Girl Before a Mirror

by Liza Palmer

  As I focus back on the work at hand, I don’t think about fairness or messiness or getting my hopes up or what I think I deserve.

  I just feel proud.

  That proud feeling takes a bit of a beating later that night when I hail a cab dressed as Princess Leia, cinnamon buns and all. I try to hide the iconic white sheath with a trench coat, but then I just look like Princess Leia: Private Eye. And it doesn’t help when some smart-ass chooses to yell, “Why don’t you just use the force!” as I stand out in front of my apartment, hand in the air as the cab slows down just in front of me. And maybe I could have been classier than to tell him I wish he’d fall into the sarlacc pit. Which makes for an awkward beginning with the poor cabbie who just wants to know where he is taking me this fine evening, to which I joke, “Well, clearly not Alderaan.”

  Silence.

  I clear my throat and give the cabbie the address of the restaurant in Georgetown. I pay the fare, finding myself in a gorgeous restaurant that’s been completely taken over by Holloway/Greene’s Halloween party.

  The music is loud and people are on the dance floor already. A moment as I remember the parties at RomanceCon and how great their dance floors were. A smile as I think maybe I’ll just join in later. Who knows? Candles and floral centerpieces dot the outlying tables, and the costumes . . . oh, the costumes. There are Ghostbusters and a Captain America and Pink Ladies and police officers and nerds and ninjas, and I’m half expecting spotlights to illuminate banners just overhead as I pick my way through the crowds. As I make my way through the party, everyone just laughs and points, telling me my costume is awesome and to help them, Obi-Wan Kenobi, he’s their only hope. I smile and laugh back. This party is already better than however many of the ones I’ve endured since I’ve been at Holloway/Greene.

  “Wyatt!” Charlton says, appearing with a flute of champagne and what looks like maybe someone’s babysitter on his arm this evening. “I didn’t know we’d be having royalty attend our little soiree this evening.” Charlton bows and I give him a regal nod. Charlton and I are on much better terms now that Lumineux is a success. He hails a waiter, takes another flute of champagne from the tray, and hands it to me. I thank him. I take in his costume and it’s the bloody bare feet that give it away.

  “John McClane,” I say.

  “Yippee-ki-yay, moth—”

  “And you’ve said that . . . a thousand times tonight already?”

  “‘Come out to the coast, we’ll get together, have a few laughs,’ ” he says, jostling his child bride in the process. She smiles.

  “You have no idea what that’s from, right?” I ask.

  “What what’s from?” she asks. I look at Charlton and he just shrugs.

  “And you’re a . . . ,” I ask.

  “A nurse,” she says.

  “My kind of nurse,” Charlton says, tugging on the poor girl’s pleather nurse outfit that barely covers anything.

  “Anna Wyatt,” I say, extending a hand to the girl.

  “Kayla,” she says, taking my hand in a half shake, half maybe going to kiss my hand, and then we’re just clutching each other’s fingers for a few awkward seconds. I smile and pull my hand back, taking a sip of my champagne as I scan the room for Sasha.

  “You looking for Sasha?” Charlton asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, always shocked that a man so tone-deaf is actually remarkably perceptive.

  “She’s over by the bar,” Charlton says. I thank him, say my farewells to Kayla, and walk toward the bar, seeing Audrey dressed as Cleopatra. Of course. She gives me a royal nod and I wave back. I squeeze through the crowd and oh, is that your sword, and finally I’m at the bar and see Sasha.

  Wonder Woman.

  “Hey!” I say, approaching her.

  “Hey!” she says, twirling around. “What do you think?” I hug her, saying that it’s amazing. That’s right. It’s just Princess Leia and Wonder Woman hanging around a bar in late October.

  And then we just stand there. Smiling and basking. I think we’re both still stunned at the success of the Lumineux campaign.

  “Lantz got booked by that outerwear company,” Sasha says. “It’s the whole—” And both of us mime “beard” at the same time.

  “Did he really?” I ask.

  “Yeah, that’s what he said,” Sasha says.

  “Did he now,” I say, sipping a poached glass of champagne.

  “Just because I’m on Time-Out doesn’t mean I can’t plan ahead,” Sasha says with a wink.

  “Indeed,” I say, smiling.

