zoe, try not to set any more fires. Now both of you, get the hell out of my office.”

I saunter out. Regina catches my sleeve. “Zoe, let’s talk about this.” I hesitate, but I just can’t shake off her betrayal, those slitty eyes fixing me with such condescension. Screw her. I brush past.

Back at my computer, I open my in-box and type Mimi’s address into the “To” line of a new e-mail. First, I craft an apology—I know how unprofessionally I acted, and how inappropriate my part in this scandal has been. I got carried away in the character, and I’ve learned a big, important lesson from the experience.

I take a breath, start a new paragraph, and begin the list: “Snorting cocaine on set; spending whole weeks ‘working’ while actually sunbathing in Malibu; telling everyone within a five-mile radius that she’d jump at any opportunity to leave the hick, piece-of-crap magazine that employs her; and”—here’s the kicker—“calling Mimi ‘that fat cow in charge.’ ” I click Send, and it’s done.

 

Within the hour, Regina is gone. Not back to Los Angeles, but canned. I saw her in Mimi’s office, presumably trying to defend herself, but all the charges were true, so how could she?

Others take turns hugging her and issuing empty promises of how they’ll keep in touch, blah blah blah—the same rigmarole that goes down each time someone’s pink-slipped around here. But I remain at my desk, penning Randiest Rachel’s next blog post, an apology for disappointing her fans, and an allusion to the fact that she did in fact meet up with Kevin. I figure I’ve got a whole new plotline as Rachel struggles to do the right thing and abandon the affair, but still makes the occasional shameful (and sexy!) slipup. I watch Regina gathering her things, and I feel a pang—I will truly miss her—but I remind myself that I was only doing what I had to do. No one dares throw me under the bus.

The next morning, I tally up the numbers. Randiest Rachel’s new blog post is the most popular one yet. And after the initial hemorrhaging of
Hers
’ Twitter followers, the numbers have ticked up to nearly 125 percent higher than two days ago. The magazine’s Facebook fans have doubled, our Web site page views have spiked, and nearly eight hundred
Hers
references have appeared in other media outlets within the past day. I’ve checked in with the ad sales team, who tell me they’ve gotten interest from new advertisers; granted, the companies are sex enhancement manufacturers and lingerie retailers, but still. Armed with this info, I approach Mimi’s office.

“Wow,” says Mimi, examining the data. “You really managed to turn this situation around, didn’t you?”

I walk out with a promotion to digital director. That night I toast with Graham, and we set up the video camera and go at it like gorillas.

14

V
ictoria plunks a pile of paperwork onto my desk, and it’s enough to set my head pounding. I’m not sure what’s with me lately. Though I only nursed two drinks through an entire
Worst Moms
marathon last night, I’ve got the kind of epic hangover that even a greasy egg-and-cheese and a monster latte can’t touch. Maybe it’s the sudden freeze-out from Mimi and Victoria—a result, I’m sure, of my fainting at the Corporate sales meeting a couple of weeks ago, mortifying everyone involved, and then failing to devote my entire existence to apologizing for the gaffe. (I did say I was sorry, but Zoe overheard Mimi and Victoria griping about how I clearly wasn’t remorseful, as if I should fall all over myself atoning for what was an involuntary physical reaction.) Whatever the reason, these days I’m chronically tired, no matter how much sleep I get and how little I drink.

I flip through the papers—a W-4, an I-9, 401(k) forms, information on an introductory session, and a computer training. It’s the welcome package for our new entertainment director, Johanna White. Laura used to handle this type of paperwork, but ever since my face-plant fall from grace, the responsibility has fallen on me. I don’t totally mind, since it means I’m in the loop early on the new hire. And boy did they hire her fast: Within twenty-four hours of Regina’s ouster, Mimi announced her replacement.

The word is, Johanna White made it to the final round of the United Kingdom’s version of
American Idol,
but was voted off unfairly because the public resented her supermodel looks—this according to Zoe’s research, culled mainly from back issues of British tabloids. Apparently Johanna writes a style blog and is buddy-buddy with a handful of B- and C-list celebrities, but has never before held an editorial job.

“This Johanna should be interesting,” I say to Abby, handing over the completed forms.

But Abby doesn’t take the bait. “She starts tomorrow,” she says. “Will you double-check to make sure her phone is all set up?” Abby is nothing if not discreet. I’m sure she’s pretending not to notice my under-eye circles. Bless her.

“Aye-aye,” I say.

My cell phone buzzes. I wince—that number again. The vibrating makes my temples throb, so I press “reject.” Poor guy. But my pity is fast replaced by stress when I discover a new pile of documents waiting in my in-box. I calculate how much I have to do before I can go home and bury myself under my covers: tons.

Victoria calls me into her office, gives me an obvious (and likely intended to be obvious) once-over. “Looks like you could use some relaxation,” she says. I am skeptical. “I bet you’d have fun writing the debut of the
‘Ahhh . . . relax!’
well-being section.”

“I thought Laura was doing that one.”

