Girl Before a Mirror

by Liza Palmer

  “My apologies,” Audrey says.

  “Oh, we’re fine. I was just congratulating Ms. Wyatt here on Lumineux,” he says. Charlton Holloway has yet to look at me. He’s signing letters with a pen that costs as much as a year’s rent.

  “Yes, very exciting,” Audrey says.

  “Thank you,” I say, looking at her. We make eye contact and then she slides her gaze back over to her father.

  “Shame about the rumors, though,” she says.

  “The what now?” Charlton says, still not looking up. I don’t lean forward in my chair. I am calm. I am calm, goddammit.

  “You know me, Daddy. I hate to gossip . . . ,” Audrey starts.

  “But . . . ,” Charlton leads, finally setting down his pen and looking at us for the first time.

  “But as one of the few women in this office, I believe it is my duty to protect and stand up for—champion, if you will—the other females at Holloway/Greene,” she says, her hand at her breast. I plaster a smile on my face, remembering to breathe. I don’t move. I can’t. The stupid leather chair will give away any imperceptible shift.

  “Audrey, I have another meeting in ten minutes; please stop babbling and just spit it out,” Charlton says.

  “While I think the spokesman who was selected for Lumineux is gorgeous and women everywhere are going to fall in love with him, I wouldn’t want it to get out that he and Ms. Wyatt here had a bit of a fling during the conference,” she says.

  “I assure you—”

  “I know, Anna. It had nothing to do with him winning, but other people might not be as open-minded as I am,” Audrey says.

  I say nothing. This is her move. I knew it was coming. I dared her to take her shot. And here it is. And it’s a doozy.

  “It’s not like other execs haven’t dipped a toe in, Wyatt,” Charlton says with a newfound respect that’s more disturbing than if he’d been horrified.

  “Mr. Holloway, I can assure you that I behaved in a professional manner at all times during the conference,” I say, my voice even and level.

  “That doesn’t sound like any fun at all,” Charlton says.

  “Well, just to be sure we’ve dodged the bullet, I’m willing to join the Lumineux team and support Anna in any way I can,” Audrey says.

  “Sure, sure. Go ahead,” Charlton says, picking back up his pen.

  “Thank you, Da—”

  “Won’t have to worry about one of those beefcakes coming on to you, eh, Audrey?” Charlton laughs and I watch Audrey. With new eyes. How is she any different from Ferdie or me? Audrey tries to hold her head high, but I can see her deflate centimeter by centimeter as I sit here. I look away.

  “Will there be anything else, Mr. Holloway?” I ask.

  “No . . . you’re good, Anna. And congratulations, again. On Lumineux and whatever his name is,” Charlton says, waving his hand around as if Josh’s name is somewhere in the ether above his desk. I stand and smooth my skirt. A nod to Charlton and a nod to Audrey.

  “What was his name, Anna?” Audrey asks.

  “The Lumineux spokesman’s name is Josh Fox,” I say with a smile. “They’re over the moon with him and the two runners-up, Lantz Kelton and Jake McCall. We’re very excited to get started,” I say, my voice a monotone.

  “As am I,” Audrey says. A nod to Audrey and I will myself to move. Move. Step. Walk toward the door. Another nod to Nora the Terrifying Secretary and I pick up my pace toward Sasha’s office.

  “It’s just lazy,” I say, slamming her office door behind me.

  “What happened?” Sasha asks, setting down her pencil.

  “She insinuated that because of my . . .” I shake my head and set my hands on my hips.

  “Hey. Sit down. Come on. Just sit down,” Sasha says, half standing. I look at her. Imploring. “Just . . . sit.” Sasha leans across her desk, pointing at her client chair. Another point. I sit.

  “Audrey was there,” I say.

  “At the meeting?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What the fu—”

  “She insinuated that Josh was crowned Mr. RomanceCon because he had a fling with me,” I say.

  “What? Are you . . . Wow. That is . . . masterful.” Sasha slumps back down in her chair.