  “And if he’s the right guy? He’ll be there a year from now,” Sasha says.

  “He’d be lucky to have you,” I say. Sasha smiles, undoes her golden lasso, and says, “I can see if you’re telling the truth, you know.” I laugh and it takes her upward of twenty minutes to get the lasso back to how it was. “Did you get the invite yet?” Sasha changes the subject.

  “To Jake’s perfect wedding? Of course,” I say.

  “They’re bringing him in for a soap opera next week,” she says.

  “Oh my God, he’d be perfect for that,” I say.

  “And then he wouldn’t have to leave his beloved New York,” she says.

  “Right?” I laugh.

  “I saw that Josh booked a movie. This is going to be so huge for him,” Sasha says. I nod. Happy. I’m happy.

  “Is this thing on?” We all turn to face Charlton as he hops up on what looks like a little stage for karaoke. The spotlight finds him and he momentarily shields his eyes. “This costume was awesome until I realized I had to use the public toilet with no shoes on.” Everyone laughs.

  “What’s Chuck dressed as?” I whisper to Sasha. She fixes her gaze on her ex-flame. Then . . . confusion.

  “Is it . . .”

  “It’s some Internet meme thing. No one gets it,” a guy dressed as Inspector Gadget says.

  “That’s awesome,” I say, pointing to his costume.

  “This, everyone gets,” he says. We laugh.

  I situate myself next to Sasha and she takes my hand and gives it a good squeeze. I look over at her and we smile. We did it.

  “Happy Halloween, people of Holloway/Greene,” Charlton says. “Before we get too drunk, I want to thank everyone for coming out tonight. It’s been quite a year for our agency and it’s going to get even better.” Sasha gives our joined hands a wiggle and I settle in even closer to her. “Tonight, we’re starting a new tradition. It seemed more than fitting after the year we’ve had to mark the performances of a select few with a bit of an extra bonus.” Chuck brings up two trophies and two pink envelopes. He stands just behind Charlton as he continues speaking. Sasha starts squirming.

  “I know,” I whisper. “It’s going to be okay.” She nods and nods and nods, but I can see her face tensing as we both take in the two trophies, which are not the Quincy campaign. Charlton is droning on about other campaigns and this and that. “This doesn’t mean we didn’t get Quincy. Those might not even be our trophies.”

  “The pink envelopes?” Sasha’s voice cracks as she points to the ridiculous pink envelopes.

  “I know,” I say, trying to stay ahead of my emotions. It’s not going well. I scan the room and find Audrey. She . . . she has no idea what’s going on, either. Clearly.

  “But tonight is about announcements and our brand-new Employee of the Year Award. It should come as no surprise to anyone here who this year’s recipients are. The masterminds behind the monster Lumineux campaign, Anna Wyatt and Sasha Merchant! Come on up!” The crowd applauds and Charlton takes a swig of his beer as Sasha and I walk up to the little stage, the crowd parting like the Red Sea. “Leia. Wonder Woman.” Chuck hands us each a trophy. Each trophy is topped with a businessman carrying a briefcase. “They didn’t have ladies. Funny, right?” Chuck whispers. Hilarious. “And this nice little bonus should let you know the depth of our admiration.” Chuck hands us the two pink envelopes. Sasha begins to open hers and when she sees that I am not opening mine, she
clears her throat and smooths the tear over. “Thank you again, ladies. And let’s all say it together.” And the entire room intones: “Just Be.” The crowd applauds as Sasha and I nod and thank Charlton before tucking ourselves back into the bar next to Inspector Gadget. I open up the pink envelope and, wow, the zeroes just keep going and going on what looks like a bonus check from the partners of Holloway/Greene. Sasha tucks the stupid businessman trophy under her arm and opens her own pink envelope. A huge smile.

  Of course, this all makes me very nervous. Charlton continues.

  “What Anna and Sasha accomplished with the Lumineux campaign was beyond anything we could have imagined here at Holloway/Greene. But more than anything else? Quincy Pharmaceuticals has finally taken notice.”

  The crowd goes wild. Sasha and I freeze.

  “He’d better pull us back on that stage, I swear to God,” I say, eyeing Audrey, who is inching her way to the stage. I motion to Sasha to look.

