Pretty in Ink (5 page)

That afternoon, I stare at the computer screen and think of Jacob. It’s been six months since he confessed he’d fallen out of love with me. I begin typing:

Though it’s not even so deep down that I know this embarrassing confession belongs only in a private diary with a secure padlock, I consider Mimi’s morning pep talk. And although I hate to admit it, part of me hopes that Jacob cyberstalks me in the same way I do him, and that he’ll happen upon the missive. I wince and, with trembling fingers, press “Submit post.”

 

I watch with fascinated horror as the comments pour in—“OMG I hear you!” “Totally went through that last year. It’ll get better, I promise!!! Just keep your head up. And get OFF-LINE!” “Web stalking is the best, right? LOLZ.” “Get a life, loser. YOLO.” Thirty comments in fifteen minutes. I’ve never gotten such a response to a piece of my writing. I suspect I’ve unleashed a monster, and when Mimi races up to my desk a few hours later, I know it for sure.

“
Daily Scoop
wants Zoe and you on the air tomorrow for the morning gossip roundup,” she squeals. “They called you two—what was it?—‘the hot new sex bloggers for a flagging brand that may just be turning over a new leaf.’ That show gets seven hundred thousand viewers. Congrats, this is huge!”

In terms of activities that would make me proud of myself, talking about my love life on national TV ranks at about the same level as prostitution. But I understand I’m not allowed to say “no.” My only consolation is a pang of hope that Jacob will see me on the show all dolled up with my hair and makeup done and then decide he wants me back. I know how pathetic this sounds. I also know Jacob would register Republican before he’d sit and watch the inane banter of
The Daily Scoop
. He doesn’t even own a television.

 

“So I drag my husband to Prada and show him the to-die-for boots,” Zoe says. “The moment he turns over the price tag, I slink up next to him and whisper my proposition in his ear.” I’m marveling at how, in the space of four minutes, Zoe has established what appears to be an actual friendship with the
Daily Scoop
hosts, Kelly and Shelly. They’re tilted toward her, gasping and cooing at her every word. The live audience is rapt.

Kelly interrupts: “So how much would your dear hubby actually have to spend before you’d, um—”

Shelly cuts in: “Do the nasty?”

The audience erupts into laughter. They sound like mad hyenas. I zone out Zoe’s chatter and instead watch her face; it’s animated with the excitement of sharing intimate details of her marriage. But it strikes me that her story is oddly impersonal, as if she and her husband are characters in a bad rom-com. I start remembering all the movies Jacob and I watched together, curled up in my bed or his.

“What?” I yelp. I realize everyone’s eyes are on me, and my heart pounds. Although our entertainment director, Regina, didn’t specifically give me the tip in my media training, I imagine you aren’t supposed to daydream while on live TV.

“I said, exactly how heartbroken do you feel in the wake of your breakup with your ex, Jacob?” Kelly cocks her head, awaiting my answer.

I begin to laugh. It’s the first time I’ve realized that “breakup” rhymes with “Jacob,” and it seems absurd, like of course dating a guy named Jacob wouldn’t work out. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, remembering where I am. “Sometimes if I don’t laugh, I know I’ll cry.”

Kelly and Shelly nod in unison, looking like very understanding marionettes. “I’ve been there,” says Shelly. “We’ve all been there, right?” She turns to the audience, and they burst into applause. “Now, tell us, do you feel like Jacob was The One?”

“Um . . .”

And then Zoe, sensing a comrade in need, heroically comes to my rescue. “You should’ve seen Jane and Jacob,” she says. “They were the perfect couple, totes adorbs. He was always sending flowers and chocolates to the office.” (Not true.) “He would drop by all the time just to say hey.” (Sort of true—he did this twice.) “Everyone was seriously jealous. We all wanted a guy like that, so sweet and sensitive, plus smoking hot.” (Very true.) “And the breakup came out of nowhere. One week flowers, and the next—bam!—he peaced out. It just goes to show that love is unpredictable and that heartbreak can happen to anyone.” Zoe rubs my shoulder, and I feel genuinely comforted. I’m so thankful I want to kiss her on the lips.

