Pretty in Ink (29 page)

“I’ll ask it again,” says Mimi. “Do you have anything to say?”

“I suppose I’m meant to defend myself,” I say, with a strange measure of calm. Part of me feels like this is all a charade, like even Mimi knows I would never commit this kind of betrayal and that they just need a scapegoat. “I’m not sure what I can say except that I’m sorry this happened. It’s true I was in charge of that photo shoot, and in that sense I bear some responsibility for the fact that the film was clearly not as guarded as it should have been. I would be happy to draw up some ideas for how we can run a tighter ship in the future, and I am more than willing to participate in any investigation you wish to conduct. Beyond that, I can assure you I played no part in the leaking of these photos. I love my role here at
Hers,
and I would never intentionally do anything to jeopardize it.” Voicing these sentiments aloud makes me realize how genuinely I feel them. I find myself sitting taller in my seat. “I hope my word is strong enough to convince you.”

Johanna again rolls her eyes. “Look, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out you’re ticked off that your bloody boyfriend got fired. He’s out of a job, with bugger all cash flow, and you could use the easy money. Just confess already!”

At the mention of Mark, a lump forms in my throat. “I don’t have anything more to say.”

Abby turns to Mimi. “You sure you want me to do this?” she whispers. Mimi nods resolutely. “OK, well, here goes. Drew, thank you for your statement. As you said yourself, you were in charge of the shoot where the photos were leaked. We are asking that you voluntarily resign, and in appreciation we would like to offer you what we consider to be a generous severance package: three months’ paid salary.”

I look from face to face. It takes me a moment to realize this is a serious proposal. “Wait a second,” I say. “You want me to fall on my sword and effectively admit I was the one who did this, to give in to your nonsense accusation?”

“If you care so much about
Hers
like you say, you’ll understand that this would be a significant help to the brand,” Victoria says. “We will do everything we can to help you find a new position. It might be difficult in magazines for a while, but we all have many connections in other industries.” I guess she’s attempting to play good cop to Johanna’s bad cop; it makes me feel sick.

“If you’re so sure I did it,” I say, “then why don’t you fire me?” I see Victoria glance nervously at Mimi. “Aha, I get it. You don’t have a real case against me, do you? Where’s your evidence, huh? If you fire me, you’re worried I’ll lawyer up and sue. Well, you’re right.”

“Four months’ severance,” says Mimi. “How about that?” I gape at her incredulously. “Five,” she says.

“Mimi,” Abby says, placing a hand on her arm.

“Screw your severance,” I say. Abby’s lips curl up into the smallest smile. “I didn’t leak any photo. I am good at my job, and all of you know it. Kindly direct your witch hunt elsewhere.” I storm out of Mimi’s office, totally shocked by my own gumption.

My heart is still pounding when I return to my desk. I pick up the phone to dial Mark, but then stop myself. Even if he did answer, he wouldn’t tell me how proud he is that I stood up for myself; he’d say I was an idiot to not take the money and run. I can hear his words exactly: “You had the opportunity to hurl a big ‘F you’ to the world of commercial quote-unquote art, and better yet, to take responsibility for an incredible act of corporate treason, and you totally blew it!” I replace the phone in its receiver, and for a moment wonder if Mark would be right. I glance at my to-do list, which includes color-correcting the images for the “Dress Like Your Fave Celeb” spread and sorting through the shots for the “5 Minutes to Hotter Sex” story. I feel a swirl of confusion in my gut.

“Yoo-hoo.” I jump. Lynn is crouching next to my chair, her face inches from my knees. “I sneaked down here. I didn’t want anyone to see me chatting to the office’s Public Enemy Number One.”

“Gee, thanks.”

She waves me away. “Don’t worry, in no time this will all pass and then we’ll be on to the next scandal. Mimi knows you didn’t do it, anyway. I just wanted to let you know, I’m superproud of all you said back there. You’ve got real guts, girlfriend!”

Despite the fact that my boss looks ridiculous squatting next to my chair, I’m truly touched by her words. “Thank you,” I say.

“And as I’ve told you before, I think you’re doing a fantastic job here. Once we all move on from this hiccup, I’m going to see about getting you the raise and promotion you deserve.” Lynn pats me on the knee, then skulks away in a crabwalk, which makes me giggle.

