by Laura Hankin
I hadn’t had that feeling since my mom had gotten sick, and I couldn’t help imagining that the right kind of desk would help me regain it. I knew rationally that desks didn’t matter, and that real writers just sat down and forced themselves to be creative anywhere, those fuckers. But I liked my fantasies.
My desk chair was piled with clothes that weren’t dirty enough for my laundry hamper, but not clean enough to put back in my drawer. Shorts I’d gone on a strenuous walk in. A sleep shirt I’d worn a few times. A black bra. Miles glanced at it and then glanced away.
“Here, you should take my laundry chair and I’ll sit on the bed,” I said, gathering up all the clothes in my arms and dumping them on the floor of my closet. My palms had grown damp. “Sorry, not the most professional meeting place.”
He turned in a circle, taking everything in. “Hey, it’s always an interesting exercise to find out more about a person by seeing their room, especially when they don’t like to talk much about their personal life.”
“Right,” I said. “You’re doing research. Preparing yourself for when I become famous, and you have to write a profile of me.”
“‘To understand the genius of Jillian Beckley,’” he said, “‘you don’t need to walk a mile in her shoes. You just need to walk the length of her messy childhood bedroom. If you can, without breaking your ankle.’” He turned back to his examination, pausing at a picture I’d hung up on my wall, the black-and-white portrait of my mother from her college yearbook. She was wearing a collared shirt, her dark hair blown out in the Farrah Fawcett style that people went nuts over at the time, her chest tilted away from the camera but her face looking at the photographer with a proud, almost defiant stare. I always imagined that he’d just called her something like “little lady” or “sweetheart”: Now turn your head this way, sweetheart! And she’d turn her head, but she was not going to do it sweetly, because she had worked her ass off and now she was graduating cum laude, dammit.
I’d actually hung it up there when we were still hopeful that a treatment would work. She’d give cancer the same kind of defiant stare she was giving in the photograph. Cancer would take a step back, say Sorry, ma’am, wrong person, and slink off to find some other target. This picture was supposed to be a triumphant talisman. It had turned into a memorial.
“Your mother?” Miles asked, and I nodded. “Huh. She was beautiful. I also think that she could have kicked my ass.”
“Probably,” I said, and sat down on the bed. He sat on my desk chair, which let out a little squeak as it absorbed the solidness of him. “Okay, so what do you think about the story?”
“It’s very promising so far,” Miles said. “And I trust you. But obviously, there’s the matter of journalistic integrity. Fact-checking, and all of that. Can you get me some proof?”
“Yeah, of course. They keep taking my phone away from me. But if what that woman wrote in the mirror means what I think it does, I’m getting an official offer of membership the next time I go. Then I imagine that they’ll stop with the whole confiscation routine, so I can sneak you some pictures or a video. Not to mention the address of the clubhouse.”
“Perfect,” he said.
I bit my lip, steeling myself. “Two bits of potentially bad news. This other new member I met said that the membership dues are five hundred dollars a month and I don’t . . . I don’t just have that lying around. I mean, I can get it eventually—I can pick up extra shifts, but if they need it this week . . . Does the Standard ever give advances?”
“They don’t,” he said. “At least not to unproven writers.”
“Ah,” I said. “Okay, I’ll figure something out. Maybe I can put it on my credit card—”
“Beckley,” he said. “I’ll cover you.”
My heart thumped. “Really?”
“Yeah, I can swing it for the first month.”
“That’s . . . Are you sure?” Was this acceptable journalistic practice? And even if it was, was it a good idea?
“I am,” he said. “I know I was hard on you at first, when you were pitching me. But then, as I’ve been getting excited about this piece . . .” His lips turned up in that crooked smile I liked so much. “I started thinking about that union piece you wrote, back when you were new at Quill.” I nodded. I’d spent months delving into the unionization efforts at a local fast-food chain. Miles had given me incredible feedback every step of the way, pushing me further. I was proud of that piece, elated at what it might do. Then, with it all set to publish, Quill’s billionaire owner had gotten wind of it and killed it. Turned out that the chain’s owner was a good friend of his. He owed him a favor.