“She’s working extra hard on November’s new entertainment section,” Victoria says. It makes me fume; that so-called section is one page, and Laura doesn’t pull near her weight. Jenny and I used to divvy up the front-of-book evenly, but now I’m like a one-woman show, writing everything from home decorating items to relationship research. Flip through the first forty pages of the magazine, and you’d think someone’s played a joke by stamping my byline under nearly every headline. “I’m hoping you’ll be willing to step up and help out,” she says. This is not really the optional request it sounds like.

I don’t do as good a job as I think stifling my eye roll, because Victoria says, “I sense you’re frustrated, Jane.” My heart ventures a minileap, swelling with the hope that maybe Victoria really does get how heavy my workload is, that maybe she really is still on my side, that maybe she’s about to say,
Oh, forget all this. Come and gossip with Mimi and me, just like we used to.
But her words snap me back to reality: “It’s a busy time, and we’re all overwhelmed. The thing is, most of us don’t whine about it. Do what you have to do—push some of your work down to the intern and the freelancers—but you need to accept that this is the way things are now and adjust your attitude accordingly.”

I stifle my desire to scream, and instead say, “I’ve heard about this new version of mindful meditation that involves dabbing essential oils on your temples. It’s getting a lot of traction in medical circles as a clinically proven destressor. Maybe we could get three superbusy women to try out the practice and report on the results.”

“That’s the spirit,” Victoria says. I turn to leave, silently cursing her.

The intern, Erin, drops off photocopied packets of the tentative November lineup for our update meeting. Unsurprisingly, the last three characters of each line are cut off. I make a note to administer a photocopier test to future prospective interns. In her interview, Erin told me she hoped to write features during her time at
Hers,
and out of politeness I did not laugh in her face. What she doesn’t understand (and apparently Victoria doesn’t either) is that interns can’t write. They show up fresh from last semester’s research papers, I assign them an item on how to get more vitamin A into one’s diet, and they approach it like they’re penning a term paper on the role of landscape in George Eliot’s novels or a thesis on Pynchon’s and DeLillo’s use of postmodern symbolism—totally incomprehensible. No wonder English majors graduate so unemployable.

I’m growing suspicious of my in-box. I swear it’s been sneering at me, taunting me with new documents every time I glance up. Luckily, I see that the latest addition bears the small, stylized marks of Leah’s pink pen; it’s my draft of the real women volunteer profiles back to me for revisions. I glance through the notes. Next to my write-up of the founder of a prenatal health organization: “Amazing story, but let’s find a stronger way in.” Alongside my stat rundown: “Scary numbers! Please tease out anecdote to show impact of what they really mean for moms.” By my kicker sentence: “Lovely. Tone down sentimentality a tad.”

Leah has the rare ability to critique a piece while also making me feel like I’m on my way to nabbing a Pulitzer. And unlike most editors, she doesn’t edit just to put her mark on things. She adds three words to a sentence and it becomes doubly as clear or interesting or fun, or she asks just the right question to elevate the story. In the end, the pieces still actually sound like I’ve written them. I’m always proudest of my stories that have been edited by Leah.

I’m tweaking the piece’s lead when Zoe interrupts. “Yoo-hoo! I’ve got your most embarrassing moments blurbs for the home page tomorrow. Let’s chat.” No asking whether I’m busy, of course. Since getting that bullshit promotion to digital director, Zoe has been acting even more entitled than usual.

“A super start,” she says. “You scrounged up some supercolorful quotes. But I think you could give it a push, punch it up with more specifics. Let’s make sure we have the right mix, too. We don’t want too many old fart stories about how some grandma’s cat did the cutest thing, know what I’m saying? OK, good talk.”

I flip through the copy. Zoe’s idea of editing is ticking check marks next to quotes she likes, exing out ones she doesn’t, and writing “make better” next to those she wants me to work on. She stamps “duh” next to sentences she finds too obvious, which is actually helpful, because for Zoe to think something is obvious is saying a lot. At least she’s easy. It takes me ten minutes to make the changes, but I hang on to the text for another hour to make her think I’ve worked hard on it.

I’m onto my last item of the day—the light at the end of the tunnel, my bed, is finally within sight; it’s a revise of the “Your Healthiest Desk” story, slated for November. Victoria’s the editor, much to my chagrin, since you can’t bullshit health pieces as much as you can with, say, relationship coverage, and Victoria’s recent comments require big heaping loads of B.S. In one section we’ve specified the best settings on ergonomic chairs to maintain the natural curve in one’s lower back, with the help of Dr. Dunken, an orthopedist who specializes in spine alignment for office workers. Victoria has scrawled, “Can we get Dunken to say that this is ex-tracrucial for women who are always lifting toddlers? Is there a different setting? Lots of our readers are young moms!!!” “Very true,” Mimi has added in her signature red.

Beside the column about keeping one’s desk free of germs, Victoria has written: “Dislike this expert—too stringent. Who’s going to clean their keyboard every Friday?!?!”—this from the woman who eats two to three meals a day at her desk—“Can’t really be that much bacteria! Find new expert!!”