I shake out my shoulders and feel the day’s pressures peel away. I lean back in my seat, close my eyes, and imagine the perfect photograph, that elusive one that’s nearly impossible to get: the composition crisp, the lighting honeyed, the image magically capturing so much more than appears before the lens. The picture in my mind’s eye is not yet in clear focus, or even developed, but I believe it’s getting there. It feels like maybe I’m picturing my future.

I cue up Craigslist apartment listings and Google “Upper West Side moving companies,” and then get to work.

20

I
’m on autopilot, repeating “No comment,” “No comment,” “No comment” into the receiver before the callers even identify themselves. I haven’t visited the ladies’ room in hours, terrified that a call will make it through to Mimi unimpeded. I prepared her favorite chai tea with two shakes of cinnamon just like she likes it, but she hasn’t touched the mug; this is unprecedented.

The maintenance office called about a spill in the kitchen and said they were sending up a couple of janitors, but only once the so-called janitors burst through Mimi’s office and revealed themselves to be undercover reporters from the
New York Post
did I realize the incoming call hadn’t contained Schmidt & Delancey’s signature three-digit code. The weasels have parked themselves beside Mimi’s desk, unbudgeable. I’ve asked Mimi several times if she wants me to call security, but she keeps saying no. Apparently kicking them out will only make for a more disastrous story in tomorrow’s paper. Mimi has even stooped to answering their questions.

“Look, a magazine cover is an art object that plays into women’s fantasies of the celebrity lifestyle,” I hear her say, her voice tinged with anxiety. “It’s an invented image, not a photograph. Everyone understands that when they’re at the newsstand.” One of the reporters emits a guffaw that pierces through the office’s white noise and carries down the hall. I would like to chuck my computer in his direction.

All the interoffice calls route through my phone, so I see it when Lynn dials Drew. The photo editor doesn’t betray anything as she walks into the creative director’s office and closes the door behind her. If I had any friends around here (I gave Mimi my college roommate’s résumé last week, a not-so-subtle hint that she would be an excellent replacement for Jane), I’d share my conviction that Drew is definitely the leaker. It’s obvious. And even though she’s one of the few holdovers who doesn’t seem to harbor a massive grudge toward me, I’m still in favor of letting her go. I know Mimi is obligated to conduct a full investigation, but if it were up to me, she would’ve canned Drew on the spot this afternoon. If Mimi can convince those smarmy reporters that one rogue staffer was responsible for all the Photoshopping, then hopefully everyone will shut up about the whole thing and just get back to enjoying the amazing new version of the magazine.

I tilt my computer monitor away from Mimi’s office and clandestinely click through the comments on MAGnifier.net. Women are blathering on about antifeminist depictions of models in magazines, the fact that the average American woman is a size 14, and how the media is responsible for the epidemic of eating disorders in this country.
Oh, cry me a river.
The truth is, no one would buy a magazine that had a big fatso on its cover with acne scars and an ill-fitting dress, or even if the cover model were a normal-looking person. When I was at
Starstruck,
the best-selling issues featured celebrities’ new diets and how they dropped the baby weight and got back to looking amazing. That’s what readers want, even if they claim otherwise. Everyone loves hearing about how celebs are prettier, thinner, and richer than the rest of us—it’s what makes reading magazines so fun. Working in publishing, it’s our job to play into those fantasies, simple as that. The fact that Mimi is savvy enough to understand this, and therefore to produce and sell a buttload of magazines, apparently makes her a target. The mediocre are always trying to bring down the superstars, which is something I remind myself on a near-daily basis in this office.

The phone rings, and I’m about to spout another “No comment” before I realize it’s the mail center on the line. “Ms. Maxwell, your food is here.”

Darn.
I forgot about the party; we’re supposed to be celebrating our intern, Erin’s, last day. “I’ll send someone down.” I call Jane over; Mimi needs me to stay put at my post.

“Can you please grab the champagne and cupcakes from the loading dock for the party?” I ask. Jane sighs loudly. Ever since that girl announced her pregnancy, she thinks she’s at the top of the masthead.

