by Rylee Swann
“So, you’re really leaving,” he says, handing me the paperweight I received in lieu of a plaque when I won the readers’ choice award for a piece I’d written on human trafficking.
I toss it into the box, which has pitifully few mementos. “Yeah. I can’t take another minute of this.”
He scratches his head and then pushes his glasses up his nose again. “You sure, Caroline? There aren’t many journalism jobs available these days. As much as I hate to admit it, print is in the intensive care unit with nobody willing to officially pull the plug. Yet, but it’s coming. You might want to re-think this.”
Marvin is wise. I know that. I’ve witnessed his wisdom in action many times. But he is also at the end of his career while I’m still in the blossom of new. Well… if you can call eight years as a journalist new. If thirty really is the new fifty, then I’m officially more like a toddler. And the knowledge that I’d need to trade my dreams for nightmares for the next thirty years makes me want to vomit in my utilitarian trash can.
“I’ll find something.” Kissing the older man’s cheek, I squeeze his hand and grab my box. I look around the room, the place I’d practically lived in these eight years. “I promise I’ll be okay.”
CHAPTER TWO
Caroline
I’m so not okay.
As I flip through my bills, it’s obvious. I’m screwed, and Marvin was right… print is only alive because a few billionaires holding respirators are breathing for it. The journalists with good jobs are holding on to them with both hands and their teeth, and new positions aren’t opening up.
I’ve been a good girl my entire life, and I’d religiously tucked money away until I had three months of living expenses saved up for rainy days like this. But as the bills begin to come in for the fourth month, what had started as a sprinkle is quickly turning into a torrential downpour with lightning strikes and a tornado on the horizon.
Dropping my face in my hands, I give myself exactly sixty seconds to wallow in my pity party before booting up my computer and checking the freelancing site I joined two months ago to see if I’d gotten any new jobs.
There’s one! Excited, I click the link.
Need a three-thousand-word article on the importance of wrapping pipes prior to winter. Pay is thirty dollars.
With a groan and deep gratitude that none of the journalists I once worked with are here to witness my shame, I click “accept” and then buckle down to research. I’ve lived in a maintained apartment building my entire life and have zero idea as to why pipes need to be wrapped. But hey, a dollar is a dollar, and thirty of them will buy a few groceries even if it won’t pay the rent.
As I begin the research, my Google alert pings. A job! I abandon the article and click over, praying it will be something good.
Oh my gosh. Glam magazine is in search of an experienced writer to write for their “world” section. I’m breathing hard by the time I finish reading the job description.
I’m so perfect for this job.
Within seconds, I’ve submitted my resume, my letters of recommendation, and the sex trafficking article I wrote that earned me the paperweight.
I stare at the screen, although ninety-nine point nine nine nine nine nine percent of my brain knows I won’t hear anything. Not today, at least. Probably not tomorrow either.
Placing the laptop on the cushion beside me, I jump up from my little couch and stride into the kitchen, adrenaline and hope making me practically hop. I need something to drink besides coffee because I’m jittery. I’ve also gained twelve whole freaking pounds since I quit the Gazette. If I’m going to work at a fashion magazine, those suckers need to disappear.
Grabbing a glass of water, I fill it with slices of lemon and ice before pouring water from my filtered pitcher all the way to the rim. I down it, pour another and begin to sip.
It’s a start. Today is my “get ready for my new job day.” I need to get a haircut, my nails manicured, and… holy crap, I need to find something to wear.
Although the logical part of my mind knows I might never even get an interview, my hope filled mind is in overdrive.
Ping!
Taking my ice water with me, I race back to the sofa. Disappointment oozes out of every pore as I realize it’s just a notification that I have bonus bucks available at the local pharmacy. Awesome. A buck is a buck, and I’m running low on aspirin. And antacids.
I’ve got to calm down. I finish the water, then chew on an ice cube before berating myself and spitting it out. Since I don’t have health or dental insurance any longer, I’m living on the edge as it is. No need to add the possibility of a broken tooth to the mix.
