Diary of a Working Girl

by Daniella Brodsky

  To keep up appearances and prevent him from drawing a connection between the princess love story and my current mind-set, I close the notebook, shove the magazines under a sofa cushion, scramble some papers on my desk, I open a computer document I’d written ages ago, and jam a pen behind my ear. Now, that looks like a busy workingwoman who never draws parallels between her own life and those of The Young and the Restless characters, I think, glancing in the mirror. That is, except for the greasy hair propped up in a wild bun and the snowman-printed pajama pants, and, of course, the bit of ketchup on my cheek.

  When I finally let Chris in, after he’d spent a moment clearing his throat in the hallway, he says, “So you really are working on some real, saleable story ideas, huh? You haven’t just opened some old document, shimmied some papers around your desk, and stuck a pen behind your ear, right?” Although Chris is a photographer, he would be better suited to manning a psychic hotline. If he’d seen the magazines, he’d be able to flip right to the princess story and repeat back word for word what I’d been thinking. I walk over to the cushion concealing them and sit on top.

  He looks stunning, as always. His dark hair is perfectly combed back so it’s just beginning to fall by his ears—in the sort of way that, on a straight man, would make you want to run your hands through to push it back. But, as often as I’ve wished he were. Chris is not a straight man. Once I learned (the hard way) that he would not show any romantic interest in me even if I rang his bell wearing only the cutest Agent Provocateur teddy beneath my coat, holding a bottle of champagne and two flutes, I began to take him for what he is—a fantastic friend with fabulous insight into the male psyche, and someone who lets me run my hands through his hair when I’m feeling especially deficient in the area of male tresses for such a purpose. He also functions as mother, father, brother, sister, therapist, superintendent, personal chef, and date. I hope I do as much for him. He glances at my coffee-cum-buffet table and shakes his head despairingly.

  “My darling, what are we going to do with you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. This?” I ask, waving my hand The Price Is Right-style, at what would be a very unfabulous prize. He doesn’t answer, only lowers his lids as a way of saying he isn’t buying what I’m sloppily attempting to unload in lieu of the truth.

  I continue anyway, “This is—er, the research for an article I’m working on. Yes. It’s research.”

  “So what exactly are you researching? The fastest way to put on twenty pounds? Or is it a home-brewed recipe for a creamy pity soup with artichoke and … Oh, Lanie, barbecue chicken wings? Yuck. C’mon. Pull yourself together and get your head out of this….this bag of salt and vinegar potato chips. What is this kettle style? Any good?” He crunches a couple thoughtfully. “Not bad, actually. Still, when was the last time you actually had an article published? Not to be the bearer of bad news, but you know the rent is due soon.”

  I can’t prove he actually has telepathic powers or that his taste test wasn’t some sort of sleight of hand just to set this whole thing up, but it seems an awfully big coincidence that the bag of potato chips just happens to come crashing down into a carbohydrate avalanche at exactly the same moment he finishes this sentence.

  For some reason I hate when Chris knows how awful I feel. He’s just so practical. I’ll go on and on about spending Christmas or New Year’s or Valentine’s Day alone and he’ll be so sweet—making me dinner or wrapping thoughtful gifts in gorgeous wallpaper remnants with regal ribbon-work and strands of antique glass beads—and all the while never say anything about his being alone, too. But it doesn’t matter whether I keep it to myself or not, he knows the truth anyhow, so either way I walk away feeling bad about having felt bad, which makes me feel even worse because I hate that I can’t be as strong as Chris.

  “For your information, I am actually working on an article right now—about the favorite clothes of this famous writer-woman—in addition to this food research thingy I’m doing.” I say, defending my existence.

  “Well, I was about to see if you wanted to come out and get a breath of fresh air, but I see you’re busy, so I’ll just leave you to it.”

  “Thank you. Yes, I’m extremely busy today.” And with that, I nudge him through the door.

  “But don’t forget to call me later!” I scream down the hall.

