Meternity

by Meghann Foye

  “Oh, no. This—it’s for a story. It’s not real.”

  He looks strangely relieved. “You should stop by the pub. We’ve started karaoke on Friday and Saturday nights. We need more ladies.”

  “Ha. I will,” I tell him, cringing. “Thanks.”

  “Have a lovely day, miss. And you should think about one of those one day,” he says, looking at my bump. “Suits you.”

  Later that morning, Jules peers intently at an article online. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s read the big medical websites every morning and tends to forward me clips that contain potential story ideas, or just weird and ridiculous baby trends. Knowing not to bother her, I start to load my personal email, hoping for something, anything from Ryan. But instead, a different note is awaiting me. Hello from Well-Heeled Traveler. Sorry it’s taken me so long to reply, but we’ve been on a hiring freeze for a bit. The position is now open again. Might you still be interested in the role?

  Yay!

  I resend my cover letter and résumé straightaway, and am shocked when I get a reply right away.

  Thanks for your quick response. Your résumé looks impeccable and we loved your clips. We’re a small staff, and are looking to fill the position immediately. How soon can you come in? replies the manager.

  This afternoon? I write back immediately.

  Perfect, see you at 3 p.m.

  The afternoon comes quickly, and after spending the morning creating a book of clips, I feel more ready than ever. I walk out of the office, turn the corner to McDonald’s, and make the switch into my regular clothes, then hail a taxi up to Madison in the East Forties. The managing editor said that Die Cast Publishing was on the sixth floor; as I hit the Garment District, I realize that it might be one of the smaller, less well-known companies. Halpren-Davies is one of the top five publishing companies, so this would be a bit of an adjustment. But still, writing about travel, any kind of travel, and rescuing myself from my current situation is top priority.

  I get out of the taxi onto the crowded street around the corner from Grand Central Station. Small shops containing bright Indian saris fill both sides of the block. This can’t be right, I think, realizing that it looks like the company is upstairs from one of these clothing shops. The dirty keypad shows Die Cast Publishing next to number six. I push the buzzer and am immediately let up.

  The elevator doors part open on the sixth floor. “Hello, Liz!” booms a sweaty man in his fifties with with curly white hair as I walk off the elevator. “I’m Frank. Good to meet you,” he says, leading me to his office. There’s a fan in the window and it feels as though the AC isn’t turned on.

  “So, you heard about the position from Jules Keane, did you? We met at a conference a few years back when she was at Parents.”

  “Yes, she forwarded me the posting! Thanks for having me come in,” I say with a hopeful glance as I look around the dim hallways. He guides me to his office where I take a seat.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Now, let me take a look at your résumé.” I hand him the freshly printed sheet.

  “It looks as though you’ve been at Paddy Cakes mostly. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, but I’ve held a variety of different positions. Look, I’ll show you the stories I’ve worked on.” I hand him my book of clips, showcasing “Fair-Trade Families.” He flips through quickly.

  “Very impressive!” he says with enthusiasm. “We could use someone of your talents here at Well-Heeled Traveler. Paddy Cakes is a national magazine with a very good reputation. You realize that we don’t have the same budget for photography or freelancers that they do, right?”

  “Oh, not to worry,” I say. “I’m looking to make a change to a smaller workplace where I can take on more responsibility. And travel has always been a passion of mine.”

  “Yes, well, the travel will mostly be to trade shows at conference centers around the country—Las Vegas, Atlanta, Orlando—that sort of thing,” he says.

  “That’s, uh, perfect,” I say, hiding my apprehension. He exhales, looking relieved.

  “Well, Liz, usually I ask editors to take a test, but I can see from your copy that you’d be bringing a great deal of skill, talent and experience to Well-Heeled Traveler. I’d like to offer you the position on the spot. I’ll email you an offer letter.”

  I’m taken aback. I had no idea things would happen this quickly. I take a look around the room. It’s a little different from the glass offices and gourmet cafeteria I’ve been used to for the past eight years. But it would be a chance to make a fresh start, meet travel contacts in the industry and save me from my current conundrum.