  “No. No. This . . . this can’t be happening,” she says.

  “I can’t believe it. I thought—”

  “We have a meeting with Quincy next week!” Charlton thrusts Chuck’s arm into the air and the crowd goes wild—although around Sasha and me, the crowd is more measured, clapping and checking us, clapping and gossiping. Audrey looks as though she’s about to erupt as she melts back into the crowd. “Yippee-ki-yay, mothe—”

  “Why didn’t we hear about this meeting?” I hear myself say from the back of the restaurant. Sasha tries to stop me as I pick my way through the crowd and toward the stage.

  “Wh—” Charlton asks, shielding his eyes from the spotlight. He registers who it is and his face drops, but then . . . anger. And not because I’m undermining him. Nope. Charlton Holloway IV is pissed because I’m ruining his stupid party.

  “Why haven’t we heard about this meeting?” I say, now standing in front of the stage. It’s in this moment that I get a shot of me in the mirror behind the stage and remember that I’m dressed as Princess Leia.

  “It’s the Halloween party, Wyatt; we’ll discuss this la—”

  “Charlton! Why didn’t we hear about this meeting?”

  “Why would you guys have?” Charlton looks to Chuck, who is just as confused.

  “Why would we have?”

  “Yeah,” he says. A sniff. “I’m sending Chuck.” And that’s all I need. I pull myself up onto the stage, resituate my cinnamon roll buns while holding my stupid businessman trophy and the cloyingly patronizing pink envelope.

  “Because you wouldn’t have a meeting without the work Sasha and I did on Lumineux, that’s why,” I say. The crowd is quiet. The music plays in the distance.

  “You’re being emotional, and like Chuck said, this was a tough decision,” Charlton says.

  “Yeah, you two seem all broken up about it,” I say.

  “Look, we have big plans for you and—”

  “No, this is bullshit. I’m done. I quit. I quit.” I slam the trophy down on the stage floor and it hits with a hollow thud. And then I bring my white go-go Leia boot heel down hard onto it—shattering the stupid thing into a million pieces. “And you can find businesswomen trophies; you just have to look a little harder.” I hop down off the stage and take the bonus check out of that stupid pink envelope and throw the envelope at Charlton. The pink envelope floats to the floor as I make a show of tucking the check itself into the little white clutch that I thought would be the most Leia-like.

  “Anna, come on. Calm down,” Chuck says. I walk past Audrey. I stop. A moment. Her eyes are rimmed in red and there’s nothing I can say or do to her that her own father hasn’t already done. She forces out a smile. It’s genuine. The first tear looses itself from her heavily made-up cat eyes, and she can only shrug. Chuck hops down off the stage and follows me through the crowd.

  “Anna, come on,” Chuck says. Charlton is standing on the stage. A spotlight on him in all of his Die Hard glory. I stand at the entrance to the restaurant. Everyone is quiet. Mouths hanging open. Watching me. I look back at Sasha. She is smiling. I smile back. I give her a wink.

  “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker,” I say, and walk out of that restaurant.

  22

  “Yippee-ki-yayyyyyy,” I say again, shooting the rubber band that was wrapped around the sushi container Sasha brought by along with everything that was in my office at Holloway/Greene. The rubber band hits the TV screen and tumbles to the floor. It’s early afternoon and I’m in my pajamas. I’ve been unemployed for three weeks.

  I spend my days asking the one eternal question I can handle right now: How did it get to be three thirty P.M.?

  I’ve gone from feeling like the heroine of my own story to feeling like a tantrumming baby who didn’t get her way and took her toys and went home. It’s funny how heroism can feel a lot like recklessness in the harsh light of morning. I’ve spent the last three weeks fighting with myself—mostly aloud—about whether I did the right thing. Why wasn’t Lumineux good enough for me? Maybe I should ask for my old job back because the idea of going to work for another agency, another Charlton, another hustle, and another master key to the pink ghetto makes me sick to my stomach.