Damn Russ. Damn David. Damn men.
Angry again, I sit down and get back to work on the water pipe article, forcing my mind away from everything else. If I get an email or phone call about the magazine job, then I’ll do my research before going through the trouble of worrying about what to wear. Now, I need to earn my thirty dollars so I can go buy loads of celery and carrots to thin my ice cream enhanced hips.
It doesn’t take long to understand the science of the pipe problems of the world.
Cold freezes water, making ice. Ice expands and bursts pipes. Cover up your pipes, people, or else you’re left with an expensive mess. That’s the gist of the article, although I manage to make it a fairly interesting three thousand and two words long. I send it off and wait for my cha-ching.
And there’s still no word from Glam.
Damn.
An entire day passes, and I write an article on weatherproofing your windows. Another thirty dollars in my pocket.
Another day goes by, and I score a five-thousand-word article that is actually interesting. It’s about taking care of your indoor plants during the winter. As I research and type, I shoot a guilty glance at my pitiful looking little cactus sitting in the window, the only thing on earth that needs me to keep it alive.
At four forty-seven that afternoon, I submit the article, happy for the fifty bucks coming my way. I still don’t have rent money solved, but I’m getting there and refuse to give up.
Ping!
“What’s next, Pete?” I mutter to the cactus. He’s named after my ex, who was a prick. “Think they’ll want a five-thousand-word article on how to survive the guilt of killing your houseplants?”
Through bleary eyes, I look at my screen. Oh my gosh. It’s from Glam!
Inhaling deeply through my nose, I click the email. Thank you for your submission. Yada. Yada. Yada. I breeze through the part where they spout all the wonderful things about themselves and get to the good, or bad, part.
It’s good! They want to get to know me further. Would I be available on Thursday at two p.m. for an interview?
My fingers fly over the keyboard then hover over the “send” button.
If I send it right now, will I seem too eager? In a city where fashionably late is king, will I look like the court jester trying to people please?
I force myself to wait half an hour then click send, spouting out a little prayer for it to have safe passage. Then force myself to get up and do something productive instead of stare at the screen for hours.
In my closet, I start sorting through my clothes and pull on one of my favorite skirts. Inhaling deeply, I manage to get the zipper up, the button closed, but it’s like a snakeskin on my ass.
Close to weeping, I pull out my fat skirt with promises to sew my lips together if it doesn’t fit.
It does. Barely. It curves around my ample butt just on the right side of decent. I pull a white silk blouse off a hanger, then a red jacket over that. I look… like a flight attendant.
Disgusted, I pull the jacket off and then strip down to my underwear. I don’t even know what’s in fashion anymore. Heading back to my laptop, I do a quick search.
Oh dear lord.
Strappy pretty much sums it up, which would be fine if it wasn’t winter in the North East.
Going back to my closet, I find a birthd
ay tank I bought myself years ago and layer it under a cream, hip length jacket — never would have thought about pairing them up but it works. After adding nearly every chain in my jewelry box, I decide I look fairly close to the picture. Deciding it’s too cold for sandals, I pull on a pair of knee high boots.
Scrutinizing myself in front of the mirror, I decide I look pretty good.
***
I look like a schoolmarm.
An old schoolmarm.
An old, out of touch schoolmarm and the bun I pulled my hair into only completes the picture. Even my manicure is wrong. When did pointy fingernails come into style? Don’t these women type? How do they avoid puncturing their eyeball when they sweep on their layers and layers of mascara? Or are those fake lashes crawling up to their eyebrows like spiders on their faces?
The interview goes… terrible. Well, the actual question and answer part goes well, but the woman who might one day be my manager’s eyes keep falling to the cascade of necklaces around my neck. With a frown.
“We’ll be in touch regarding the position,” Valerie says. “Thank you for stopping by.”
