Meternity

by Meghann Foye

  All of a sudden, Alix’s face softens a notch. It’s rare. And in that moment I actually consider liking her. “The magazine business has changed. You know, with all the perks, car service, clothing budget, et cetera. I’m making a quarter of what I used to at Traveler’s Families offshoot.” She lowers her eyes, as if to reveal something she’s not sure she should.

  “I knew it was unkind dumping the remainders on you all the time, but I couldn’t help it. It’s been because of these last-minute ad buys. We’re still working through our new strategy. Turns out people don’t want salacious content as much as we thought. Research says they still want leading service features and gripping emotional essays like we used to do...comments have said ‘more substance’—they can get salacious stuff online.”

  I look on, now understanding a greater truth. Alix has been shielding me from the dirtier side of the business—not, as I thought, just dumping work on me. She continues, looking sadder into her crystal shot glass. “These young girls on staff. They’re such coddled, spoiled little brats. I want to just shout at them all the time. Stop being so ENTITLED and pull yourselves together. The world isn’t set up to cater to every one of their snotty little faces, but that’s what they expect now. That Caitlyn is going to amount to nothing! Nothing, you hear me! Now that you’re going to be a mother, you’ll understand what it’s like to make hard choices for your family. You really have to grow up and accept that the world is not what you thought it was.” Her faraway look tells me all I need to know. “Oh, the email from Philip finally came in!”

  “Bartender! Another round, please,” I call out, hoping for a miracle. Alix squints through a boozy haze. I place her drink squarely in front of her after it’s poured.

  “What are these? She says, looking closer. That’s weird. Is there something wrong with the film? Your stomach—it looks fla—”

  “Let me have a look?” I grab the phone away from Alix, pretending to look and handily delete all the dangerous ones I can find just as she’s tossing back the next special reserve.

  “Let me have it.”

  “No, I’ve got it.”

  “Liz, you’re not good at this...lemme...”

  “Bartender!” I call out, scared. “Oh, here’s the best shot of me. Can we just go with this,” I say, highlighting one of the first ones, and handing her another shot, which will hopefully blur her ability to see. She grabs the phone back, peering into the open image.

  “That’ll do. Not bad. We’ll Photoshop that one for you. Us moms have to stick together, right?” Ugh.

  “Yes, exactly,” I say, finding one of the Scotch glasses, and emptying the contents into my mouth, drowning in the idea that now, on top of everything, Alix expects me to be her new best friend.

  I head back to my room to finish both stories—Marigold and the travel feature—and send an immediate email to Well-Heeled Traveler asking for the job.

  Twenty-Seven

  PUSH! :) Notification! Week 34: KonMari Method-much? Get ready for some strange drives to declutter and organize as your nesting instinct starts to kick in. Baby Smiles: 65!

  Tanned, but certainly not well rested, as I come home to my apartment, reality sets back in. The moment I step in something feels off to me.

  Taking in a deep breath, I look around the room. The tattered tapestry from college I’m using as a tablecloth for my kitchen table doesn’t look shabby chic anymore, just plain shabby. The crumbs from the morning’s toast I had before I left still litter the counter and depress me, and my zebra-print duvet just feels postcollege twentysomething in a way that makes my skin crawl.

  In the next few hours, I do a complete feng shui overhaul, rearranging all the furniture in my apartment. I “fold” all my sweaters facing up, align my closet so it’s rising up to the right and touch each and every single item in my studio to see if it provides a spark of joy as per the most stringent acolyte of Marie Kondo. I even roll my socks up into sushi rolls and in the end, I’ve gotten rid of twenty-seven piles, which I proudly show off on Instagram in an almost-embarrassingly smug moment of gapsterdom. (Hoping Ryan will like it; he does not.)