I Google “
Hers
magazine.” The latest hit is an editorial decrying our tactics and urging readers to cancel their subscriptions stat. I think maybe it’s a joke, or merely the ravings of some two-bit blogger typing at home in his underwear, but when I scroll to the bottom I see it’s jointly signed by the heads of the National Organization for Women, the Feminist Majority, and the Girl Scouts of America, syndicated for dozens of newspapers nationwide. Rage bubbles up in my throat, and I’m tempted to comment: Don’t these groups realize this kind of digital alteration goes on behind the scenes of every single magazine on the newsstand, that
Hers
is no worse than the rest? But I resist, knowing that engaging in the conversation will only stoke the flames of their outrage.

I will come up with a solution for this, I know I will. I dig through Jenny’s old files to find the phone number for Subscriber Services. My predecessor’s system confounds me—every folder the same manila, every label written out in boring ballpoint blue. I wonder how she ever found anything, and why she never took advantage of the top-of-the-line label maker I gleefully discovered in the back of a desk drawer on my first day. I would honestly label my cat if I knew she wouldn’t bite.

I come across the phone number after ten minutes of searching (which is nine minutes longer than it would’ve taken if I’d been the one to file it), and dial.

“Jenny, long time!” trills a woman with a thick midwestern accent. Subscriber Services is based in Ohio. “Got any big Labor Day plans? How are you?”

“Oh, no, Jenny doesn’t work here anymore. This is Laura, the new assistant to the editor in chief.”

“Oh, hello, Laura. I’m Margene in Subscriber Services.” That accent is an assault on my eardrums. I’m thankful I managed to lose my West Virginia drawl during my freshman year at Wellesley.

“Can you give me the latest subscriber numbers, and any recent activity?” My heart is hammering away at my chest.

“You know, there actually has been some funny business today. We’ve gotten a 3,000 percent jump in cancellations, nearly 24,000 just since this morning. It keeps picking up, too. Strange, huh? Usually this is the time of year folks really want to just sit back, relax, and hunker down with a magazine, on the beach or in the tub or—”

“Thanks.” I cut off Margene’s rambling, unable to stifle the tremble in my voice. “Would you be so kind as to send me hourly updates for the remainder of the day?” I’ll hide them from Mimi until I can come up with an idea for how to reverse this catastrophe. Maybe some sort of two-for-one promotion for former subscribers, with exclusive access to a
Hers
weight-loss program. Or something like that.

Meanwhile, we have a party to throw. I pen an e-mail to the staff: “Please gather in the conference room to toast a job well done by our summer intern, Erin, and to celebrate her send-off!” I attach the animated balloon banner I picked out for the e-invite, but then I second-guess the degree of cheer and remove it just before hitting Send.

I overhear Jane telling Zoe how tone-deaf my e-mail is. As if I could have anticipated that such an unfortunate turn of events would coincide with the intern’s scheduled good-bye party, as if I can just send back all of the food and drinks we’ve ordered. Scandal or not, Erin deserves recognition for all her hard work. I’m sure Mimi would agree.

The party’s turnout is paltry, the conference room sparse with staffers. I pour twenty glasses of champagne, but half remain untouched, the bubbles left to deflate in the plastic flutes. Mimi doesn’t even bother to make an appearance. Zoe is causing a scene, as usual: She downs her drink like a shot, then reaches for another. “Who wants to go halfsies on a s’mores cupcake?” she announces to the room. All afternoon she’s been her usual flippant self, as if we’re not in the middle of a crisis. I want to stick her face in a s’mores cupcake.

I escape to the kitchen to gather a gallon of milk and a stack of cups, and when I return Zoe is nestled in the corner with one of the
Post
reporters, piercing his cupcake with a fork and laughing idiotically. I march over. “Excuse me,” I say. “This gathering is for
Hers
staff members only.”

“What, am I too fat and imperfect to grace the
Hers
staff with my presence?” says the man, who actually does have quite a substantial gut. “I guess I better lay off the cupcakes, or you can just airbrush away my flab.” Zoe beams up at him.

“Please leave before I call security.”

“OK, OK.” On his way out, the reporter grabs another cupcake from the platter and scarfs it down. Repulsive. I dread the story that will appear in tomorrow’s paper: “
Hers
editors celebrate amidst the scandal, fancying themselves above the nation’s harsh judgment,” or worse, “
Hers
editors react to media brouhaha by feasting on cupcakes to demonstrate that they’re not the wicked anorexic freaks everyone suspects them to be,” then some silly reference to Marie Antoinette.