  “Can I take a few days to think about it?” I ask.

  He looks a little uneasy. “Sure, I guess I can give you a few days. I understand it’s a big decision.” He hands me a few back issues. “Take a look. Think it over.”

  “Thanks,” I say, standing up. “Good meeting you. I’ll be in touch.” Frank shakes my hand and leads me to the elevator where we awkwardly stand waiting without much to say. I notice old blown-up covers from the ’80s on the walls. Paddy Cakes would never have an issue older than six months, let alone from twenty years ago. I will definitely have to check out the website before I give him my final answer.

  “Call me as soon as you decide,” says Frank urgently as the elevator doors close.

  September

  Twenty-Six

  I gaze out the limo window thinking about all that’s happened. When the offer letter finally came in from Well-Heeled Traveler on Wednesday, it turned out to be 35K. Less than I made ten years ago? No. To travel around the US attending conferences for the latest canvas carry-ons? No, no, no. Before I have a chance to rethink it, I send a polite response turning it down, as the concrete swiftly changes to quaint coastal houses while we make our way up I95.

  We finally reach the destination and I check in. As I walk around the old mansion overlooking the bluff that has just been renovated to a modern take on stately nineteenth-century glory, complete with a brand-new sixteen-thousand-foot bilevel spa, opening to a saltwater pool overlooking the gray-blue Atlantic below, I can barely take it all in. It’s breathtaking.

  “Oh, sorry, miss. Ma’am. I didn’t see that you are...” says a cute man dressed in a navy suit, with a blue-and-white-plaid shirt, and a cute bright orange tie, bumping—literally—right into my bump as he’s doing the same. He seems to be in his early thirties, handsome with dark hair and a bit of stubble. Indian. He has an aristocratic roll to his r’s.

  “No worries. You didn’t send me into premature labor,” I say cheerily.

  “Wouldn’t want to do that. I’m no good at delivering babies, only researching them.”

  “Oh, are you a doctor?” I ask, brightening.

  He looks at my unadorned ring finger and continues unfazed, taking the seat next to mine. “Yes, well, I am a fertility researcher during the week, but on the weekends, I’m a world-renowned surfer,” he says, tugging open the top button of his shirt to reveal a surfer T. “Underneath this suit and tie beats the heart of Laird Hamilton.”

  We end up talking for almost an hour. He tells me that he’s taking a quick break for the Labor Day weekend to do some surfing. I explain my assignment at Paddy Cakes. I keep my whole pregnancy lie going. We talk about our travels and I find out that he’s launching a start-up with his friends from business school to help connect women to clinical trials, fertility being the biggest one. I smile at the irony. Then, I tell him about the surrogacy special and we discuss the need for greater regulation and transparency, protection for the surrogates and couples alike.

  “That gives me an idea...” he says, his warm brown eyes now glistening. “What if we developed an app—almost like Tinder meets WhatsApp—where you could see the woman who is gestating your baby.”

  “Yes,” I pick up, li
ghting up at the idea. “You can message with her, FaceTime with her—and only fully vetted programs through International Human Rights Campaign could take part?”

  “Exactly.”

  “My boss is calling it ‘Fair-Trade Families’ as a dark, snarky joke, but maybe that could work.”

  His eyes light up as he pulls out a business card. “I don’t believe we’ve officially introduced ourselves. I’m Ashwin. Ashwin Rajal.”

  A red string bracelet with a few gold beads on it catches my eye. I ask him if the symbol has any significance.

  “It’s called Rakhi. It was given to me from my older sister back in Delhi during a very spiritual religious holiday.”

  “What’s that charm on it?” I say, noticing the multiple-limbed deity.

  “It represents Shiva, the god of destruction—my namesake,” says my new friend.

  “That’s a strange thing to be wearing,” I say.

