“Well,” Lipstick said, upon hearing about Thomas’s attributes for the nine hundredth time. “Why don’t you ask him out?”
“Isn’t that what a guy’s supposed to do?” Penelope asked. “Besides, I think he has a girlfriend. He’s always whispering on the phone and runs home after work. He doesn’t seem interested in me that way.”
“He sounds okay,” Dana said, “even though he makes you do ridiculous stuff.”
“Well, that’s really Marge’s fault. Except for the bunny thing. But he apologized for that dumb idea later,” Penelope said.
Meanwhile, Marge forced Penelope to go clothes shopping, which rated very high on Penelope’s “top ten things I hate to do list,” right after “Teddy Bears with Heart” stories. Marge—remarkably calm due to the refilling of her Good & Plenty bowl courtesy of Dr. Feelgood—explained why Penelope couldn’t wear her latest Lipstick-provided dress on air, “Because it’s brown. Brown does not pop. Black does not pop. Navy does not pop. Bright colors pop! You got a good wardrobe, toots, but on TV it looks like you’re in mourning. Does nothing for the complexion. You’re a nice-looking girl after we straighten that hair and slap some makeup on your face, but it’s no use if you’re still gonna look like a morose blob on camera. If you can’t wear anything that looks good on camera, then I’ll find something for you to wear!”
Penelope, dreading another garment-based debacle involving anything that Trace’s assistant Berry owned, goaded Marge into giving her “an appropriate color guideline.” Marge, always happy to create more rules and lists, provided the following
APPROVED COLORS: Hot pink, bright purple, royal or azure blue (but not indigo or navy), teal, kelly green (but not lime or army green), yellow, orange (but not burnt sienna orange), cherry red, fire engine red, or really, any shade of red, just not maroon.
NON-APPROVED COLORS: Black, brown (of any kind), navy, white (unless used under a bright, color-approved sweater), cream, gray, and stripes or other prints (“they confuse the eye on camera—and send epileptics into fits. We can’t have that. Numbers show we are very popular in the spastic community,” Marge explained).
UP FOR DISCUSSION: Soft pink, light purple—or “any colors you’d see in a Tampon ad.”
Basically, if Penelope’s outfit was the color of something a child would want to chew on, it was okay. Anything else was prohibited.
“I’m going to look like Rainbow Brite,” Penelope said, chewing her lip, before she realized she could still wear Lipstick’s muted, classy clothes—just pop a bright shirt or sweater on over them.
As a precaution, Penelope dragged Lipstick to H&M so Lipstick could help her pick out some stylish, appropriate, and cheap clothes.
“Oh, sure, I’ll go,” Lipstick said when Penelope asked her for some help, “I’ve never been there before. It’ll be an adventure, and I’ll tell Jack it’s for research!” They arrived at the Midtown H&M on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-first Street, dressed in their best shopping camouflage. Lipstick walked into the discount clothing store in her “undercover consultant” look—a Pucci-print head scarf, oversized sunglasses, and a trench coat. (“Well, it is uptown and Cartier is across the street—so I have to be careful no one recognizes me,” she explained.) Penelope wore a sweatsuit.
An hour and $279 later, Penelope had an arsenal of cheap dresses and brightly colored accessories that would make any outfit Marge-approvable.
SAGITTARIUS:
Your impatience is taking its toll. Not everything has to be done right now, right away—especially at the expense of your health.
While Lipstick and Penelope shopped, Dana made an unexpected discovery.
She was at her desk, working on a brief for MatBank, a small bank that was being sued by the government and shareholders for defaulting on mortgage-related debt, when her secretary buzzed in.
“Mr. Kornberg wants to see you in his office.”
“I’ll be right there,” Dana said, her heart starting to beat fast. She hadn’t heard from the law firm’s senior partner in two months, ever since she’d put in her application to become a full partner, as opposed to junior partner. It had been a ballsy move. At thirty-two, she was the youngest junior partner in the firm’s history, and there had never been a full partner who’d been under forty-five years of age. But Dana, always the straight-A student, the smartest in her law classes, the most aggressive in court, and always having to prove something to herself, wasn’t going to let a little thing like age get in the way of her professional ambitions.