  “The sick part? Charlton? Unfazed,” I say, waving my hand violently in the air. “Almost made him respect me more.”

  “What?”

  “I know.”

  “Why would Audrey—”

  “I’m sure she got the idea when Josh and I came back from taking you to the hotel. We arrived together at the party.”

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” Sasha says.

  “What? No way. Don’t even. I’m not saying that it was anything worthy of . . . no. Wait. I’m just saying that’s probably when she got the idea.” Sasha gives me a look. Begging me to tell her the truth. “I mean it. She was going to do something. This? Actually isn’t that bad.”

  “So what does it mean for the campaign?”

  “She wants to be on the team.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s totally not it,” Sasha says.

  “Nope. Not at all,” I say.

  She smiles and we dive into all the Lumineux new business. We’ve already been allotted a support team of three for the campaign—along with Audrey, who will do no work and spend the entire time trying to ingratiate herself with Lumineux. As the morning wanes, Sasha and I get ready for our first Lumineux meeting, and she’s right. I think about Lincoln and Ferdie a little less as I funnel it all into this campaign.

  Audrey is a no-show at the first meeting. I’d be angry, but I’m relieved. We can get to work and she won’t be in the way. I’m finishing up with one of the copywriters when I get a knock on my door. It’s just after five P.M.

  Chuck Holloway. At my door. The copywriter scurries out, and before I can say or do anything, Chuck walks into my office and closes the door behind him. Other than my brief sojourn at The Naughty Kitty lo those many days ago, Chuck and I have had very little interaction. Well, other than my knowledge that he’s an entitled sexual predator and that his mere existence motivates Audrey to try to ruin my career. Outside of that? Smiles in the hallway and CCs on e-mails. I look up. Why did he close the door? I’ve had about enough of this Holloway sibling rivalry.

  “Congratulations are in order,” Chuck says, sitting in one of my client chairs.

  “Thanks,” I say, pressing send on an e-mail and then giving Chuck my undivided and highly suspicious attention.

  “Did you ever see From Dusk Till Dawn?” Chuck asks, apropos of nothing. A moment as I recalibrate my expectations for this conversation and . . .

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s a movie.”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s a Quentin Tarantino movie,” he says.

  “It’s late, Chuck. Thanks so much for your—”

  “Okay, what about Johnny Be Good,” he says.

  “Nope. I . . .” I close down my computer and reach for my purse. “I really must—”

  “Look, I’m trying to make a point.”

  “It sounds like you’re trying to make a point without actually making that point. Am I going to have to read between the lines or . . .” I settle back into my chair and wait.

  “Quentin Tarantino can’t act worth shit.”

  “Oh, good. In between the lines it is.”

  “Anthony Michael Hall played a great nerd,” Chuck says like he just gave me the coordinates to the Holy Grail.

  “That’s fascinating.”

  “You have to know what you’re good at, is my point.”

  Ah. And then it hits me.

  “This is about Quincy,” I say.

  “What you did with the Lumineux campaign, I could never have done that,” he says.

  “For a lot of reasons, over and above me being a lady,” I say.

  “No, I know that.”

  �
��Do you? Or do you think my knowing how to pitch that shower gel had nothing to do with talent and expertise and everything to do with getting my period or something?” I say.

  “Ugh.” Chuck takes a moment. “I just need you and Sasha to be ready for Pop and me to make a tough decision,” he says. Pop. And. Me.

  “It’s not sounding like it’s going to be a tough decision for you at all,” I say.

  “You’re a—”

  “What am I, Chuck? Someone who reels in the big fish so you can take your picture with it?”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Right, because it’s not a Quentin Tarantino movie.”

  “Look, I’m not trying to be disrespectful here. I’m appreciative of what you’ve done with Lumineux. But as far as Quincy goes—maybe that’s more our deal than yours.”

  “It’s only anyone’s deal at Holloway/Greene because I brought it in. In its DNA it’s my deal,” I say.

  “Sometimes you gotta pass the baton, you know what I mean?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a track-and-field—”

  “I understand the reference, Chuck. What I don’t understand is how—according to you, at least—all of a sudden I’m out of my depth with something I created.”