“Wow,” the hosts chime together, offering me their most TV-friendly looks of pity. “Breakups are hard.” I plaster a smile onto my face, wanting to punch them both in their perfectly rhinoplas-ted noses.

Back in the office after the segment, my coworkers make the required fuss over my fancy newscaster coif. “You look incredible,” Regina squeals. “You could be a movie star,” says Erin, the intern. Only Ed, the mail manager, winces at my appearance. “Go a bit easier on the war paint next time,” he says, winking.

I smile at the joke, but my stomach actually feels like it’s a war zone. I dash to the bathroom, lean over the toilet, and empty the contents of my gut. Emerging from the stall, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My hair is shellacked stiff as straw and my makeup resembles a clown’s; it’s horrifying how little I resemble myself. My image makes me think of the magazine, how Mimi wants to dress it up in garish, unnatural colors, obscuring any substance with a glossy sheen.

I splash water onto my face and attack the layers of gunk with a handful of rough paper towels. The caked-on colors run and smear, transforming my skin into an abstract painting. After scrubbing for a full five minutes, my real face begins to emerge in the mirror. My relief is immense.

I stare at my reflection. When I decided to become a journalist, I wanted to uncover truths about the world and to help people by disseminating valuable, important information. My goals never included offering up my heartbreak as fodder for entertainment television, or capturing the lowest common denominator’s attention by any means necessary. I spit a heavy globule of phlegm into the sink, and then exit the bathroom, knowing exactly what I need to do.

I stride into Mimi’s office. “I have to tell you something,” I say, talking quickly so I can get it all out before I lose my nerve. “I understand what’s happening to the industry with the competition from the Internet and people’s shortened attention spans and the terrible economy and all of that. And I get why you’re changing
Hers
the way you are. But—”

“Jane, stop,” Mimi says. “I can see where this is going, and I’m not going to let you do it.”

“I just don’t think—”

“You have such great potential.” Always a sucker for a compliment, I feel something soften inside of me. “I admire your gumption, Jane, I really do. In fact, it makes me even more confident that you’ll continue to thrive and excel here at
Hers.
”

“But . . . what about that speech in the cafeteria? What about—”

“You heard what I had to say, and you responded. You got on board. Listen, do you really think you’ll be able to find another job in this crappy economy? How much money do you have saved up? Have you really thought this through?”

Mimi is right, and she knows it. Less than a month’s rent remains in my checking account. My boss’s smile is a haughty, triumphant one. I feel her might encasing me like tentacles. I know I’m powerless to resist.

“Fine, I’ll stay,” I say, barely audibly. “But I don’t want to do the blog anymore.”

“Oh, all right. Zoe can tackle it all for now. But enough of this nonsense. Back to work.”

I retreat from Mimi’s office, feeling ridiculous. But as I stride the length of the floor, I consider that the editor in chief called me brave and then fought for me to stay. She actually
wants
me here. I pass by Laura’s desk and wave hello. She and I now have something in common that no one else in the office has: security.

3

M
imi’s phone number flashes up on my call waiting, and since I’m on the line with Dr. Harris, I stifle my squeal. Ever since Mimi left her executive editor post here at
Starstruck
and fled for
Hers,
I’ve been on high alert, awaiting her call. After nearly a month, I sense my patience is about to pay off.

I try to hurry Dr. Harris along: “Georgina Sparks’s publicist says she’s now a size 2, so what do you think that is, fifteen pounds down?” I ask.

“I’d estimate the weight loss as eighteen pounds. Her cheeks have really hollowed out, and check out that collarbone.”

“Thanks as always, Doc,” I say, disconnecting and clicking over. “Well, hello Ms. Fancy-Pants Woman in Charge. How’s the new gig?”

“Divine,” says Mimi. “I’ve finally adjusted my desk chair to the perfect height.”

