Pretty in Ink (31 page)

Seemingly from nowhere, Suzie whips out a bottle of champagne, and I think, good for her. After all she’s been through, delivering terrible news all summer long, she deserves a drink. She pops the cork, which soars in a perfect upside-down parabola before landing squarely on top of Mrs. Winters’s bun. I brace myself, imagining a swift end to the party, but Mrs. Winters just shrugs and lets the cork sit atop her head until it eventually topples off on its own. She pulls out three plastic champagne flutes from a drawer.

“To the woman of the hour,” she says, raising her glass. “God willing, you’ll turn this publication around into a grand success.” Though I sense a vague threat there, I remove it from my mind, knowing there will be plenty of time later on to discuss facts and figures. We clink glasses.

The champagne goes straight to my head, and my thoughts flit about like fireflies: I think of little old me sitting in that big corner office, my name printed at the tippy-top of the masthead, my photo stamped at the front of every issue. I am awed by my new power to yay or nay every single decision, and—oh, my God!—the clothing, makeup, and hair allowance. Little ions of happiness are performing somersaults in my head, and as much as I try to be cool, I’m certain a stupid grin has all but tattooed itself across my face. After two refills of champagne and more handshakes and congratulations, I must look as blithe as Bozo the Clown.

It’s not until I’m back in the elevator that the reality of my life hits me—Rob! Our entire home packed up in boxes! The new house in Vermont! My heart starts to sink as I plummet the twenty-one floors. All summer, I’ve been working so hard to feel OK about leaving behind my career in magazines, to feel at peace about moving to the middle of nowhere and starting over. But now that this golden, new opportunity is glittering before my eyes, that sense of peace feels like a cheap, plastic consolation prize. I cannot turn my back on the job I’ve been dreaming about since I was a child playing office at my mother’s feet.

But, of course, there is Rob. Rob, whom I love deeply. Rob, who is deeply in love with both me and the idea of our beginning again in Vermont. Still, one of the reasons I first fell for my husband was his beautiful, open mind, his willingness to consider and reconsider a scenario and to readjust his views accordingly, without reservation or resentment. Like the best editors, Rob always sees the potential for revision. Hopefully that outlook will prevail now, and my husband will recognize the Vermont plan for what it was: simply a rough draft. Surely when he hears about the new plan, he’ll see it as a vast improvement over the original, a revise that’s been tweaked and edited and perfectly polished—the final.

This reasoning does not prevent my stomach from catapulting into my throat as I reluctantly dig out my phone and dial my husband’s number. Before I know it, I’ve dropped past the
Hers
floor and I’m speaking into a recording: “Rob, sweetheart, hi! I have news. It’s big. And it’s going to sound scary at first, but don’t worry. I love you. We’re going to make it work, I just know it. And even better, you’ll soon have the benefit of being married to the happiest version of me I’ve ever been. And I love you. Did I already say that? Well, it’s still true, I love you. Call me when you can. Bye!”

To halt the panic I sense creeping into my head, I adjust my focus—to
all the money!
When Mrs. Winters slid across her desk a piece of paper containing my new salary, the number made me gasp. I’ll be earning more than double my current income. I picture never again waking up in a cold sweat, wondering how the hell we’ll afford tuition times three for twelve years of private school plus college for the girls; now I’ll sleep soundly through the night, happily ever after. I’ll finally be able to spend and splurge and squander as I’ve always dreamed. I imagine tearing up the horribly restrictive budget Rob and I hammered out for Vermont, and then immediately hitting Barneys. It’ll be just like that show our nanny likes where the contestants race through the supermarket with unlimited budgets, loading up their carts willy-nilly, only for me instead of groceries I’ll be loading up on buttery leather handbags and gorgeous calfskin boots.

My phone’s ringing jolts me out of my shopping spree fantasy: It’s Rob. I step off the elevator into the building’s lobby, inhale deeply, and pick up the phone.

“Sweetheart,” I say, then before taking a breath or giving him a chance to respond, I blurt out my news.