Oh god, I’m being dismissed.
“It’s been my pleasure.” Honesty is best, so I take a deep breath and spew it. “I know I don’t look the part of Glam… yet, but I hope you’ll give me the chance to learn from you regarding wardrobe and style as I focus on enlightening our readers, giving them the balance of brains and beauty.”
Valerie actually smiles at that. And it isn’t just a tight corner lift of her mouth. A genuine smile that seems to appreciate what I’ve just said. “I’ll be in touch.”
***
I got the job!
After sweating it for nearly a week, I got the call I’d been waiting and hoping for. They loved my experience, my samples… can I start on Monday?
Um, heck yeah.
Over the weekend, I hit all the high-end consignment shops, taking the past six copies of Glam with me. With the help of two teenagers, I’m able to snag a few outfits that might still not scream style but might save me from the “how does this person exist like this” look.
Monday is boring, with loads of human resource stuff, tours, and introductions.
“Tomorrow, you’ll be expected to provide input at our staff meeting, coming up with suggestions on topics not only for the World section, but other sections as well.” Valerie’s eyes sweep me up and down. “This is a better look. Don’t be afraid of color.”
Don’t be afraid of my foot in your ass.
“I won’t, thank you,” I say to the twenty-two-year-old.
In fact, I’m fairly sure that I’m the oldest person in the building, and since I’m turning — gulp — thirty on Friday, that knowledge causes my boobs to sag even further.
I’m surprisingly nervous when the Tuesday morning meeting comes around. I’ve made copies of every table of contents of every Glam magazine for the past five years, committing them to memory. And look surprisingly cute in black pants and… tada… a dark green turtleneck I wore with a black and gold belt at the waist.
It’s simple. And I’ve added color. Well, kind of. And all the other girls are wearing belts on the outsides of their sweaters, so I’m hopefully in the realm of style.
When Jules, the magazine owner steps into the room, everyone jumps to their feet. Like a dork, I jump up after them, clapping to the same rhythm as my new peers.
“Give me a G!” Valerie yells, and on cue, everyone gives her one, their high-pitched scream piercing my brain.
“Give me an L!”
I shrug. I can cheer for a paycheck. “L!”
“Give me an A!”
I’m in it now, my fist punching the air. “A!”
“Give me an M!”
“M!”
“What’s that spell?”
I punch another fist into the air. I’ve got this. “GLAM!”
Everyone stops and looks in my direction, some laughing, some curling their nose.
Valerie clears her throat. Jules looks insulted.
“Actually, Caro,” Valerie begins, “it spells Give Life Alternative Meanings.”
Is she serious? And did she just call me Caro?
I make a sound that’s some combination of laugh, moan, and snort. “Sorry.” I grab my pencil and paper. “Writing that down.” I say it in the high pitched, urgent tone everyone else uses. It seems to settle everyone down, and I plop into my seat, wiping away the condensation — also known as sweat in places other than the Glam offices — from my upper lip.
Jules, the owner, is twenty-eight, I learned. And she started the magazine three years ago after marrying her billionaire boyfriend. Because I want to give back to the world, it said in her ‘about me’ section. Yeah, like giving advice on “eighteen ways to make your boyfriend never leave you” is better than feeding the homeless… ugh.
“Everyone take a deep breath in,” she says in a low, sexy voice, and everyone around me sits up straighter, pulling in a noisy inhale, a bright smile on their faces. “That’s perfect. Today, you’re breathing in peace and joy, in the knowledge that what we are doing today will bring security and beauty to the world.”
Oh my god, I can’t breathe in anymore. My lungs are bursting. This is torture.
Finally, she says, “Now, exhale. Get rid of any negativity or stress. Any insecurity.” She meets my eyes, giving me a pointed look. “Any mistakes.”
We do this a few more times, breathing in good things, breathing out bad. Actually, this isn’t terrible, and I feel more centered after the exercise.