But lately, ever since she’d put in for the promotion, she’d started to wonder if perhaps her blind ambition wasn’t really hiding something else. She had a constant terror of failure, remarkable even by type-A standards. It was reinforced by having lost a husband and what seemed to be a picture-perfect life. She felt she hadn’t lived up to her parents’, Noah’s, and everybody else’s expectations. And sometimes she didn’t even know what she wanted anymore—except to lose thirty pounds and not die alone.
“Dana? You coming?” her secretary’s voice buzzed through the intercom.
“Right now,” Dana said, jolting out of her thoughts and rushing down the hall to Mr. Kornberg’s office.
Slade Kornberg was the seventy-six-year-old patrician statesman of the office. He’d started the company with the Struck brothers in 1969, and they’d quickly become known as the most successful white-collar law firm in the city—aggressively and, more often than not, successfully, fighting for their clients. His corner office, which overlooked Central Park and the West Side, was decorated in dark wood, dark leather, and brass, just like his favorite reading room at the New York Athletic Club.
When Dana entered his office, he looked up from the stack of papers he’d been reading at his massive walnut wood desk, but didn’t move. The light from the green Tiffany reading lamp cast a shadow on his face, making the wrinkles deeper than they actually were.
“Dana,” he said.
“Mr. Kornberg,” she answered.
“Have a seat,” he said, waving toward the closest leather armchair studded with brass nails.
“I see you want to become a full partner.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Even though we just made you a junior partner.”
“I have the hours and I have the skill,” Dana said, getting annoyed. “I do the work anyway, I might as well be recognized for it. And I love the firm and plan on being here my entire career.”
“Smart girl.” Kornberg cackled. “Just what I like to hear; you know that. I agree. You are a suitable candidate despite your youth—which, I won’t lie to you—concerns me.”
“But—” Dana said.
“Let me finish,” Kornberg said. “I will bring this up with the Struck brothers and the other partners. We’ll give you our decision in two months. Until then, I suggest you beef up your billable hours and bring a cot into work. Full partners have no lives.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dana said, “and may I say—”
“That is all.” Kornberg sighed, turning back to his papers. “Dismissed.”
Dana didn’t breathe until she was safely back in her office. The stress of the meeting had tied her stomach into knots, and she felt her appetite slipping away. She felt something on the back of her head and went to scratch it. When she pulled her hand away, there was a clump of hair in it.
Dana was not only losing control, it seemed, she was now losing her hair.
10
SCORPIO:
What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. Just watch out for the hands.
The next Wednesday, Penelope—swathed in jeans and a green wrap shirt made in a flattering jersey material she’d picked up on the H&M excursion with Lipstick—was assigned Marge’s latest ratings-centered idea: “We’re doing an in-house catwalk for National Underwear Day!”
“National Underwear Day?” Penelope, seated at a desk in the newsroom, asked as a feeling of doom overwhelmed her.
“Yeah, yea
h, it’s some Hanes-sponsored thing. A bunch of models are coming over in their underwear and talking about how it’s important to wear it. Very topical, what with Paris, Britney, Lindsay, et al. thinking it’s optional these days.”
“Oh, okay,” Penelope said. “Sure.”
“And you’re doing the interview in your skivvies,” Marge, stuffed into a bright yellow suit, added.
“What?” Penelope squeaked, standing up.
“In your underwear,” Marge said. “Don’t worry. Hanes—which, may I remind you, is also a big advertiser on this channel—sent some over. Granny pants and a tank.”
“But…” Penelope sputtered, “but I didn’t shave!”
“Should’ve thought about that this morning,” Marge snapped. She dropped a package from Hanes on a nearby desk, turned on her cherry-red heels, and headed back to her office. “Coffee. Now.” she demanded as she passed David’s desk.
Penelope sat down at the desk and put her head in her hands.