  So, I sleep. I sleep and I take showers. I take showers and I walk. And as autumn tumbles in around me, I isolate. I take to wearing the same blue-striped pajama bottoms I wore in Phoenix and one of Ferdie’s old hockey jerseys. At first I wear this outfit around the house and then I rationalize that if I wear this outfit at nightfall for one of my meandering walks, people won’t be able to tell that it is essentially pajamas. Then I decide I can wear the outfit at dusk. Then I decide I can wear the outfit to the corner store in the afternoon when I need tea and maybe some of those brownie bites.

  Then I decide I can wear the outfit when I make my task for the day procuring a pain au chocolat and a latte from the café down the street. It’s ten thirty A.M. I sell that particular field trip by wearing a tank top underneath the jersey in place of a bra. If someone asks, I say to myself as I pull the café door open, I’ll say I’ve just come from pilates. Today “pilates” is code for the depths of despair.

  “Just the pastry and the coffee?” the girl behind the counter says.

  “Yes, thank you. I worked up quite an appetite at pilates. Phew!” The girl takes my money and gives me change. I dump the change into the tip jar. Hush money. She smiles. I move to the side and await my latte, pulling a bite off the pain au chocolat.

  “Anna?” Nope. I don’t turn around. This is not happening. “Anna?” The voice again. A deep breath and I turn around. It’s Nathan. Oh, that’s fine. I don’t like him anyway.

  “Hey,” I say with a smile. He smiles back and then scans my outfit. “Pilates.” I clear my throat and take another bite of my pastry.

  “Great,” he says. The café buzzes around us as drinks are called out and the music plays and people chatter at tables and all this happens while I’m wearing my pajamas.

  “How are Hannah and the kids?” I ask.

  “Oh, fine. I hear they’re fine,” he says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Hannah and I are spending some time apart,” he says.

  “What? I had dinner with her . . . when was it . . . ,” I say.

  “I don’t think she’s telling many people. Or anyone, I guess. We’re in couple’s therapy, so . . . it’s not like we’re thinking it’s permanent,” Nathan says.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “Here . . . this is bugging me,” he says, taking a napkin and wiping my cheek. He shows it to me. Chocolate. Or . . . chocolat, if you want to be fancy about it.

  “Thanks,” I say, shocked that my appearance could actually be any worse. We are quiet. I don’t know what to say. “I hope you guys can work it out.”

  “My parents were married fifty-two years,” Nathan says.

  “Oh, wow, that’s—” I say.

  “And they hated each other the whole time,” he says.

  “Oh . . . uh . . .”

/>   “I don’t want to be like that,” Nathan says. We get jostled a bit as the crowd awaiting their coffees grows. Nathan continues once we settle back in next to the condiment bar. “They constantly said they stayed together for the kids. As if we didn’t know they hated each other.” I am quiet. This is the most Nathan has ever said to me. Ever. “We felt like it was our fault they were so unhappy.”

  “I’m . . . I’m so sorry,” I say. The girl calls out Nathan’s name and he excuses himself. I push back my headband and resituate my glasses, not knowing where else to put my nervous energy. Another bite of pain au chocolat and I’ve finished it before I even get my latte. I crumple the bag up and toss it in the bin. Nathan settles back in next to me with his steaming coffee. The name “Merthon” scrawled on the side of the cup.

  “They get it wrong every time,” he says, laughing. “Nathan. How hard is it?”

  “Merthon is such a common name,” I say. Nathan laughs.

  “I don’t want our kids to feel like I did,” he says.

  “I get that,” I say.

  “When my dad finally passed away, everyone was so worried about what Mom was going to do. Fifty-two years they were together.” Nathan says these words like a swooning old lady. It’s kind of adorable. I smile. “My brothers and I weren’t worried, of course. Mom moved into a condo in Arlington and has been traveling the world with her girlfriends ever since. I follow her on Instagram,” he says. I laugh and he smiles. He pulls his phone out of his coat pocket and pulls up her Instagram account. He flicks through photo after photo of a group of older ladies in visors and matching floral separates in front of various wonders of the world. “She’s happy.” He smiles again and his eyes crinkle up as he slides his phone back into his coat pocket. The girl calls out my name and I go pick up my latte. Nathan waits for me. I walk back over and show him my cup. It reads “Lana.”

  “Close,” he says as we wend our way through the crowded café. He holds the door open for me and I walk through with a thank-you. “It was good seeing you, Lana.”

  “You too, Merthon.”