Another note: “Think I read somewhere that desks are dirtier than toilet seats. Let’s include!” Victoria considers herself an expert on every discipline; she should really just start her own magazine, call it something like
Dubious Advice by Victoria.

I get Dr. Dunken on the phone for a follow-up. “Would you say maintaining your back’s natural curve is especially important for young moms?”

“Well, it’s important for everyone.”

“But, you know, because they spend so much time lifting their babies?”

“Yes, it is key to maintain proper alignment while carrying a baby. One should bend at the knees and lift from the legs.”

“But how about when they’re sitting? Is there a special setting on the chairs that moms of babies should consider?”

“You mean if they have the babies in their lap?” He sounds perplexed.

“No, just in general.”

“Oh, well, not really.”

“OK, thanks.” I’m mortified to have to initiate these exchanges. I examine the text and think about how I can be accurate while still stroking Victoria’s ego. “Maintaining the natural curve in the spine is crucial for those who spend their workdays sitting, even if you’re running around with your toddlers the rest of the time.” Maybe my next job will be writing evasive speeches for some dirtbag politician; I’m certainly qualified.

On the rare occasion when I leave work on time, I avoid broadcasting the fact by shutting down my computer; instead, I leave the monitor glowing and head to the restroom, bag in hand, then make a discreet dash for the exit, ducking familiar faces, some of whom will be toiling away for another two or three hours. It works like a charm, and my horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad day is officially over.

 

My apartment looks like it’s weathered a hurricane—it’s all wreckage and disarray. The usual clutter has recently edged over into turmoil territory since Mimi went and wreaked havoc on my life. I step over the tangle of last night’s outfit and climb into bed. I wouldn’t complain if I could hide out here for eternity.

I’m drifting off, half-encased in a dream where I’m giving Victoria a hack-up of a haircut, when my phone buzzes under my cheek and snaps me up. I answer without checking the screen. “Hello?”

“Oh, hey there, I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
Oh, shit: him.

“I’ve been really busy,” I say. “How’s it going?”

“Great. I’m at that bar down the street from your place, you know the one. Wanna come out and play?”
Seriously?
I can’t even remember this guy’s name and yet he won’t stop hounding me, each of his calls reminding me of the stupid, reckless decision I made that one night. I’m furious at my drunken self for giving him my number (though I actually don’t remember doing so).

“I don’t think so. In fact”—I bite my tongue, wondering if I’m really going to do it—“I got back together with my ex-boyfriend, so I don’t think I’ll be up for any more coming out and playing. Ever.”

“Aw, bummer.” The guy hangs up, no good-bye. I still haven’t forgiven Zoe for getting me so drunk that night.

 

The following Monday, despite my go-straight-home-to-bed personal pledge, on my way out of the office I find myself asking Laura if she wants to grab a drink. As much as the girl irks me, I still feel a pull to befriend her. Laura looks shocked, as if I’ve invited her to accompany me to an S&M orgy. “I thought I’d stay a bit late and get a jump start on my November revises,” she says.
Goody Two-shoes.

“Come on, you can do them tomorrow. I know a place a block away with amazing nachos.”

“I don’t know.”

“Three kinds of cheese. We can even expense them. Abby won’t care.” I wonder if I should’ve said that; I’m still paranoid that Laura reports everyone’s missteps back to Mimi.

Laura nods, barely perceptibly. I think I’m safe.

 

I order us two beers and a heaping plate of nachos. “Cheers,” I say. We clink glasses, and then I come out with it: “So, how’s it going for you, being Mimi’s assistant and all?” I’ve been dying to ask Laura this for months.

“I was doing it before at
Starstruck,
so it’s not like I’m new to the job,” she says defensively. “I’ve been assisting Mimi for two years now.”

“Right, I know. I wasn’t questioning your qualifications.” Jeez, she needs this drink more than I do.

“Mimi is so wonderful. She is totally going to turn the magazine around.” I nod. “Oh, I’m sorry. I know you were at
Hers
before.” Laura looks flummoxed, like she’s trying to figure out whose side I’m on, and why I went suddenly from boss’s pet to just another stray in the pound.

“That’s OK.” I can picture Mimi’s pitch to Laura, an invitation to join her on this big adventure to revitalize a tired brand, the thrill and glamour of it all. “It’s not a secret what she’s doing.”

We both go silent, sipping at our drinks. Our food arrives, and Laura hits the nachos hard. The sight of her chin slick with grease turns my stomach. I lose my appetite.

“I know what you must think of me,” Laura says finally, her mouth full of salsa and guac.

“What do you mean?” My heart is pounding.

“Come on, I’m not deaf. Everyone thinks I’m this big bitch, as if it’s me who’s making all the staff changes.”

“Staff changes?” I say. “You mean firings?”

“Yes, the layoffs.” Laura digs in to another cheesy clump of chips. “Mimi is an amazing leader, and if any of you had known her before all this and had been given the opportunity to go along with her to somewhere new and to get a promotion and a raise”—I bristle at this, wondering if Laura is raking in a larger salary than I am—“you’d realize it, too. Why doesn’t anyone see that?”