“That’s an important step.”

“What are you up to at the old haunts?”

“The usual,” I say. “Covering a starlet’s gaunt debut at her Cannes premiere. Dr. Harris says she’s dropped eighteen pounds.”

We quip in unison:
“Though he hasn’t personally treated her.”

“What’s the total tally now?” Mimi asks. She knows I keep score of celebrities’ collective weight gain or loss for the year.

“Let’s see, up 379 pounds since January.”

“They’re obese, those celebrities.” Mimi, a perpetual yo-yo dieter, has probably gained and lost as much weight during the time I’ve known her.

“Maybe they should try that juice fast you’re a fan of,” I say. “Although we are entering summer—bikini season—so I expect a major reversal any day now.”

“Listen, I know how attached you are to chronicling the weight loss triumphs of actors and reality TV stars. But what would you say if I tried to lure you away from Celebrity Mecca to the slightly more glamorous world of the midmarket mommy mag?”

“I’d say, when can I interview?” I perform a celebration dance in my seat, pumping my fists until I notice coworkers staring. Working at
Hers
has always been my dream; I grew up worshipping my mother, who worshipped the pages of
Hers
. Of course I’d never admit such an earnest desire to Mimi, the least sentimental person I know.

When Mimi landed the
Hers
gig, she hinted at bringing me on board, but she also made it clear she’d have to learn the lay of the new land before making any decisions.

“Great,” says Mimi. “I hate to ask you to do this—”

“No, you don’t. What is it?” For Mimi I’ve gone on full-day stakeouts at restaurants where an A-list celeb was rumored to have a reservation.

“You’re right. Can you come in on Monday? Yes, it’s Memorial Day, and yes, you probably have some big, celebratory, start-of-summer plans, but—”

“I don’t,” I say, cutting her off. I promised Jesse a beach day, but we can go lie on the sand and soak up cancerous rays another time.

“Fabulous. This way none of the staffers will be there to throw darts at you as you walk through the office.” She emits her signature cackle, and I wonder how bad it really is over at
Hers.

“Perfect.” I picture breaking the news to Jesse, and his mocking impression of Mimi:
Victoria, I’ll need you in the office Saturday morning to watch the cartoons with me and my precious puggle,
he’ll say in an uncanny version of my former boss’s voice, flipping his pretend curls. Then in a chirp that’s supposed to be me, he’ll add,
I’ll be there at the crack of dawn,
at which point I’ll wrestle him down to the couch with a tickle attack.

 

A security guard lets me in to the abandoned Schmidt & Delancey building and, alone on the elevator, I have a sneaking suspicion I’m being sent on a sting operation; I imagine the doors opening, and then out pops
Starstruck
’s editor in chief to say she knew I was a traitor all along. But when I step into the
Hers
lobby, all is still. I let myself into the office and search for Mimi, paranoid about the click of my heels amidst all this hushed sleekness. Nearly every surface is made of glass, without a fingerprint in sight, an environment designed to make people feel like they’ve truly made it. It couldn’t be more different from
Starstruck
’s open-plan maze of clapboard cubicles, an office we joke was built out of discarded materials from the set of some sleazy reality TV show.

I spot Mimi in the corner office—of course—spinning like a child in her oversized chair. “Knock, knock.”

“Don’t mind me, I’m just playing.” She slows to a stop. “Come on in.”

I obey, struck silent by the space. It’s nearly the size of my apartment. Floor-to-ceiling glass separates us on three sides from the outdoors; we’re hovering directly over Central Park.

Mimi catches me gawking. “Amazing, right? I’ve instated a rule that people must use Purell before entering. Ha!” I’ve missed that laugh. “Check you out, so chic!”

“Thanks,” I say. Mimi is well aware that my usual work look involves more elastic and pleather than cashmere and silk, but today I jumped out of bed at six a.m., pumped to pick out the perfect interview outfit. A very groggy Jesse was less thrilled to be awakened so early on a holiday and then quizzed about all my different getups. When I finally decided on a look it was nearly eight-thirty and I had to book it to the train. I was almost at my destination before realizing I’d left without taking my basal temperature. I’ll initiate sex tonight, just in case.