“That was a damn good piece—I still remember some of those lines—and I didn’t fight hard enough for it,” Miles said. “So now, I’m not going to let you get screwed over because of five hundred bucks. I’ve got you.”
“Thanks,” I said, trying not to blush from the fact that, years later, he hadn’t forgotten something I’d written. “The other issue, though . . . That same member said something about a nondisparagement clause in the contract.”
“Ah,” Miles said, and frowned. “That complicates things.” He rubbed his chin, leaning back in my desk chair, putting one leg up across the other. His trousers rode up, exposing his ankle, the light brown leg hair escaping from the top of his red sock. He thought for a moment, then sat forward again. “Okay. Look, you’ve got a good story already. Obviously I want to know about Nicole Woo-Martin, but plenty of other people will be satisfied with what you’ve learned so far. You’ve been inside the belly of the beast. It seems like you’ve got a thesis, that it’s an unholy, elitist union of corporate interest and pseudoscience. We can get you a small camera to sneak in with you this next time you go so you can grab a picture or two even if they take your phone again. Maybe ask for a moment alone with the contract and get a clear shot of that. And then tell them that you’re uncomfortable with the terms and get out of there. With your writing talent, you can still get an interesting article out of what you have right now.”
“Fuck no, are you kidding me?” I sprang to my feet and began pacing the narrow room. “You think I’m going to get this far and then give up? Who knows how things change once you’re a member? There must be so much that they keep from you when you’re there on a trial basis!” Miles started to say something but I cut him off, so he folded his arms and watched me, an expression that looked like amusement creeping across his face. “I’m only just starting to scratch the surface with these women. There’s this mysterious door that I’ve never seen anyone go into or out of, but that I catch Margot and some of the others staring at all the time, and I think that might have something to do with what they did to Nicole. I’ve got to see if I can find out what’s behind that or else I’m abdicating my journalistic responsibility, and—”
“Okay, okay,” he said, grinning, holding his hands up, standing and blocking my path so that I had to stop pacing. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“You were?” I asked, breathing hard.
“Yeah. Well, maybe not the ‘fuck no’ part—as a general professional rule, you don’t want to say that to your editor’s suggestions.” I rolled my eyes at him, and he laughed and sat down on my bed. “But the general thrust of it all, yes. So let me take this to our counsel’s office and see what they advise. Nevertheless might not want to sue you for disparagement. Getting embroiled in a lawsuit will make them look even worse. Besides, if you write something where you let the facts speak for themselves without being overtly snarky or judgmental, you can claim that you’re not disparaging them at all, just recording the truth.”
“Writing something without snark or judgment?” I asked. “I’m sorry, I’m unfamiliar with the concept.” He grinned. “Okay, can do. And this girl didn’t mention anything about a nondisclosure, so I think maybe they just keep the secrets because it’s fun for them. But if they do turn out to
have one of those, same rules apply?”
“A nondisclosure is trickier,” he said. “Although people get out of those all the time. Just don’t sign one before we can take a look at the language and make sure it’s worth the risk.”
I sat down beside him. “That sounds great. I can do that. And I’m . . . I’m really glad to be doing this. I mean, it’s wild, and maybe very stupid. But I’m excited.”
“Me too,” Miles said, and then he laughed again, scratching his beard in disbelief. “God, you actually did it, huh? You pulled it off. I thought you were bullshitting me at that pitch meeting.”
“I kind of was!” I said, laughing too. “Margot didn’t even remember my name after that first party—I had to get my friend Raf, who’s this fancy up-and-coming chef, to pretend to be my boyfriend and talk me up to her so that she’d even take a second look at me.”
“A pretend boyfriend? Uh-oh, straight out of a romantic comedy.”