  Two

  A Sign of the Times

  When I wake Monday morning, still on my couch, it takes a second to figure out where I am. In my dream, I’d been shacked up in the most beautiful St. Lucian cliffside villa with a faceless, but definitely Latin, Enrique Iglesias type.

  Unimaginatively typecast or not he turned out to be a fantastic lover—the sort who knows exactly what to say and how to tug at your hair and linger at the insides of your thighs until you’re positive that you’re the sexiest woman in America (my thighs were Victoria’s Secret caliber in this dream).

  When finally my eyes flicker open to full capacity, I look around myself in disgust. The remains of my million-calorie weekend feast, now smelling pretty badly, are strewn around the television unit, an altar to my depression. My blanket and I have long since parted, the blanket preferring a more southerly climate—the floor. Yet I’m somehow rivaling a hormonally charged adolescent boy in the sweat department. I am not sure how the glittery poster reading “Anti-fairy-tale-ism” got on my bed.

  Slowly, I attempt to rise and make my way to the bathroom. The mirror lets me know, quite harshly, that I have looked better. My hair, normally ironed out to perfection has attained such volume it would give Fran Drescher a run for her Nanny residuals. My face is so pasty I fear people will break into bad Ray Parker Junior movie scores when they see me. My brows have been replaced by two fluffy caterpillars above my bloodshot eyes, below which two cases of dark luggage sag and puff.

  If I told some random person on the street that I’m the one instructing them on skincare and hairstyling in magazines (okay, most people you run into haven’t read Celebrity Hairstyles, but still, I’m trying to make a point here) they would swear off glossies for good. Hah! That is actually kind of funny, I muse, trying to drag a comb through my hair and failing miserably (and painfully).

  You know what would be really funny? If I started writing about relationships, now that would be absolutely hysterical, I think as I brush my teeth, quickly smooth some soap around my face and neck, and shower off the effects of a lonely, unproductive stint that has run entirely too long a course.

  I have to begin an article I’m writing for a woman’s magazine that nobody has ever heard of. This is my only assignment for the week: to interview one famous woman about her favorite clothes. The women I interview have the most amazing wardrobes—they’d never even ask the price, just hand over a credit card if someone hasn’t already offered the garments for free. To make matters worse, I have to go and walk through their closets, which are the size of my apartment, while they whine about needing more space to squeeze in all of their Alaia originals, Jimmy Choos, and Manolo Blahniks. I rationalize, I have my health! I live in the best city in the world! Somehow, that never works.

  I try to concentrate on my health and the benefits of my geographical location and remember that I promised myself today would be the day I rejoin the living as an active member of society. But as I reach and unlock my door, ready to venture out to interview Lisa McLellon, I begin to amuse myself with what Imide Edition might say when Lane Silverman, relationship columnist, is sighted home alone on a Saturday night: “Before you consider taking advice from a relationship expert, you may want to peer through the windows of five hundred and fifty-five West Thirteenth Street, where Lane Silverman, scribe responsible for ‘Want Love? Go Get It!’ was seen this Saturday boiling ramen noodles and trying—in futility—to master a Britney Spears dance routine—alone. Story at eight.” And that’s when I trip over my Sunday Times.

  “Ouch!” I scream, partially in hopes that someone (maybe the cute guy down the hall) might come scoop me up from t
he heap I am now lying in. Couldn’t I once look forward to tripping over a paper with my story on the cover? Couldn’t some kind neighbor have removed the paper so the world wouldn’t know I hadn’t even opened my door yesterday? I feel the physical presence of the head-shaking and deep sighs this evidence of my gross self-pity no doubt generated this morning. The hall smells of people with places to go and people to see and I want them all to know that I am now, as they say, leaving the building.

  “Ouch!” I scream once more, a bit louder, to make sure they all hear.

  Nobody comes and my leg starts to go tingly. I can’t bother to pick up the paper, another symbol of my failure. Just last week I hovered for twenty minutes over the “send” button. Why was I yet again pitching to a thus-far response-impaired Times editor about some trend that will go in and out of style and be featured in every other publication without even a form rejection letter in my mailbox. I imagine my peach shower gel trail masking the residual mortification in the air as I leave the building.