  As KonMari dictates, I leave the paperwork and bills to the end, only to find one from my building that I’ve neglected to open. With all the recent upgrades they’ve been making to the building, at the end of the year they’ll be increasing the rent by six hundred dollars a month, to twenty-four hundred dollars! Twenty-four hundred dollars for a studio? I can never afford that! Even on my new salary. I start to sweat as panic reaches my chest. That’s almost two-thirds of my take-home pay. What am I going to do? Damn you, Kondo! I’ve Kondo’d myself out of an apartment!

  Then, I open my email only to find a note from Well-Heeled Traveler. Subject: Position. Thanks for reconsidering the offer, but unfortunately Well-Heeled Traveler will be closing imminently. I’m sorry, Liz, I know you were looking forward to taking the position. All the best, Frank.

  Shit. I’ve Kondo’d myself out of a job, too.

  * * *

  I knock on the glass door, and Cynthia waves me in over her shoulder as she’s responding to her own email.

  “Hi,” I say meekly.

  “Hello.” Moderate in tone, I think, not too terrible.

  Cynthia wheels around, staring at me with a tight-lipped, eyeless smile. Then she erupts, “Very good. Very good work on the Marigold piece! Bravo!”

  Phew. I guess I’m still safe for the moment.

  “I asked for details about her diet, but it turned out even better than I expected. Good emotional writing, Buckley. It was almost perfect. I’m going to take one last look at the transcript before it ships to make sure we’ve got the juiciest stuff in there. And I never got to personally congratulate you on the ‘Fair-Trade Families’ piece. I never thought you’d pull it off, but you did. Impressive. That MEAA will do wonders for advertising.”

  “Thanks,” I say tentatively, knowing a sucker punch could be right around the corner.

  “So, I’ve spoken with Marketing, and we’d like to plan an event—a big one, timed for midfall sweeps—right before you leave for maternity leave.”

  “Oh,” I say, brightening.

  “Yes. In honor of the ‘Fair-Trade Families’ story coming out in the October issue. And we’d like to partner with the Discovery Channel on their show. In the end, we used the same subject, that Ohio woman Kristy Nelson, correct?”

  “Yes, we did,” I say. At the mention of Discovery, I feel as though someone’s punching me in the stomach.

  “I’ll work with the publisher to give them a heads-up, but I’ll be looking to you to work with PR to handle the coordination of our partnership announcement through various media. Reach out to make sure Discovery’s on board.”

  “Will do,” I say, trying to hide my apprehension.

  I rush back to my desk, but Jules is nowhere to be found. I pull the fair-trade file, and stare at my contacts folder—Ryan’s name is at the top. Do I contact him? Or one of his colleagues? This is certainly awkward. And if we do have the event together, he will most certainly see my bump. What am I going to do?

  A few minutes later, I see a new email in my inbox with the subject “Fair-Trade Families.”

  But it’s not from Ryan. It’s from Kendall. I immediately click it open.

  Dear Liz,

  I just received an email from the Paddy Cakes marketing department, and read the great news—it looks as though we’ll be planning an event together! Ryan’s handed me the info on the piece, since he’s now heading up the digital video department and isn’t going to be able to help out or attend the event. Just let me know what you need, and I’ll be happy to help you coordinate from this end.

  Best,

  Kendall Johnson

  P.S. I’m really sorry about the mix-up at the Mondrian earlier this summer. We totally
had you on the list. It must have been a miscommunication with the intern sending out the invites. I sincerely apologize for that.

  Oof, Ryan wasn’t lying.

  * * *

  The following Monday morning more press releases on baby gear continue to fill my inbox, prompting me to dive into story pitches for October—the month of my supposed due date. Even though I can afford to wait a few days on the pitches, something urges me to start them now. I’m able to come up with at least twenty great story ideas for the issue—“When the Helicopter Kid Crashes and Burns,” “Should You Emoji with Your Preverbal Kid?” and “The Myth of the ‘Warrior Birth’...5 Ex–Water Warriors Tell All.”