  “We’re talking potential. Scope.”

  “You can’t give me one day? One day of basking in this thing?” I ask.

  “It just got me thinking,” he says.

  “About Tarantino,” I say.

  “Well, yeah,” he says.

  “Sure.”

  “This is a compliment, Anna. I’m saying you wrote True Romance. You’re capable of Inglourious Basterds. You’re going to win an Oscar,” he says.

  “But just not for acting,” I say.

  “Right. Right!” He’s on the edge of his seat and I’m having flashbacks to the Queen Elizabeth/Bloody Mary conversation. For two people who are completely at odds and hate each other, Chuck and Audrey sure are eerily similar.

  “That’s . . .” I shake my head. “That’s . . . ugh. That’s not fair,” I finally say, sifting through several four-letter words that spring to mind a lot quicker. Chuck looks taken aback.

  “It is, though. And you know it. Holloway/Greene is a team,” he says. I laugh.

  “A team,” I say.

  “Let us take it from here,” Chuck says.

  “You’re essentially telling me that I’m only good at coming up with ad campaigns for women’s products.”

  “No, I’m saying you’re great at it. And that’s not an insult,” he says.

  “How is this not an insult?”

  “It doesn’t feel like it is.”

  “Okay, does this make it clearer? The big accounts we have. The car account. That breakfast cereal. The brokerage firm. That terrible superstore chain. Even that goofy car insurance company. These are the accounts we tout on our website, right?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “The ones that, when you’re at a party with your dad and somebody asks you guys which ads your agency has done, you say those, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “So, those are the important accounts,” I say.

  “Well—”

  “And those are the accounts that, using your reasoning, I’m not capable of representing,” I say.

  “Wait . . .”

  “Ergo, I am—and the accounts I now have and hope to have in the future are—less important,” I say.

  “No, you’re twisting my words.”

  “This isn’t about Tarantino or Anthony Michael Hall.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “You can’t have already decided this. Give me a chance to prove to you and Mr. Holloway that I can not only handle a big campaign like Lumineux, but that I’m the only person who can actually bring in Quincy. I deserve a place on the team. Sasha deserves a place on the team,” I say.

  “I try to give you a compliment and somehow—” Chuck labors to get up out of his chair, burdened by my lack of understanding. “This is why everyone says women are crazy.” Chuck opens the door and starts to back out as if he’s unexpectedly found himself in the bear pit at the zoo. “True Romance is a really good movie.” And he closes the door behind him.

  I want to scream. But I can’t because I’m in public, so I end up half growling, half yelping, which does nothing to assuage my . . . can you even call it a mood when it resembles more of a hurricane?

  The closed door. The air-conditioning thunks on. The bustling office just outside. Be the heroine of your life, eh? What if my life sucks and it was only this façade of a life that was actually good in any way? The fantasy world and the fake personality and the friends who . . . no no no: I have dinner with Hannah tonight. I’d been putting it off and—I check the time. I’m meeting her at six P.M. at a sushi place around the corner.

  I pull my blazer off the back of my chair with what can only be described as a maniacal laugh, try to wipe away any tear remnants (a skill at which I’m excelling), and pack up my laptop. I stop off in Sasha’s office on the way out.

  Her office is overrun with art. Every inch of her walls is covered with it. Paintings, drawings, and comics are framed, pinned, and hung in any way she can devour them. The deep reds and browns of her office envelop me, and I get pulled deeper and deeper in.

  “Hey, you,” she says, looking up from her desk, almost dragging herself away from what she’s working on. My workbag falls off my shoulder and thunks into the crook of my arm. Instead of hiking it back up I just lean down so it’ll hit the floor. “You okay?” she asks.

  “I have dinner with a Slow Fade friend tonight. We were going back and forth and it’s just so fake at this point. But I feel so guilty for not wanting to be her friend anymore that I was all oh my God, let’s get sushi, yayyyyyy!” And I let the workbag drop and just throw up my hands. “When . . . who says that?”