  “Well,” he says, “what comes after destruction is renewal?” He grins, then continues, “You can’t start a new life without destroying the old one, can you?”

  “Very true.” My face reddens a bit.

  As a bellhop arrives to bring him to his room, he gives me a little kiss on the cheek.

  “Let me know if you want to get away from our fancy five-star digs and go get some real food.”

  “I will. And my name’s Liz Buckley. Nice to meet you.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Liz,” he says, nodding.

  Inside the room—an airy suite with a king-size canopy bed, flat-screen TV and shower with Jacuzzi—I see that the publicist left a note telling me she’d meet me for dinner at 8 p.m. Oddly, the room doesn’t feel glamorous—it feels almost sterile—too perfect and commercial—covering up what was originally there with the same “modern luxury” as everyone else these days. Is this what I really want to do? Write about chain-style travel destinations? Is this the dream?

  Setting aside a black cotton halter dress to change into, I unpack my things into the beach-wood armoire. The halter covers my bump just perfectly, but the top shows a monstrous amount of cleavage. I dab a little perfume stolen from the beauty closet at work onto my collarbone.

  I glance across the marble lobby, noticing its large crystal chandelier hanging down in the center. On the other side I spot the publicist. She’s dressed cutely in a navy linen sheath dress and shoulder-length, bone-straight blond hair. She introduces herself as Paige, and tells me not to hesitate if there’s anything she can do to make my stay more comfortable. Over dinner at the five-star Sand Dollar restaurant we chat about the hotel, then go straight to the topic of conversation that bonds every woman on the planet: men.

  Paige is twenty-six and worried that her boyfriend of three years isn’t going to propose anytime soon. I tell her, in the best motherly way I can muster, “You can’t wait forever...we’ve all got a window, you see, and if he doesn’t see what he has, then he’s not good enough for you.” She shakes her head in relief and resolve. And I mean it.

  The next morning is filled with a breakfast of avocado toast (omega 3s, good for the microbiome and adrenals), then some lounging by the pool (overall reduction in stress good for hormonal levels). I survey the property, taking in all the key details for my impending story.

  It’s amazing how much time can go by with legs dangling in the water and staring up at the sky. How different from my life at the magazine, where every second seems to be filled with two actions, one I’m taking and one I should be taking.

  The next thing I know it’s almost twilight again. I decide to go back to the room to shower and change, then head over to the bar for a “virgin” cocktail (really a version of Brie’s healthtinis). I take my drink and sit at the pool observing everyone’s comings and goings. I feel more relaxed than I have been in a while. Bringing Up Bébé would surely approve.

  The next morning at the spa, things are a bit more anxiety-provoking. While I’m signed up to try the prenatal massage, specifically, I know that I can’t without the spa director knowing what’s up. In a strange tug-of-war, I have to convince them that I don’t want a ninety-minute, head-to-toe treatment with two therapists.

  “Ma’am, we have you booked for the treatment. Our spa director made it especially for you.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I start, trying to come up with any reason why I can’t.

  “We can’t change it now.”

  “Can I come back later, then? I know Paddy Cakes would appreciate the courtesy,” I say, invoking the brand, sending a guilty pang through my side.

  The woman at the desk looks me up and down. It’s unclear which way the situation will go. Then, inspired by the seashells dotting the table, I get an idea.

  “I’m so sorry. I just can’t have a massage right now... I think I had a bad oyster at dinner last night.” I eye the therapist nervously hoping she’ll get my meaning—and let me reschedule. She confers with another therapist. Then her face brightens. “We will be able to accommodate you with a signature facial instead, which is very good for aging skin.”

  I thank them for the kindness, then wait my turn, until a therapist brings me to the room, where I drift off to sleep as my face and shoulders are kneaded and pulled during the spa’s signature ninety-minute facial and third-eye oil treatment poured from a seashell.

  Halfway through, the massage therapist says, “You are lucky. Your feet are not swollen.”