  The woman I’m scheduled to interview is one of the most successful freelance magazine writers in New York. She contributes to all the big glossies: Vogue, Bazaar, Elle, Glamour. I met her at a press lunch for a new line of cosmetics, and she is very nice. We bonded attempting to score, a second microscopic editor-friendly portion of rosemary chicken.

  When I arrive at her Upper West Side apartment I am awestruck. It’s mammoth. I get the urge to skip around like a kid in a museum. That’s how big it is. I could definitely fit my apartment in here four, maybe, five times. They could probably reassemble the entire Natural History Museum dinosaur collection right in her living room. There are all sorts of antique furnishings from the fifties and sixties, like a chrome desk and a real Eames chair. I could write such beautiful words in here. The words would just flow from me, as I sit in my fur-trimmed negligee, sipping cognac from a crystal glass and admiring the wainscoting.

  “So do you want to see it?” she asks.

  “See what?” I’m so astounded I don’t even remember why I’m here. Oh. The interview. Right. Her closet. “Sure. Let’s get to it!”

  “So, what’s this magazine again? Her Life? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it before.” She turns toward the staircase, the amethyst golf ball on her finger blinding me.

  “Actually it’s called For Her,” I say, blinking away the violet blob that won’t seem to disappear from view. Defending the magazine, and my pride, which is shrinking faster than an overstock of Marc Jacobs army jackets at a Barney’s warehouse sale, I go on with the spiel I have memorized. “It’s actually a really fantastic magazine. It’s very new, which is why you’re probably not familiar with it, but it has the most fabulous photography, and every time I read it, it just gets better and better. It’s really going to be very successful,”

  “Well, that’s great. It must be nice to work for such a cute little magazine like that.” She doesn’t mean that as badly as it came out. I know she doesn’t, because as I said, she’s very nice. She’s just looking for something nice to say about it, but there isn’t really much that’s nice to say. She’s trying.

  We’re walking through her bedroom, which is right out of the pages of Elle Decor. Really, it is—January 2001 issue—and I’m admiring the caramel suede pillows and the modular end tables, when I turn to see it. It’s breathtaking. And I don’t mean that in a figurative way. I mean, when I reach the entryway of her closet, I literally cannot breathe.

  And apparently I’m turning blue, because Lisa says, “Honey, are you turning blue?”

  I try to get the word “no” out, but instead, a throaty, dry sound emerges from deep down, and I’m incapable of coming out with anything else.

  “Sevilla, can you fetch me a glass of water for Ms. Lane, please?” she screams down the stairs to the kitchen, where her housekeeper has been polishing silver statues since I arrived. I never think to polish my silver statues, but, of course, mine are from Target. And they aren’t actually silver. And the one time I did accidentally spray a bit of Windex on the one “silver” bookend I have, I actually rubbed off some of the “silver.”

  Sevilla, that’s pronounced Sa-vee-ya, appears so fast—holding an elegant cylindrical glass, probably from ABC Carpet and Home, filled to the rim with water—that I think she may have gone through a time warp to get here. I take a big sip as Lisa regards me with her head cocked and a sweet smile on her face, which seems to say, “I’ve been there.”

  I swear to God, even the water tastes better here than mine does, and it’s ever so faintly infused with peach, like my bath gel, I note, quickly find the coincidence interesting and as quickly realize it may not actually be. Before I know it, I’m back to breathing like a normal person. But, thinking about what’s just happened, I feel less like a normal person than I ever have.

  “Are you alright now?” Lisa asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say, standing and brushing myself off. “Thank you.”

  “I remember the first time I had to write an article about some rich woman’s wardrobe. I was so nervous that I tore the sleeve off of Polly Mellen’s boucle Chanel suit. Right at the shoulder.” She shakes her head, and with the wisdom and security of success says, “Don’t worry about it at all.”