“So listen,” Mimi says. “I want to warn you, it’s going to be rough going for a while around here.” I nod. I’ve been through several redesigns before, so I know the late-nights-and-weekends drill. “You’ll be the new executive editor—a big job. You’ll be coming in and shaking up the staff’s cozy complacency, forcing them to get off their lazy butts and raise this magazine from the grave.”

“I’m prepared and willing.” I perform my best military salute.

“They’re not going to like you.”

I doubt this—I’m very likeable—but I concede, “They’re in a hard position, having their jobs on the line.”

“Whatever. The truth is I have it harder, and you will too if you sign on. Believe me, it’s much more difficult to handle the burden of other people’s resentment than it is to fear being fired.” I’m still nodding, though I’m not so sure.

Mimi says she has to make a call and that I should show myself around. I weave my way through the rows of workspaces and run my fingers over the nameplates, wondering which ones will still be here in three months. I pass Laura’s cubicle—she was Mimi’s first poach from
Starstruck
—and then a desk labeled “Zoe Lewis,” piled so high with papers and take-out containers that I literally can’t see the surface. As executive editor I’ll be able to mandate that desks be kept clean, and people will have to listen (unlike how Jesse ignores my pleas to put his dirty laundry in the hamper, not on the floor).

“Shit!” The shout comes from behind. I swivel around and see a woman squatting on the floor surrounded by the contents of her purse. She looks up, startled. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t think anyone would be in today.”

“That’s OK,” I say, not sure what to add.

“I work here. I’m Leah Brenner.”

“Victoria.” I wave at her, like an idiot. “I’m, uh, Mimi’s friend.” I see her eyeing the outfit I was so proud of just a few minutes ago: a French Laundry belted number that makes my figure look fantastic but requires me to take small, ladylike steps (which means I hardly ever wear it), plus Jimmy Choo sling-backs. Now I wish I were in jeans and sneakers. This woman looks scared; she knows I’m not here just to visit.

“Nice to meet you.” She extends a hand.

“Here, let me help.” I bend down and begin gathering objects—a compact, a picture book, a strange-looking contraption with tubes and suction cups.

“Sorry, that’s my breast pump. How mortifying.” She snatches the object from my hand and finishes recovering the scattered stuff.

“So then Mimi’s here too?” she asks. I nod, and she smoothes down her hair. “God, I’m a wreck. I didn’t think anyone would be in, but I guess I should’ve known that
that one
would work on a holiday.” She rolls her eyes, and then glances up nervously to check if I caught her doing so.

“I was on my way to this barbecue with my family, but then one of my babies started throwing a fit in the backseat, wailing for her Petey the Penguin. That stupid stuffed animal is the only thing that’ll soothe her, the monster. I remembered I’d left it in my office. God knows how these things end up in my workbag. So here we are, driving from Westfield to Hoboken via midtown Manhattan. Very convenient. The whole gang—my husband, the triplets, the nanny—they’re all outside in the car idling by the curb, and here I am spilling the entire contents of my Mary Poppins purse like a complete klutz. Thanks for your help, really.”

“It’s no problem at all.” I find myself following Leah down the hall to her office. It looks lived-in. Her bulletin board is plastered with photos. I point to one. “Is that your family?”

“Oh, that’s our Christmas card from last year. My husband, Rob, and the little troublemakers, Daisy and Lulu and Rose, just nine months there. Now, where on Earth is that freaking penguin?”

As Leah rummages through drawers, I can’t stop gazing at the photo that seems like it could be the stock one from a picture frame—the well-scrubbed family posed in a Pottery Barn living room, Leah pretty in a hunter green wraparound, her handsome husband a good sport in his reindeer sweater, and the three little ones practically edible in matching elf onesies. I’ve been designing the LaRue family Christmas card in my head for years. Last year Jesse suggested we pose just the two of us with Floppy the Cat, but the idea seemed too pitiful.