  “Ha-ha, yes, lucky!” I say, rubbing the bump. We make it through. I walk back to my room and I’m completely surprised to find a message waiting for me on voice mail.

  It’s from Ashwin, the guy I met in the lobby. What could he possibly want with a pregnant woman? It’s amazing. The bump really is like a magnet beacon of femininity—could he actually be interested in me?

  “Hey there, Liz. I thought you might like to meet me and a bunch of my new friends at a real fish shack down the coast a bit—I’ll send a car if you’re up for it.” I call back and leave a message saying I’ll be happy to join him. He was pretty cute, actually. I spend the next few hours by the pool, followed by a long outfit selection. In the end, I decide to go with a simple brown halter dress, turquoise-and-gold sandals, and my floppy hat. Perfectly loose so that my bump doesn’t appear too large.

  Getting there takes about fifteen minutes on the highway. I make sure the bump is secured firmly in place as I wander onto the sandy stone pathway toward a weatherworn beach shack. The rusted multicolored beach chairs circa 1979 are a far cry from the leather beach beds I’ve been reclining on all day.

  As I walk under the thatched roof, I look over at a bunch of younger guys sitting and laughing at a plastic table twenty yards from the shoreline. They’re each holding a can of PBR, and I suddenly feel a little out of place in my floppy hat. Even my turquoise-and-gold sandals feel a little too dressy for this place.

  “Liz!” shouts an accented voice from behind the open-air bar to my right. “Glad you could make it.”

  Ashwin hands me a lemonade, and we go join the others who are discussing, of all things, border-crossing tactics in Central America. Turns out they’re photojournalists up here to cover the lobster trawlers.

  “Fly to Bocas Del Toro, then take the first bus to Cartagena.”

  “No way, dude, I almost got knifed in the chest by some guerrillas doing that, man. You’ve got to fly the inter-Panama airline.”

  Ashwin just gives me a look like, “isn’t this great?”

  Is the travel writer lifestyle really what I really want? I wonder, as I notice the guys grumbling over who bought the last dime bag of pot. Waiting to wash my clothes at a local laundromat every week? Carping over who paid five dollars for the round last night because my budget of fifteen dollars a day didn’t allow being generous?

  Around eleven Ashwin takes me in a cab back to the hotel. As he says good-night,
he surprises me with a compliment.

  “I understand. The Vanderbilt’s more your style. A beautiful woman like you deserves nothing but the best. Good night, fair Elizabeth.”

  As the attendant opens the cab door under the portico back at the Vanderbilt, I think to myself, maybe he’s right.

  * * *

  Before I can even process it, I enter my chilly hotel room and notice the red light blinking again on the room’s phone. Odd. But when I hear the familiar low, pinched voice on the voice mail, I realize that I’m in trouble.

  “Liz, where are you! We’ve been trying to get ahold of you all night! We’ve booked Marigold Matthews for November. Tamara’s finally convinced her to talk. She’s flying into Providence tomorrow for the shoot—and you’re doing the interview!” It’s from Alix.

  I immediately check in on our internal email and in the span of a few hours, I see that she has emailed me multiple times, each with details about the shoot, notes from Cynthia about what she’s looking for—buzz-worthy sound bites to get us press—as well as a breakdown for tomorrow. Philip’s coming in with his camera crew, and since I’m pregnant, Cynthia thought it would be a great ploy to get Marigold to reveal all her secret pre-and postpregnancy dieting tricks...and worse, who the baby daddy is.

  Alix has forwarded me a note Cynthia’s written her.

  Don’t let Liz back in the building without a quote about something scandalous and diet-related. What pills was she taking when she was feigning exhaustion? Did she get the mummy tuck? What happened? If we don’t get that we’re screwed. No one will pick us up.

  I notice that from the email thread below, Alix has had a little bit of back-and-forth.

  Tamara, our celebrity booker, has weighed in, too. What if we get her to talk about what it’s like as a single mom. It’s a little softer, but Liz will be the perfect one to pull it out of her.