This is so humiliating, she thought.
She considered calling Dana, who would most likely threaten a lawsuit—why was it that people who worked in the corporate world had no idea what went on in “creative” fields? Dana couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t wear suits with hose to work and always looked at Penelope after she had once again cursed and, in shock, said, “You talk like that at work?” Instead, Penelope remembered Laura Lopez doing a shoot with the dolphins in the Central Park Zoo in her bikini and thought of Kelly Ripa going into the fish bowl with David Blaine during the magician’s supposed “drowning stunt” several years ago at Lincoln Center.
They had it worse. Penelope sighed. She grabbed the Hanes tank top and matching pair of boyshorts—both in a TV friendly shade of orange—and headed to the bathroom to change. At least the outfit looked like something somebody would wear in the summer. If they were fifteen and at the beach.
Half an hour later, as the scantily clad models assembled on the studio’s sofa, Penelope emerged from the bathroom, ready to work.
She held her head high and marched over to the IKEA sofa on set, announcing to no one in particular, “I’m ready! Let’s do this!”
“Well, hello,” Trace, who’d sneaked up behind her, said, leering. Penelope turned toward him. He was staring at her chest, and his just-dyed mustache, which still had remnants of his lunch crumbled in it, was twitching. “A little underdressed, aren’t we?”
“Not because I want to be,” Penelope snapped, taking a step back.
“Hmmm, what’s this?” Trace said, leaning in toward her right breast. Before she could stop him, his hand shot out and with his thumb and forefinger, grabbed a long loose blond hair that was on the undershirt, tweaking her nipple on the way. “Can’t have you shedding on air,” he said, winking at her.
Penelope, in a state of shock, just stood there, mouth agape, too stunned to do anything.
In her mind she’d already grabbed the offending hand with the hair still in it, leaned toward Trace, and hissed, “I may have to do this shoot, but if you ever—ever—touch me again I will call my lawyer Dana Gluck and slap a lawsuit on you so fast your head will spin.”
But in reality all she could manage was a meek, “Get off me…jerk.”
Trace turned a lighter shade of shoe leather under his tanned makeup and said, “Well. That’s the thanks I get for trying to help out the freshman!” before walking away.
“Fresh woman!” Penelope snarled after him.
Eric, giggling, came over and slapped Penelope on the back. “Nice job, kid. I got it on tape. Now that was good TV!” Stew put a microphone on her and whispered, “Don’t worry. We’ll get him. I’ll spray some mace over his makeup. He’ll be out sick for a week with hives.”
Thomas, who’d been putting microphones on the models, rushed over.
“You okay?” he asked. “I’ll back you up if you want to talk to Marge about that.”
“Whatever,” Penelope, still blushing furiously, said. “Forget it. I’ve worked in frat houses before. Let’s just do this.” She took her seat in the interviewer’s chair.
One of the four leggy models, all of whom were dressed in bra tops and string bikini underwear, looked at Penelope’s hairy legs and sniffed, “Ew,” just as Thomas counted down, “Three…Two…One…”
“Hi, and welcome to New York Access,” Penelope chirped to the camera. “But more important, welcome to the Hanes National Underwear Day celebration!”
Ten minutes later the segment was over. Two minutes after that, Penelope was once again wrapped back in her green shirt and jeans and was busy wiping off her makeup in the makeup room when Thomas came in.
“Look, about what happened before,” Thomas said. “Trace was completely out of line. That will not happen again, I promise.”
“It’s okay,” Penelope said, rubbing a towelette over her face. “Thanks, though.”
“On the bright side, I think the shoot went well, and I think Marge is—”
At that moment Marge walked in the room. “Marge is what?”
“Happy?” Thomas squeaked, keeping his eyes diverted. The yellow suit was too bright. It was like looking directly into the sun.
“Damn right I’m happy! Good shoot,” she said gruffly. “Genius idea of mine! Amazing!”
“Wow,” Thomas said after she left. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so satisfied.”
