Being the master of human nature that I am (this is one of the blessings of a writer’s nature, which softens the blows of poverty and carpal tunnel syndrome), I sarcastically take on the role of unimportant underling during these conversations, saying, too sweetly, things like, “And shall I bring you a cup of coffee, and purchase a cadeau for your petite amie?”
He smiles through the phone, I imagine, but tries to retain an air of professionalism and says, “No, just what we spoke about, please,” referring to whatever small task he’s asked me to perform.
But today I just answer, “Absolutely perfect,” and tell him about the articles I’ve written (as I do still need to remind him that I am an intellectual outside of being his assistant, even if I am maintaining the role of unimportant underling).
“I’d love to see some of your stuff,” he says, and I remember who the articles are for and decide to change the topic. I’ve talked myself up so much already and I’m quite sure he wouldn’t see a woman’s closet in the same way I would.
“So, what can I do for you?” I ask.
“Meeting in my office in five. Grab John, too. And one more thing—I’m glad you opted against Military-Shlump-Shower-Cap-Chic today.”
I’d almost forgotten.
“John!” I scream over the maroon cubey wall.
“Yes, dear,” he moans like a beleaguered husband, and I think in wonder, how he has really warmed up to me.
“Tom wants us to meet in five minutes in his office.”
“Cool. I’ll swing by and pick you up and we can catch a ride over together.”
I love office humor. It’s a whole other sort of humor that you just don’t get when you’re sitting by yourself at a computer all day. At home, I used to laugh really loudly and then comment about whatever it was that was funny, in hopes that one of my neighbors might think I lead an interesting life and ring my bell to start up a conversation. Unsurprisingly this never worked.
“So looks like there has been a lot of movement in the telecommunications sector as of late, what with the merging of companies that have Internet telephone capabilities and those that have vast numbers of traditional telephone customers already. I have in mind a couple of companies that I think would hugely benefit in the long run by pairing their assets and I’m going to need to get together a massive proposal by the end of the month.”
John and I are shaking our heads mechanically, as one feels they ought when someone is delivering a long-winded speech, wondering where to rest our gazes, fidgeting with invisible strands of hair and lint. John is eating a doughnut at the same time and I am in wonderment at how I don’t even want a doughnut because I am so focused on being slim in order to feel my most sexy when having sex with Liam. Sex really does wonders for diets. I should write an article about this. (I would just like to point out that I am still listening while all of this is going through my head, because listening, thinking something else, and taking notes at the same time are skills I have mastered as an interviewer/writer.)
Tom goes on: “John, I need you to run the numbers on these two companies.” He hands him a computer printout. “Really look at it from every angle. I need numbers of clients who use the telephone for business, for business and personal, for personal only. I need average usage per month, I need peak hours. I need customer interest surveys on new service areas. I need concerns over these new service areas, frequently asked questions, et cetera. And of course, I’ll get the other guys to do the merger projections.”
“No problem,” says John, who I’m sure is happy to get this project, because when he is not running numbers and doing research, he is really doing nothing at all. I suggested the option of writing a novel in his spare time, but he put the kibosh on that notion, saying he would rather research things on the Internet. Different strokes…
“And Lane. I have a bunch of letters on Dictaphone for you to draft here. But as soon as all the data starts rolling in, I would like you to take a more active role in this project. I know you’re good at creative presentation, and I thought about what you said about the job advertisement, and I’d like to see how you would organize and design a piece like this.”
I am loved and appreciated and actually sense my brain growing larger inside my head. I know I can do this, because I have written many press releases and marketing materials (maybe not many, but the ones I have done were fantastic), and feeling very qualified and professional. I venture, “Will I be getting a raise for a change in job duties?” Before the words are out, I know I’ve gotten carried away.
First Tom looks at me as one might a woman barking at an empty subway seat, and then that one-sided smile pops up. “Smith Barney does not give raises after the first three weeks of employment, Lane.”
I had to try. “No problem,” I say with visions of Prada heels being snatched from my hands.
“But I will, however, take you both to dinner at a fabulous restaurant of your choosing when we are all through. And make it a nice, expensive one. It’s on the company.”
This is a wonderful prospect and I’m still feeling all fuzzy from being appreciated and sort of promoted, and so the world is right once again. “Great. I know this really great new restaurant that serves ten types of caviar and makes these fantastic flavored blinis, and I have the perfect outfit to wear that I just picked up at…”
“Lane, why don’t we just get started on the project first? Okay?”
I make an aye-aye, sir salute.
“Just remember, Ab Fab, this is not a proposal for a hair salon or a clothing boutique, so try to stay away from flowers and any shade of fuchsia, lavender, or teal, okay?” Tom teases.
I enjoy being thought of as the fashionable, young member of the department anyway, and so smile and tease back, “What about baby pink? It’s all the rage for lips right now, and since the piece is all about communications, a pink pout might bring the whole thing together nicely.”
He just shakes his head and turns. I see the beginnings of a smile before his back is to me. “Alright kids,” he says, “that’s all for now.”