“Right,” I said. “I’m a real Meg Ryan.”
Miles shook his head in amusement, but his voice caught a little bit as he said, “Don’t go falling in love with him now, Beckley.”
“I’m not planning on it,” I said quietly.
“Good.” He looked down into his lap. “You impress me, very much.”
My face grew hot. “Thanks,” I said. We were sitting closer together now on my unmade bed, both not looking at each other until all of a sudden we were, his eyes locked on mine, nervous smiles rising on both of our faces. In the months since we had kissed, I had told myself it would never happen again. Thanks to my father, I’d seen how affairs could destroy a family. I was not a homewrecker. I’d even met Miles’s wife, Emmy, at a work Christmas party, and she’d struck me as a pleasant person who deserved a happy, stable relationship, dammit. But sitting so close to him, our knees grazing, I knew that if he reached out for me, I’d let him touch me however he wanted. If he told me to take off my clothes, I’d shed them immediately. I’d do anything he asked, cross a divide that had always seemed unbreachable, and I wouldn’t worry about hating myself until after he had gone.
In our momentary quiet, Sara’s scream floated up from the staircase.
“It’s a huge spider!” she was saying. “There!”
“Shit,” Rob said, then sounds of scuffling and a stomp. “Man, that’s nasty.”
“Well, obviously,” Sara said, “we’re going to have to hire someone to do a thorough cleaning.”
That broke the spell. Miles cleared his throat and stood up.
“Emmy will be wondering where I am,” he said, then looked at me frankly. “We’ve been going through a rough patch, but she’s very important to me, and we’re trying to work through it.”
“That’s good.” I winced. “Her being important to you, I mean, not the ‘rough patch’ part.”
“Yeah,” he said, and cleared his throat again. “Let’s figure out a conference room or something else for our next meeting—this is a little far for me to come after work. But great job. I’ll get you a camera before Friday so you can grab us some pictures. In the meantime, write up what you told me tonight, and I’m going to mail you a check.”
“Got it,” I said.
“Good luck, Beckley,” he said before ducking out my door.
FOURTEEN
On Friday night, I stood in front of the Nevertheless meeting point, an unobtrusive camera (disguised as a cigarette lighter!) that Miles had sent to me tucked in my bag. I’d cashed the check from him earlier that afternoon.
The guide who came to get me was a familiar and eager face: Libby. “Hi hi hi, girlfriend!” she said, and hugged me.
“Since when are you one of the intimidating trial guides?” I asked.
“Since I volunteered,” she said, fluffing her hair and giving her shoulders a little shimmy. “It just seemed like so much fun, and I wanted to get more involved, and—” She caught herself. “Oh, we’ve got to go! Follow me.”
“What about the blindfold?”
She let out an excited squeak. “No more blindfold!”
“Hey, moving on up in this world!” I said as she began to walk. “So what’s up? How’s the fizzy water business going?”
She turned her head, an exaggerated grimace on her face. “I’m not really supposed to talk to you right now, I’m sorry!” She marched determinedly forward, and I could taste the success ahead of me, sweet as an ice cream cone. She hadn’t even taken my phone! It was still safe in my bag. As she wordlessly led me west, my breath caught every time we passed a building that looked particularly fortified or fancy, every time Libby slowed her pace.
But we kept going west, all the way to the highway. I paused as we neared the stoplight. “Come on!” she said, and crossed the street over to the water. My old fear about being left to wait forever in some abandoned warehouse landed on my shoulder and hissed into my ear, even though this was Libby leading me—Libby, who had my back! (Supposedly, the fear whispered.) I shivered in my oversize sweater, the night air chilly for late September as it cut through the loops of fabric. I knew this had been too easy. We approached the river. I half expected Libby to turn and—a friendly smile still on her face but with her eyes changed into little, hard coals—tell me to climb up over the railing and jump in so they could see if I floated, or so I could be transformed by the toxic waste in the Hudson into some radioactive superwoman who actually had something to offer this club.