“Yeah,” Penelope agreed, sitting in one of the makeup chairs. “She looked like a pleased piece of lemon meringue pie.”
“But not as tasty.” Thomas laughed, putting his arm around the back of Penelope’s chair.
“Hey,” he said, turning to face her, “would you like to, maybe sometime, um…”
“Yeah?” Penelope asked, feeling her stomach tie up in knots and her heart start to pound through her chest.
“Well, I was thinking we could—”
Just then Laura Lopez, back from the junket for the new action flick, Stargate IV, starring the buff Danish action star Dane Butch and the newest big screen nymphet Bebe Williams, swooshed in.
Damn you for the interference, Laura Lopez. A pox on Natalie Morales for you! Penelope thought.
Laura flung the latest copy of Y at Penelope. “You think you’re so great,” she snarled. “Well, I’ve been working here a lot longer than you, sister, and no one—no one—does the job better than Laura Lo-PEZ. You better watch it.” She stalked out, returned to her cubicle, and pinned a photo of herself sandwiched between Dane and a waifish Bebe to her celebrity wall.
“What the hell is the matter with her?” said Penelope. “What’s with the Y?”
“You didn’t know?” Thomas asked.
“About what?” Penelope said, fidgeting in her chair.
“Turn to page seventy-four,” Thomas said. “I figured you’d seen it already. I know you’re friends with someone who works there….”
Penelope picked up the magazine and flipped it open to the relevant page. And there it was. On the top of the gossipy “Spy” page.
TACKY CHIC by Lena Lippencrass
New York City’s latest guilty pleasure can be found on none other than its own local cable channel. No, not NY1, the other local cable channel, NY Access. The station’s latest endeavor to gain a foothold in the slippery ratings has been to send out its new features reporter Penelope Mercury to do—well, everything you’d never willingly attempt while sober. The cute blond with the frizzy hair will do just about anything—from interviewing fireman fetishists to dressing up in a crotchless bunny suit left over from last year’s Comic-Con convention. In outfits that smack of chic—was that a Dolce dress she was wearing last week?—yet are accessorized to add just a touch of crass with neon-bright colors, the former crack reporter for the New York Telegraph pops off the screen while attempting the ridiculous. Watch if you want a daily dose of wit, humor, and the bizarre.
“Wow,” Penelope said, in a bit of a daze. “I’ve never been called chic before.”
“Watch y
our back,” Thomas said. “Laura and Kandace won’t take this lying down. They’ve been trying to get press on themselves for years.”
“Well, it’s not my fault—I didn’t ask her to do it. I didn’t even know about it.”
A few minutes later Penelope sneaked to the back of the office by Storm’s desk and dialed Lipstick’s cell.
“Hey, Lips,” she said when Lipstick picked up. “I saw the piece.”
“Oh! You did!” Lipstick said. “I was saving it as a surprise. Normally we close the magazine two months before publication, but I had done a piece on Calvin Klein and his new pet mini-tiger and it was in Women’s Wear Daily three weeks ago, so I had to fill the space last minute. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Nah, not really,” Penelope said. “But I think it may have gotten me in trouble with Laura and Kandace. Thomas says they’re gunning for me.”
“Oh, dang, I’m sorry. I was only trying to help you by raising your profile and showing Marge how fabulous you are. Only a month into the job and people are paying attention! And, okay, kind of an ‘eff you’ to the Telegraph.”
“Yeah, that made me laugh,” Penelope agreed.
“Seriously, though, the stuff Marge has you doing lately is the funniest thing on TV right now, and Jack loved the piece. We could probably do a profile in a couple months if it works out.”
“Ack,” Penelope said, feeling her gag reflex starting to kick in. “Um, not sure about that. But thanks. I appreciate the support. Nobody’ll notice anyway, I’m sure. You coming to yoga tonight?”
“Of course!” Lipstick said. “But I’m a little nervous. I have to register the designer for my table at the Met today. I’m dying. What if everyone finds out?’
Mercury in Retrograde Page 15