Over the next couple of weeks, the project shapes up nicely. I schedule meetings with the design and reprographics departments to choose paper and graphics and fonts. I am an integral spoke on the wheel of a very important American institution. This project is sort of what I imagine being an editor is like. Often, when I finally see my published articles, I’m disappointed by the design and imagine what I would have done if I’d been given the choice. I always thought I would be good at that.
Bringing the fruits of my labor to Tom at the Friday afternoon meeting during my second week on the project, I can see he’s impressed.
“You really have a flair for the creative, Ab Fab.”
If he feels this way, I might stretch and say something helpful about his tie collection, but something holds me back. And then it lets go. “You know. I can really work wonders on men’s wardrobes, too.” My eyes widen with the knowledge of what I’ve just let slip. I must look like I’ve swallowed a bug because Tom says, “You look like you’ve just swallowed a bug.”
“I’m sorry,” I try.
“No, no. Let’s have it.” he says, head shaking. “What’s wrong with my wardrobe, Ab Fab?” He pulls at his lapels.
“Look, don’t feel so bad,” I begin. “It’s really the girlfriend who’s to blame when a man is dressed poorly.” I’m only half joking, as everyone knows this is true even though men are supposed to dress themselves. Most men can’t dress for crap—except for Liam, of course, who wears those beautiful blue shirts that bring out his eyes, and … and really that’s mainly all he wears.
It’s odd, come to think of it. I picture a closet like Lisa’s filled only with blue shirts. Press a button and a cool breeze of blue shirts whizzes by. Only, I rather hope a tour of his closet would unfold more like, “And this is the shirt Lane tore off me in the movies, and this one, wooh-hoo, is the one that lay on her floor for a week before we made it out of bed.”
/> Anyway, I already know Tom on the other hand is not the sort of guy who reads GQ for the fashion and couldn’t care less about looking anything but professional and clean-cut, which is merely a job requirement. He did look so nice when I ran into him on the weekend though in his simple jeans and T-shirt. And a makeover would be so much fun!
But I can’t help but wonder why his girlfriend, if she’s as awful and controlling as John says, lets him walk of the house in those ties. Although, judging from her Glamour Shot and dragon nails, I guess it’s entirely possible she’s actually picked them out. She might have even had them monogrammed on the reverse side.
“It’s really just the ties,” I say, as gently as one can say such a thing. I swipe at the air to emphasize it’s nothing.
Tom is amused, rather than hurt, but mocks like I’ve stabbed him in the heart anyway. “Well, what do you propose I need to change about my ties?” he inquires, looking down at the one he’s wearing today, which is some sort of homage to modern art—Mirot, I think. It looks strikingly similar to a shower curtain I had from IKEA, in my college dorm room.
“It’s the kitsch factor,” I say. “A tie is supposed to subtly enhance your suit, not the other way around.” I cock my head here, to appear sweet, and not like an evil enforcer of the laws of fashion.
“Ouch.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, no. I’m glad you did. Look, I’ve got a proposal for you: how about you take me shopping for some new ties after work one day next week? I’ll have to look presentable when the big meeting comes around. Wouldn’t want to be inappropriately kitschy.”
This is a fantastically fun proposal, and I think, a cute article idea for a men’s magazine. Perhaps Men’s Health or something like that. “Mr. Corporate Ups His Stock With a Makeover.” I really like that one. I mention it and say that if we get the article placed, he could probably get all of the ties for free.
“What’s wrong with my stock?’“
“Oh, I just …” I’m fumbling for an answer that doesn’t sound mean, because really, what is so bad about his stock?
Thankfully he saves me. “It was a rhetorical question, Ab Fab. Just let me know.”
“Oh, okay. Right.” His look is inscrutable. Tom doesn’t seem like a person dying for his fifteen minutes of fame, so I skip the part about how they’ll probably want to do a photo shoot if the article is a go. We’ll ease him into it. It’s such a long shot anyway.
“Won’t your girlfriend mind another woman picking out your ties? That is a very territorial sort of thing, speaking as a woman.” As soon as it’s out I know this is none of my business. Why do I keep pushing on this? I try to look apologetic, but it’s too late now. I shouldn’t have said it, but I was thinking that if Liam’s assistant had him gallivanting around town, peeking in his dressing room, and straightening his trousers, I’d probably turn to stone, to be known forever after as “the rock heap formerly known as Lane Silverman.
He glances at the Glamour Shot of Whitney—with her soap opera lighting and her feather boa—and his look turns steely.
“It’s fine.” he says and turns away. “All right. Back to work.”
She really must be awful.
I type up a quick pitch to Men’s Health, and e-mail it over, since they already have me on file from tons of past rejections. I’m hopeful, because things have been going well in the breakthrough department since the Cosmo thing (which I’m going to start figuring out how to tackle straightaway), and so I mention that assignment and the one for the Post, to bolster my bio.
Perhaps now I really can just get any assignment I want. Imagine the possibilities. The blank wall in my apartment might yet be covered over with framed copies of my Vogue column, next to snapshots of Liam and I—surely there’s room for both—and I’m already picturing the frames in a rich mahogany when an new e-mail signal appears at the bottom of my screen.