  Just then, Caitlyn breezes by, her hair in a perfect ballet bun, a clean white vest perfectly skims her black tank and black jeans, Rag and Bone booties clacking at double-time magazine editor pace—the cauldron has boiled her down, too. Millennial or not, she’s made the Devil Wears Prada transformation we all do. I ask her to help, and she’s more than happy to. “Whatever you need, Lizzie.” Within an hour, she’s fleshed them all out. Looking around, I realize she’s probably working twice as hard as the rest of the staff and not sweating it for a second. Alix is wrong—Caitlyn is going to be running this place someday.

  Then I see Jeffry has emailed me: Subject: Tonight. You and Alix will need to stay late tonight to make Cynthia’s changes before it goes out the door at midnight. Sorry.

  I open our copy management program to see that Cynthia has left notes throughout the file requesting last-minute fixes to the Marigold story. They look pretty easy, except for the last paragraph where it goes into all the details about the cosmetic work that Marigold had done postpregnancy—including the quote that was off-the-record. She must have pulled it from the raw transcription.

  I know Access Hollywood and all the gossip blogs will run it, giving us an instant newsstand hit when it comes out, but we need to take it out. I gear myself up for a fight, going through my stance over and over in my head. Then I get up, smooth out my belly once more, and walk over to Alix’s office.

  I can see she’s reading through the file, too. She gives me an eye roll through the glass, then nods me in.

  “Have a seat. Have you read the notes yet?”

  “Yes, I just did.” I clear my throat. “I can make all the fixes, but we need to cut the last paragraph and add in more about her vegan diet. Maybe we can call Gwyneth’s favorite vegan chef for a recipe or two. We may need to get a stringer to supply some more quotes from friends about how great she looks now that she’s gone vegan. But we can’t use the initial quote. She said it was off-the-record.”

  Alix gives me a dismissive look. “Leave your morals at the door, Liz. We both know the quote’s staying in.”

  “No. It isn’t.” I fold my arms across my chest.

  “Liz, don’t try to argue. Extra reporting will take all night. And we both know the quote’s too good to pass up. Plus, I’m not dealing with Cynthia.” She heaves a huge sigh and rubs her face. I’m surprised that her tone isn’t mean. It’s tired.

  “I’ll do the reporting and tell Cynthia myself,” I reply firmly.

  “Liz, it’s not worth...” The phone rings, and Alix checks the screen. She mouths, It’s Tyler.

  Her tone changes completely. “Hello, darling! How is your day?” Tyler must be answering because for a moment she’s silent.

  “Wait, Daddy’s not there? Marisol is?” She seems confused. “Let me speak to her, then. I’ll say good-night. Okay, darling?

  “Claudia, what happened? Trevor’s still not home? Did he tell you when he would be?” Her lips tighten. “Fine. Tell him I’ll be home in an hour.” Then Tyler must be back on. “I know, darling, Mommy misses you, too—so much. We’ll go to the Children’s Museum this weekend. Yes, I promise. Bye, darling, see you tomorrow. I know, darling, Mommy’s sorry. I love you very much, too. Bye.”

  Alix perches the phone in its receiver. “Look, I don’t really care what happens, Liz. Cut it if you want. Just make sure to tell Cynthia. I can stay for an hour to help you, but then I’m going home.”

  I nod silently and go back to my desk to call a stringer out in LA to get more details from Marigold’s former costar about how great Marigold’s looking these days. She even lets slide that she’s happy to see her with a new beau, a Hollywood agent a few years older than she is, which is just as good of an exclusive as the tummy tuck.

  Looking quickly into Alix’s office once more, I wonder whether she’s told her husband about Jeffry. I email Cynthia about the changes, remind her that the original quote was off-the-record, and that we can’t run it at the risk of being sued. To my total shock, I receive an email back exactly four minutes later. Fine. Sounds good is all it says.

  * * *

  The next day around lunchtime, I notice Alix gathering her trench coat and bag. She comes over to my desk, her eyes wide with excitement.

  “I have a press luncheon today for La Mer ‘Les Stretch.’ It’s their new line for pregnancy-related stretch marks and you’re coming with me!”

  “I, uh, really should finish up my December story lineups.”