“Jillian,” someone said behind me. Caroline sat on a bench, looking down into a leather portfolio, her hair in a bun, her feet in black heels. To anyone passing by at this evening hour, going for a run or walking their dog, she’d look just like some chic, go-get- ’em businesswoman doing work by the water. She gave a small nod to Libby, who nodded back with the devoted intensity of someone who was longing to be asked to clip Caroline’s toenails.
Caroline raised an eyebrow, and Libby startled. “Oh, right!” she said, then grabbed my bag and walked off with it, strolling down the riverside path without a backward glance, though clearly the effort it took her not to turn around was more than Orpheus had expended with Eurydice. Well, there went my phone. And—shit—the camera.
“Hi!” Caroline said with a perky yet professional smile as she patted the bench next to her. “Come sit, and let’s chat.” She looked down at a page of paper in her leather portfolio, and I followed her eyes to see a one-sheet with my name on it, like a résumé. Caroline moved it out of my eyesight before I could read it, then clasped her hands. “I’m curious to know, where do you see yourself in five years?”
Oh God, this was a de facto job interview. While I was happy enough to interview other people (I was a journalist after all), I’d always hated being the subject myself. But a Nevertheless woman would be confident. I would not stumble over my words! As Caroline looked at me with bland encouragement, I switched on a smile.
“Great question. Ideally working on my third novel and starting a family with a supportive husband.” Impulsively, I added, “How about you?”
Her mouth opened in a little O of surprise. “Me?”
“Yeah, I mean, you’re an interesting and cool person. So I was just curious.” It couldn’t hurt to brownnose a bit. Caroline presented herself as giving and well-adjusted, but I was willing to bet that, underneath the exterior, her ego panted, longing to be petted.
“Jillian,” she said, and distractedly touched the strand of pearls at her throat. “That’s sweet. No one’s ever asked about me during this part of things before.” She sat back. “My five-year plan,” she said with no hesitation, “is to build Women Who Lead into a powerhouse network providing vital support to female candidates across the country, to see our first female president take the oath of office—” She paused for just a moment, swallowing hard, then moved on. “I’ll have my first child with my husband in three years, and in five years’ time, will be pregnant with child number t
wo.”
“Cool—”
“Also, I’ll have adopted a dog—preferably a goldendoodle rescued from a puppy mill.”
“That’s—”
“Additionally, Derek and I will have invested in a mountain cabin outside the city for when we need an escape, so that our children will get to experience the great outdoors as well as the structure of city living.”
I waited a second to make sure that she was finished. “Wow. That’s a little more thorough than mine.”
“Oh, if you’d like to have a clearer vision for yourself, I recommend spending time each year on January first drawing up a detailed list of your life goals. I’ve done it ever since I turned thirteen. But back to you!”
She put me through a few more paces, asking me about what I would bring to them, how they could help me personally and professionally, questions that I answered with varying degrees of comfort. Each time, Caroline moved on efficiently, not allowing any awkward pauses to hang in the air, until she saw something on my one-sheet that made her stop short. “It says here that you bartend?”
Dammit, I’d hoped that wouldn’t enter into the equation, not because I was ashamed of it, but because Nevertheless didn’t seem like they were actively recruiting members of the service industry. God, had someone followed me all the way to the bar too? I would’ve noticed if a glorious Amazon had ordered a drink, and the usual crowd of old men would have noticed too, but maybe someone had watched me through the windows.
“Yeah, a few nights a week,” I said, searching for an explanation that would still make me appear to be one of the elite. Maybe I could pretend that it was research for the novel—one of the main characters was an alcoholic, so I needed to study his natural habitat! But before I could offer any caveats, Caroline spoke again.
“I see,” she said. Then her face broke into an expression of approval. “That’s so very Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez!”
“. . . Thank you, yes,” I said. “That’s what I’m going for.”