Lane,
Thank you for your article inquiry, and although it is a good idea, we really only work with VERY seasoned writers, and I am afraid you just don’t have enough experience under your belt right now. It does sound like you are doing lots of things at present, though, so perhaps in a few years, we will be able to work together. I am sorry to be so frank, but today my inbox has been flooded with pitches, and I must pass the rules on to all, so I can free myself from having to answer at least some of these inquiries and concentrate on things that NEED to be done.
Best,
Jim
It has been a little while since I’ve received such a rejection. And the memory of the pitch-reject loop—all day, every day—brings back that cold, empty feeling that makes me want to lie on my couch eating anything and everything with a fat content over fifteen grams.
But then I think of Tom and John and what has just happened in that meeting, and the really important assignment I have been trusted with here, surely worth millions of dollars to the company, and this one measly rejection doesn’t actually seem all that bad. It isn’t the first time since I began working here that I’m appreciative of some positives balancing out the negatives.
I recover almost immediately. Which allows my mind to begin thinking productively again and consider other publications that might want my piece. I already have a contact at The Post, and they did say I should continue to contribute ideas. Now I’m thinking! I pop off an e-mail to my editor over there. With renewed hope I continue working on the big telephone proposal.
My editor at the paper answers almost immediately with an enthusiastic thumbs up, and while Tom acts like it’s just another item on his To-Do list, he is, I think, a bit excited about the venture.
The following Friday, Tom and I are scheduled for a grand tour of the best men’s clothing shops in Manhattan in search of not only ties, but also new suits, button-down shirts, shoes, and everything. I’ve called ahead and spoken with the shop publicists to okay the photographer, and, of course, for some of the promised freebies—which I don’t think Tom is quite as enthusiastic about as I am. I guess after spending years with no money in your pockets the way I have, you have a very esteemed view of freebies, but if you have money in your pockets, they merely promise to occupy more space in your closet. Nope; I can’t imagine it.
Tom does his best to seem excited though. “Bring on the freebies!” he teases. And if I’m not mistaken, he quickly assimilates to the role of pseudo-celebrity-for-a-day, acting embarrassed and humbled when passersby gawk (which they always do with a photographer around), but secretly enjoying the whispers and hubbub. I catch him straightening out his shoulders when someone says to her friend, “I saw him in a movie last week.” He smiles when later a mom wheeling a double stroller asks, “Isn’t that the guy from that Ford commercial?” I’m surprised by his reaction. Tom doesn’t seem the look-at-me type. But that’s just the thing that makes it endearing. Like I’ve just got a peek of something not everyone gets to see. More than once I find myself smiling at his ease with the photographer, the way he turns his cheek and lowers a pair of pricey sunglasses like James Bond. When he smiles back it feels good, like we’re in this together.
I can’t help but think that Liam, on the other hand, would be used to this sort of thing, being at the pointy end of a huge media conglomerate. He would enjoy the whole thing—signing autographs, popping off quotable remarks like a pro. But sweet as he is, Tom is no Liam. “Show the camera you love her,” the photographer says at one point. “I, um, love you,” Tom says, shrugging and trying to make a joke to appear comfortable with something uncomfortable.
I thought a lot about this comparison when I went to preview the stock at the shops over the weekend to pull things for Tom. It was such a natural journey for my thoughts to travel, because selecting the clothing for him, and thinking about things like his waist size and inseam was surprisingly personal and I was shocked when my mind took a detour and pictured him without any clothes on, checking over my visual aids. I shooed the bizarre thought
away as quickly as it arrived. Still, I was overcome with that satisfying feeling you experience when shopping for a boyfriend. You know, when you get to say things like, “Oh, he has very long legs,” or “He wouldn’t dare wear anything with a logo,” to the salesperson, who is fancying some fantastically handsome man and enviously inspecting what he sees in you.
Only, of course, Tom is not my boyfriend. He’s my boss. A very sweet boss, whose inner thigh I happened to have measured, but a boss all the same. And he has a girlfriend. And, obviously, there’s Liam—who spends more time in my own bed these days than in his own, which is probably infinitely more luxurious. He says he’s making the most of his time before leaving for London, which he’ll be doing in just two day’s time. I don’t even want to think about it. The absence will probably kill me. But I’m concentrating on the idea that the break will be good for me. Or at least for my career, since I’ve only two weeks left on this Cosmo assignment and only one measly bad date ending in a snubbed kiss to show for it. And though it’s increasingly poking in at the most unwelcome moments, I don’t want to think about that either.
At Calvin Klein, Tom emerges from the dressing room and I nearly keel over.
“Oh. My. God,” I can’t help but say, whistling like a horny construction worker. He is stunning. The pale green shirt, the tie in a subtly darker shade of green offsets a deep charcoal suit, draping and hugging in all the right places over his surprisingly athletic build. When he does the spin with his arms out and his eyes wide in expectation of my reaction, I notice—and I know you’ve caught wind of this observation pattern by now—a fantastic butt.
Simply extraordinary.
Diary of a Working Girl Page 19