  “No buts, Liz. This stuff is not even available in the States until next summer and it’s selling for three hundred dollars a tube on eBay. You can’t pass up a free goody bag full of it. Especially if you’re going to do the nude shoot next Monday.”

  “What nude shoot?”

  “Cynthia didn’t mention it yet? We’re rounding up the top ten ’90s mom trends and thought it would be cute to have you pose like Demi Moore on the cover of Vanity Fair.”

  “What! No one told me that?” I gulp.

  “No excuses. You’re doing it and that’s it. Your arms and legs are perfection. I can’t see why you’d have any issue going in the buff. You should be proud of your body. Don’t be such a shrinking violet.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Okay, well, we certainly can’t force you...we’ll talk about it more later this afternoon. It’s not like we won’t use Photoshop of course...”

  She leads me downstairs to the car and in fifteen minutes we’re downtown at Cafe Cluny for the private luncheon. As we walk into the restaurant I notice Claire Rodgers, a PR contact I’ve seen around for years, but for some reason can’t place where I know her from originally.

  “Liz! How are you!” She walks over toward me and Alix, eyes widening. Before I realize what’s happening, her eyes are focused on my bump.

  “Wow! I didn’t realize you were married and pregnant! Congratulations.” She beams, giving me a big hug.

  I get an uncomfortable feeling, realizing I’m going to have to lie yet again. “Actually, well, not really the married part.” I give an awkward smile, hoping she won’t pry. “But thanks.”

  “So you’re doing the single mom thing, that’s great!” Her PR training and Botox hides any anxiousness at the thought. “And good for you for wanting to try to keep up the travel writing when you’re going to be a mom! I got the questions you sent me about new resort openings in the Caribbean, but I’m so sorry I haven’t had time to respond. They just moved me over to a major beauty account. But I read your travel blog—loved your stuff about Newport! Let me pass you on to my friend Linda who’s handling our Caribbean destinations right now.”

  Alix looks confused, but says nothing.

  “Uh, thanks, that would be great. Good seeing you again!”

  Once she leaves, Alix pulls me to the side immediately.

  “Liz, what is going on? Are you freelancing on top of everything?”

  “No!”

  Her face changes. “Something’s up. What is it?”

  I look back like a deer in headlights and try to figure out what to do. Should I come clean? A bead of sweat runs down the side of my face as I hope someone will intervene and save me. But star
ing at Alix’s perfectly made-up face, cheeks pinched tight from fillers, all the anger from the past few months pools at my temples. I’ve made it this far.

  “Look, Liz, I can tell you’re lying. Just tell me. What is going on with you? Is the baby...not healthy? Do you know who the father is? What is it?”

  I feel like I’m about to pass out. The bump, now a good fifteen pounds in front of me, feels like it’s sliding down my frame from sweating so much. Could Alix be on to me? Am I going to have to quit right here on the spot? Is it over? Then I get a brain wave.

  “I was waiting to tell everyone this, but well, the truth is... I’m trying to work things out with the father. I decided to tell him, and now he wants to be a part of the baby’s life.”

  “What?” Alix looks like she’s just heard a bomb go off.

  “Yes, he’s dragging my character through the dirt to try to arrange joint-custody...”

  “I know you’ve wanted to keep the paternity a secret, but you can tell me. I’ll understand—trust me.” Her look is still incredulous. I scan the room nervously, wishing desperately that I could get out of this somehow.

  “I didn’t want to tell anyone on staff, because, well, I was embarrassed.”

  For a few quick moments, Alix is silent, trying to work out how this could possibly be, and then she continues.

  “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Liz. It’s commendable to go to court to fight for this. You should have said something.” Her look turns haughty. She seems to be thinking about this new piece of information and how it could directly benefit her. Then I get another idea.

  “That’s why I don’t want to do the pregnancy nude shoot. I can’t be a part of anything that could be used against me.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “Please, Alix, you can’t tell anyone—not Jeffry and not Cynthia.”