“Now, let’s brainstorm articles. Since we’re working on the March edition, our focus will be on…”
“Green,” the entire group choruses.
She claps her hands together and everyone preens. I look around. This is actually kind of fascinating. I’m witnessing, in the flesh, group hypnosis. Mind washing. I jot down a note to research this phenomenon.
Jules beams at the group. “And guess who our cover model is?” She asks it as if we’re a bunch of toddlers.
Hands are thrust into the air, answers tossed out while Jules shakes her head like a teacher slash mother with each answer. This goes on an irritating few minutes before I shout out, “Selena!”
After all, Selena helped take me down at my last job. Why not build me up in the next?
Jules eyes grow wide, and she touches her nose with her finger. “Our new girl gets it.” She reaches behind her and grabs a bag I hadn’t noticed before. She looks at me closer, eyeing me up and down before reaching in the bag. “And you…” she lifts a drawn-on brow.
“Caroline,” I inject helpfully.
“You, Caro, win Estee Lauder’s newest eye cream!” Cheers go up all around. “You should see those pesky lines fade away in a few weeks.” She looks at me again. “Twice a day, never miss.”
The girl next to me, Lyndsey I think is her name, adopts a conspiratorial tone. “It will take five years off your face like that.” She snaps her fingers. The bitch looks like she’s still in high school.
Mustering a smile, I accept the gift. Jules holds it over my palm. “Promise you’ll take pictures of your eye creases before you use it, then weekly for the next three months.” She looks around the room. “Meg, you’re in charge of getting the photos. We’ll do a before, during, and after review for the mature section.”
Mature?
Thirty is mature?
While I’ve never been fully confident in my looks, I’ve never thought of myself as ugly or lacking before, but two days in Glam’s offices is making me want to pull a bag over my head.
Jules looks at me again. “Which section are you?”
This is my wheelhouse. “World.”
She throws her hands up in an “of course” gesture. “That’s perfect. I should have guessed. What ideas do you have for your section?”
I take a deep breath. “I was sexually harassed in my last job, and with the flurry of ‘me too’ hashtags, I was thinking—”
I gape at Jules. “No?”
She shakes her elegant head, her chin length blunt cut barely moving with the sharp movement. “Let’s do something more… inspirational.”
I clear my throat. “Having women worldwide take a stand about sexual harassment feels inspirational to me. I—”
Jules claps her hands. “Moving on. Anyone have suggestions for Caro?”
I grit my teeth at the nickname.
Lyndsey’s hand goes up. Jules calls on her. “Yes, Lynds… what have you got?”
Lyndsey clears her throat. “There is a huge debate going on right now about whether the highlight on the tip of the nose is needed or not.”
Jules laughs. “Oh, Lynds, of course it’s needed. Next?”
My eyeballs feel glued to the outside of their sockets as I look around the room and realize that every single woman around me has the lightbulb nose, as I’ve always called it. Don’t they realize how distracting that is?
“Meg?”
Meagan claps her hands together. “How about a debate on which Kardashian has her baby first?”
Another girl pipes in, her gaze sliding to me. “How about the age-old question of when a woman is too old to wear her hair long?”
This job will pay my rent. This job will buy me food.
Even as my soul is sucked out through my brain, I attempt to keep the smile on my face and force my fingers from playing with my curls. I didn’t wear a bun but apparently my shoulder length mane isn’t quite right either.
“Oh, oh, oh!” A blonde ponytailed girl says, her hand waving in the air. Jules nods in her direction. “There’s a new club opening this weekend. A sex club.”
Jules taps her lips with her finger. “I think I’ve heard about that. Club X, am I right?”
The blonde’s ponytail flies in all directions she nods so hard. “That’s the one. The owner, Master X, is said to be hot. Scorching hot.”
Jules’s finger is still tapping. “This is very interesting.” She looks back to me. “You can interview Master X and provide insight on why clubs like his are still so popular in the post Fifty Shades world.”