“Wow.” His tone is undecipherable. I remember offering the same one-word response when Rob told me we’d gotten the Vermont house.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” I say. “I’ve been thinking, and I suppose you and the kids and maybe Maria can settle down in Vermont, and I’ll get a little studio in SoHo and commute back and forth.” I picture my weekdays: I’ll be unattached, living that illustrious Manhattan working-girl life of catching the train for a ten-minute hop up to the office, popping out at lunch to shop at a boutique, hitting up the trendiest new restaurant for dinner (with an assistant to book the reservation!). “I’ll spend my weeks in New York, and then each weekend I’ll vamoose up to Vermont and dive into our wholesome new country life. Think about it, we’ll never get sick of each other. You know how they say how distance makes the heart grow fonder. It’ll be great.”

My husband says nothing, so I continue my rambling: “Or maybe we’ll stay in New Jersey, get another house—a bigger one!—in the same neighborhood, and Vermont will become our quaint, little summer place, for hiking and blueberry picking and baking bread from scratch. It’ll be the best of both worlds! We can make it work. Right?” I’m willing my husband to say something,
anything,
and meanwhile thinking, I can have it all, right?
Right?

“Right,” Rob says, finally. I exhale, my heart pounding; I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath. “I guess we’ll make it work. Congratulations, baby. This is a big deal.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Sweetheart?”

“Yeah?”

“How exactly will we make it work?”

“Hey, who the hell knows?!”

My laugh is a snort. “Oh, how I love you.”

“You’re lucky I love you, too, babe. Otherwise I’d probably kill you.”

“I suppose that’s fair.”

“OK, well, I have to go rework the icing on the ‘You’re Fired’ cake I got you. Got to change the ‘F’ into an ‘H.’ ”

I giggle. “Good idea, sweetheart. I’ll see you tonight.”

My eyes are still on my phone’s screen when I start back toward the elevator, so I’m not surprised when I smack right into someone. “I’m so sorry,” I say on reflex, and then look up to see Mimi. “Oh.”

“Had to get in a final blow before I left, didn’t you?” she says, smiling slyly.

“I’m so sorry,” I say again, not sure of what else to say or do. Mimi and I look at each other eye to eye. It’s because she’s in flats; without her usual sky-high heels, Mimi and I are the same height.

“I hear some congratulations are in order to the new editor in chief.”

“Thank you,” I say. I wonder how this news has possibly already spread, if maybe Mimi has rigged up some kind of wiretap in Mrs. Winters’s office. “I was sorry to hear what happened to you, and with the Helena cover. Really. That could’ve happened to anyone.”

“Well, you weren’t the one to leak the photo, were you? Come on, fess up! Ha!”

“Honestly, I would never have the guts.”

“I know you wouldn’t.” I suppose she couldn’t resist the dig. “One thing about you, Leah, no one could ever deny how much you care about
Hers
.”

I nod. It’s true. “I know you cared, too, Mimi.”

“Yep, and now I’ll find something else to care about. That shouldn’t be so hard.”

“Any chance you want to get away from it all, leave the crazy city life behind? I’ve got this great house in Vermont I’m looking to unload. It comes with live chickens.”

“Chickens, ha! Lord help me. The day I decide to leave Manhattan is the day I put a bullet in my head. No offense.”

“None taken, although New Jersey really isn’t so bad.”

“Sure it’s not.”

“So, as a seasoned pro, do you have any advice for me in my new job?”

“You’re in charge now, so act like it. You want them to be a little scared of you. I say, fire someone immediately.”

“Hmm, I’m not sure I’m going to be that kind of editor in chief.”

“You may just surprise yourself, Ms. Leah Brenner. Also, there’s a package of Oreos in the bottom right desk drawer. For emergencies—and believe me, there will be emergencies.”

“Thanks, Mimi. It means a lot.”

“All right, let’s not get too schmaltzy. Here, we’ll hug it out—I promise I won’t pull a knife—and then I’m out.”

“All right.”