  And, with that I feel more at ease. Lisa McLellon was once like me. And now, she has all this. My jealousy gives way to faith. I can do this, too, I find myself thinking. I just know I can.

  The interview goes remarkably well. I ask all the right questions. That means my questions get her engaged and speaking in an animated tone about all sorts of topics you could never have planned to inquire into. Lisa is impressed with my fashion knowledge. At a football field’s distance, I can spot an Alai’a sheath, a Gucci blazer. I know the year each was made. She takes me lovingly through the contents of her closet, which is fitted with a moving rack system, pointing out a Chloe blouse she is eternally devoted to, because she got her first Vogue assignment when she was wearing it, a Prada blossom-printed A-line dress she wore the first time she went to Paris for the fashion shows, and tons of other pieces that, together, really weave together the history of her fascinating life. At this moment, I love my job. I could just stand here all day and hear stories about Kate Moss and Andre Leon Talley and parties at Le Cirque. And the best thing about Lisa is that she doesn’t forget for a second where she came from. Lisa worked her way all the way up from an assistant to the assistant of the assistant editor at Vanity Fair, fetching coffees and undergarments for her superiors. And look where she is now.

  Three hours later, I really don’t want to leave. So when we’re through with her closet and all of the “sportif,” “dress,” “vixen,” and “everyday” shoes are back in their pristine Lucite boxes—a mosaic of Swarovski crystals, buckskin, crocodile, and satin—and all the garments are resting for their next outing on satin hangers, I am delighted when she asks. “Do you have a few minutes to drink a cappuccino with me? The weather is so nice, and I would love to sit on the veranda for a bit.”

  “I would I love to,” I say. When we’ve both lit cigarettes and Sevilla appears, again in seconds flat, with our steaming cappuccinos, I realize that I really need to ask some practical advice of Lisa, You don’t get opportunities like this every day. So, I venture, “Lisa would you mind if I asked you a professional question?”

  “Sure, shoot.”

  She is really so sweet, and that gives me hope that there are many good people in this world, and then I feel bad again for having envied her wardrobe. I try to push that away, but when I realize this is not going to happen, I accept that I can be both jealous and thankful at the same time. So, I continue, “Well, I always read your articles, they’re all so great, by the way, and I have to ask, where do you get your ideas?”

  A yellow bird alights on the iron scrollwork separating us from Fifth Avenue. Lisa takes no notice, and I think feathered friends stopping over for a visit must be an everyday sort of thing in this world. She takes a long, silent sip, her pin
ky pointing out gracefully, and says, “A lot of people ask me that. And I always say that all you really have to do is keep your eyes and ears open. The ideas are all around you. And then, what you have to do is ask questions about those things. For instance, I broke the heel of my favorite pair of Manolos when I was literally jetting off to Spain that evening. And so I had to get them fixed, because they go with that—”

  “Alai’a dress,” I finish her sentence. I can’t help myself.

  “Yes, that’s the one.” She flashes her extremely white teeth. “And I’m sure you can tell why I needed to pack that dress. So, I researched the best place to go for same-day repairs, and then asked about what types of things they can fix and which ones they can’t, and so on. And then I pitched a story about that. They used it in Vogue.”

  “I see. Okay. So, I just have to really think about every single thing that is going on around me. Real-life stuff.” I’m thinking this is horrible, common-sense sort of advice that will not help me in the least, nor anyone else who hasn’t the connections that Lisa does, and I don’t feel so bad about the wardrobe envy anymore. Don’t I do this already? Hadn’t I just pitched a story about hair color after I had my color done? And hadn’t it been rejected? “That’s great advice. Thanks so much,” I offer anyway, since she’s such a great connection and has been so nice. I can’t very well say, “Thanks for nothing.”

  To maintain my sanity I reiterate to myself that her success with this strategy, and my failure with it, has to do with connections—both wealth and lack of, respectively. She has them, and I don’t. That’s my problem. It can really be the only answer. This last discourse leaves me feeling hopeless and almost entirely wipes out the ray of hope that had been with me during my stay here.