“So do you have kids?” Leah asks. I quickly shake my head. “Lucky you. Doing the working mom thing is a total mess ninety percent of the time, even though they let me work from home part-time. You can’t even imagine.”

“Sounds hard.” I picture her and the husband and the slew of kids hanging out in a grassy backyard behind their big house in the suburbs. It doesn’t seem fair that she has all that and this beautiful office, too.

“There you are, you little twerp,” she says, freeing a threadbare stuffed animal from between two file cabinets. “Thank God. Now we’re only going to be, let’s see, an hour and a half late. Ridiculous. OK, I’m running. It was nice meeting you. . . .”

“Victoria.”

“Right, Victoria. Take care.”

I hang back in Leah’s office after she’s gone, scanning the photos and knickknacks, the mug full of pens, and the tabs on her file folders: “The Rise of Gun-Toting Mothers,” “Natural Treatments for Postpartum Depression,” “Style Solutions for America’s Busiest Women.”

I see another snapshot; it’s Leah in a hospital bed holding the three infants, each as small as her hand. For a period of time I fantasized about this very scene; I was considering in vitro, which everyone knows often leads to multiples. But after I researched the price, the image receded from my mind. Ditto with picturing myself the mom of an African or Asian baby, and then discovering the exorbitant cost of adoption. When I confessed to Jesse that I’d always assumed adoption was free or nearly so—someone wants a baby, someone else has one that she can’t care for, what’s so complicated? —my husband looked at me like I’d been adopted from outer space. “Hey, maybe one of us has a long-lost aunt who’ll croak and leave us with an enormous inheritance,” he joked; I silently seethed, not for the first time, over his sculptor-slash-waiter career that seems to cost us more in supplies than it brings in. (I imagine Jesse has suffered his own moments of resentment about my slightly out-of-control online shopping habit, but these are topics we tend not to discuss.) I’ve since started a savings fund that Mint.com tells me will take a decade to accrue the funds needed to adopt.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” Mimi says, poking her head into Leah’s office. “Leah Brenner is our executive editor—for now.”

“Oh.”

“Total mommy mush brain, that one.” She rotates a finger by her ear, making the cuckoo sign. “Anyway, I need you to write out some story ideas—a few features and front-of-book items, a couple of new sections, nothing too involved. It’s a formality, but I have to include it in your application file. I’m heading out for a shopping spree with the company’s stylist—poor me! ha!—but feel free to linger in the records closet for as long as you like. You can page through back issues for inspiration.”

We trade cheek kisses and I watch her leave, thanking the universe for Mimi Walsh. Gratitude is key to happiness, according to countless articles I’ve read in women’s magazines. Jesse rolls his eyes at it, but lately each night I’ve been trying to list all I have to be thankful for (along with bemoaning my lack of luck, a habit I can’t seem to kick). Mimi has been like my fairy godmother, hovering over my shoulder and waving her wand to sprinkle fairy dust on me throughout my career. Years ago, when I wanted to try my hand at writing a novel, it was Mimi who cheered me on and gave me the courage to quit
Yummy Weekly.
And then my literary aspirations devolved into daylong TV marathons and crippling despair, which led to a six-month dry spell between Jesse and me and a conversation where we flirted with the idea of separation. Meanwhile, our meager savings dwindled to nothing and were fast replaced by four- and then five-figure credit card debt. All of that happened to coincide with the economy’s implosion that sent shockwaves of layoffs and magazine shutterings through the publishing world. It was Mimi, of course, who miraculously found me a job at
Starstruck,
rescuing my self-worth, my marriage, and my credit score all in one fell swoop. I practically owe her my life.

 

Sitting among the back issues in the records closet is like rewinding twenty-five years to my childhood in Oklahoma City. Rather than page through recent issues of
Hers
to spark story ideas, I’ve pulled out nearly every issue from the eighties and fanned them out around me.