Mimi pulls me in for a hug, holds on for exactly one beat, and then pushes me away. “Now, off you go, back up to the wolves,” she says. It’s bittersweet, watching my former boss walk away and out of the Schmidt & Delancey building.

As soon as Mimi is out of sight, I refocus on my own situation, on this impossible fantasy that has become my reality. I suppose I’ll soon find out if this new job, this new life, will work out. In the meantime, I’ve got the November issue to finish shipping to the printer. I board the elevator and press 9.

When I step out onto the
Hers
floor, it’s eerily calm. It’s like the hush after a hurricane, when everyone’s relieved to still have a roof over their heads, but shell-shocked that the skies, now clear and blue, could have unleashed such rage upon the world. I survey the damage. Laura appears. “Can I get you anything?” she asks, a submissive smile plastered onto her face. So then everyone must already know.

“A coffee, skim milk, one sugar,” I say, surprised at how easily the answer rolls off my tongue, and how confident I sound. This will be my second coffee delivery in one day, and already it no longer fazes me. I retreat to my new office, turn on my new computer, and start typing up ideas, plotting and planning. It’s thrilling to see how quickly the pages fill—one, then two, then three. Here we go.

“Everyone into the conference room, please,” I announce. I stand front and center, posture perfect, until the troops have gathered. When the room falls silent, I unveil an image on the screen: the unretouched version of Helena Hope.

“Folks, get a load of our new November cover,” I say, using my pink pen to draw attention to the singer’s various flaws and blemishes. “It’ll be a grand statement. A big ‘F you!’ to all those snarky blogs calling us names.
Hers
will become the first-ever women’s magazine to print a completely unretouched photo on its cover. Inside the issue we’ll give readers an intimate look at Helena’s struggle with her weight, her aging, and her tumultuous career. It’ll be the story of a true survivor. I predict this will be our highest grossing issue in years.”

I scan the faces before me; they look attentive and intrigued and a little scared.
So this is what it’s like to be in charge,
I think. A fiery satisfaction flares up from my belly and energizes my whole body. It’s a feeling that could be addictive.

“It’s genius,” says Zoe. “Good for you, Brenner.” She looks genuinely proud.

“Hear, hear,” says Abby, flashing me a smile.

“If it works for Helena, it works for me,” Lynn says.

“She really doesn’t look half bad,” Jane adds. “It’s less creepy than the super-doctored picture, that’s for sure.” Even Debbie doesn’t look displeased at this scheme.

“You guys are totally right,” says Victoria, her tone thick with honey, stripped of all its usual scorn. She seems nervous. “This will be a wonderful fresh start to the brand-new face of
Hers,
a revolutionary take on women living their real lives, wrinkles and all.”

I nod curtly. It’s just a tiny tilt of the head, but I believe it’s enough to convey that she now answers to me—that they all do—and that if I were as vindictive as some might be in my place, I could easily move certain office-dwelling employees to certain out-of-the-way cubicles, but that I’m probably (
probably
) above that kind of retribution.

“But what about Helena?” Laura blurts out, clearly horrified.

“Johanna spoke to Helena,” I say, “and she loves the idea: it’ll keep her name on the tip of everyone’s tongues, plus it’ll give her that touch of edginess she’s been dying to project for ages.”

“It’s a win-win,” Johanna says. “Those were the exact words out of her mouth, the bloody wanker.”

“OK, everyone,” I say, “we’ve got about two hours to get this new cover and the revised Helena interview out the door. Let’s get moving.”

“Well, I think it’s an awful idea.” Laura says it, perhaps louder than she intended.

“Is that right?” I fix my eyes on her. In that moment, I remember Mimi’s advice, and I understand. Everyone wheels around to face my new assistant—the features editors, the beauty and fashion departments, Web and production, art and photo. The entire staff is singling out and staring at the one loyalist to the old guard. It’s all versus one. They watch as Laura blushes a deep red, and I can feel a shift in the room. Everyone understands the girl’s fate, and the fact that I have just decided it. And then I can see it in Laura’s eyes: the slate-gray irises somehow darkening to the precise hue of defeat. She understands it, too.