  “Not you,” she says.

  “And Chuck all but said that we aren’t going to get the Quincy pitch if it happens,” I say.

  “What?? First Audrey and now this?”

  “I know,” I say.

  “What did he say?”

  “That I need to know what I’m good at,” I say, putting air quotes around the statement.

  “Are you serious?” Sasha asks.

  “Yep. I asked that he let us prove that that Quincy pitch is ours, but I don’t know,” I say.

  “I honestly don’t know what I ever saw in that man,” Sasha says.

  “He’s handsome, rich, and can be charming when he wants to be,” I say.

  “Oh, yeah. That.” Sasha laughs. “Lumineux is going to be huge. I don’t think Chuck is going to have a choice but to let us pitch Quincy, and Audrey didn’t even show up to today’s meeting. We got this,” she says. I let out a slow, meandering whine. “Do you want company at your Slow-Fade dinner?”

  “No. Thank you. And I don’t care what people say, it’s harder to break up with your friends than get a divorce,” I say, putting my workbag back over my shoulder. “All Holloways are crazy.” I turn to walk out of Sasha’s office, my hand on the handle. I turn back around. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Sasha says. A smile, a dramatic weary wave, and I’m off.

  I walk to the little sushi place. In the waning summer days of D.C., the humidity and thunderstorms allow summer to end with a bang and not a whimper. In an odd way, I’m happy to be going to dinner with Hannah. Going home after the day I’ve had, after the week I’ve had, feels a bit overwhelming right now. The silence of my apartment feels tight on me. Especially now that Ferdie is . . . away. Maybe it’ll be good to just talk about nothing for a while.

  I walk into the sushi place and the staff loudly greets me. I immediately see Hannah waving over in the corner. I motion to her and the hostess smiles. And I try to smile. Hannah stands up and we hug. She’s always been such a good hugger. We settle at the table, as I put my workbag at my feet and drape my purse over the back of the chair. Hannah immediately pre
sents me with a gift.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “I forgot to bring your gift to your birthday dinner, so sorry. So here it is!”

  “Oh, you so didn’t have to,” I say. I read the card and it’s lovely. And I’m feeling more and more guilty about my Slow Fade by the minute. “Thank you so much.” I tuck the card back into its envelope and dig through the tissue paper, my fingers curling around an object. I pull it out. It’s a coral-colored journal, with a fountain pen and a scarf that’s perfect for me. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I know how you love coral,” she says, ordering a pot of jasmine tea. I actually hate the color coral. Hannah suggested that I’d look good in coral however many years ago and now she makes it a point to get me something coral for every occasion. I own nothing coral except what Hannah has gifted me over the years.

  “It’s so thoughtful. Thank you so much,” I say, carefully putting the gifts back in the coral tissue paper inside the coral gift bag. “It’s so good to see you!”

  “You too. I’m so glad we could do this,” she says.

  “So, how’s everything? How are the kids?” I ask.

  “Oh, they’re so great. Almost back in school, thank God,” she says.

  “It’s fifth, third, and . . . please don’t tell me James is already in kindergarten?” I ask. The waitress comes over and drops off the pot of jasmine tea and a couple of menus with little pencils for us to mark off what we’d like. I scan the list, checking off sushi roll after sushi roll.

  “Can you believe it?” Hannah asks, scanning the menu as well.

  The hostess seats a woman and a little girl a couple of tables over from us. Hannah and I both notice them. The woman asks to be moved to another table. That table is dirty, she sighs. (It’s not.) No . . . not that one, either. The woman’s expression looks like the hostess vomited all over herself and just left it there during their entire interaction. The woman and the little girl finally deign to sit in a booth by the window. The little girl doesn’t even look at the hostess while the woman manages a snotty thank-you that is more insult than actual thank-you.

  “Is that . . . is that child wearing a fedora?” I ask, my voice dipping to a whisper.

  “And that’s the real deal, too. That’s a Goorin Brothers,” Hannah says, leaning closer across the table.