Drew slips in to the party. She takes a flute of champagne and clinks a plastic fork against its side. “Attention, everyone,” she announces to the room. “Look, I know it’s been a rough afternoon for all of us, but I’m glad we can take the time to acknowledge that today is Erin’s last day here at
Hers.
Please bear with me while I make a little speech.” She casts an arm around the intern’s shoulder. “Thanks to Erin’s talent and hard work these past three months, snafus like this one have been a bit easier to handle. She’s had a lot on her plate this summer, but throughout it all she’s maintained her cool and stayed poised and professional. Cheers, and good luck for your final year of college!”

We all raise our glasses. I wonder if Erin is aware of what’s going on in the office, although she has Internet access like the rest of us, so how could she not?

“It’s been a great summer, and such a privilege to work with all of you,” Erin says in a trembling voice, contorting her face into a queasy smile. Her complexion is ashen.
Oh no, is the intern drunk?
I realize I don’t even know if she’s of age, and I reprimand myself for not being a better monitor, for not living up to the level of professionalism I expect of myself. As I leave to fetch her a glass of water, I see Abby, flanked by our company lawyer, pull Drew out of the conference room.

An hour later, the managing editor’s office is still sealed shut, and no one has emerged. I wonder how long this silly investigation will be drawn out for before they cut loose the obvious culprit.

I do respect how carefully Mimi has proceeded with staff changes throughout the summer—she’s given everyone a real chance before making decisions—but I think it might’ve been better if she’d ripped off all the Band-Aids at once, right at the start. On one of my first days at
Hers,
I happened to glance at an e-mail up on Mimi’s screen, addressed to someone in Corporate; she planned to keep Leah on staff through the summer, it said, because the old staffers liked and respected her and because it would have looked bad to immediately fire a mom of three little kids. But by now surely more than enough time has passed, and I think it’s weird that she and Victoria share the same title. Plus, Leah is the biggest slacker; she hardly does anything anymore. And, though I know it’s selfish, I can’t help thinking that the more the old staffers get the boot, the less the remaining people will view me as some kind of Grim Reaper.

Margene from Subscriber Services e-mails me the latest update: 13,000 more subscriptions canceled. I re-Google
Hers,
and it turns out the
Post
isn’t waiting until tomorrow’s paper to tear us apart: There’s already a 1,500-word story up on their Web site, including detailed descriptions of staff members in the write-up. I suppose I’m “the huffy assistant-slash-hall-monitor who worked her damnedest to protect her turf but still took twenty-five minutes to get us ousted from the building.”

“Laura!” Mimi calls me into her office, and I worry I’m in trouble.

“Hi, Mimi.”

“Jesus, are you OK?” she asks. “You look like you just ate a pound of jalapeños.”

“I’m fine. How are you?” I ask idiotically.

“Listen, I need you to be my eyes and ears this afternoon, to really try to figure out who let this photo leak, OK? Corporate is on my ass and wants information by the end of the day.”

“As in,
an hour
from now?!”

“I know, it’s completely impossible. But anything you can do would be an enormous help. I’m desperate. We’ve interviewed Drew, and I think she’s being honest when she says she has no idea who’s responsible.”
Yeah, right.

Abby, Victoria, and Johanna scurry into the office. Abby smiles at me uneasily, but the others seem oblivious to my presence. Sometimes I wonder if they consider me just a piece of furniture.

“So I’ll come right out with it,” says Johanna. “I’ve talked to Helena’s publicist, and she wants to pull out of the issue.”

“What?!”
Mimi opens her drawer and extracts a package of Oreos. Uh-oh, Code Oreo, as we used to say at
Starstruck.
At the old office, Mimi would bust out the snack food every time a celeb threatened to sue. One by one she pops the cookies into her mouth, then appears to swallow them whole. “But Helena can’t do that, can she? We have a contract.”

“Well,” says Abby, “Sylvia always used to handle our contracts. Since we haven’t hired a full-time researcher to replace her, the final version of the contract with the lawyer’s notes has just been sitting around collecting dust, unsigned by either party.”

“No way. Get Helena on the phone right this minute.”

“It’s no use,” says Johanna. “She’s bloody furious and totally humiliated. Her publicist says she’s taken to bed with a family-sized bag of barbecue crisps. As if that’s the solution to her big, fat arse.” Johanna laughs. No one else joins in.