Pretty in Ink

by Lindsey Palmer

  “Or how about we profile women who’ve slept with like fifty guys?” Laura blurts out. “They can share their experiences, and talk about whether or not they feel like sluts.”

  “Ooh, fun,” says Mimi. It occurs to me that Laura may be a virgin.

  “Here’s another one,” says Zoe. “My husband really wants to stick it in where the sun don’t shine, if you know what I mean, and it totally creeps me out. But I’m thinking of telling him that if he gets me these over-the-knee Prada boots I’ve been eyeing, I’ll bite the bullet and do it. LOL. What do you guys think?”

  “I think it looks like we’ve got ourselves another sex blogger,” says Mimi. “Jane, you can handle the single-girl stuff, and, Zoe, let’s have you write up the trials and travails of married sex.”

  “Yippee!” Zoe reaches across the table for a highfive.

  I leave the meeting feeling as if I have food poisoning. Mark, our creative director, must see me clutching my stomach as I walk by his office. “Are you all right?” he asks.

  “Thanks, I think it’s indigestion. Or maybe consideration of my new responsibilities.” A hint of a smile from Mark. I wonder if Mimi’s going to enlist the only straight man on staff to participate in some of this sex story research. Or maybe she’ll seduce him after hours and then make me write about it. Shoot me.

  On our new blog, Zoe begins logging the details of her husband’s threesome jealousy and of her backdoor sex negotiation, and I write about dating trends: the types of profile photos that garner the most responses according to OK Cupid research, how condom sales have spiked during this down economy, and a new kind of birth control that may also lift libido. My posts get hits, but nowhere near Zoe’s numbers.

  In the cafeteria one morning, Mimi sidles up to me by the toaster. “Listen, Jane,” she says, “I know you’re shy—”

  “I’m not shy,” I protest. Jacob accused me of the same thing. I thought my retort was a good one—Would a shy person write an investigative series on the quality of life of Chicago’s strippers, a series that won Medill’s top journalism award, no less?—but he just laughed me off. And then broke up with me the following week.

  “OK, well, whether or not you’re shy,” Mimi says, “believe me that the only way the Hers brand will survive is if we all step up and embrace the gossipy, confessional, scandalous stuff that’s currently de rigueur. That’s what our readers crave.”

  I grab my toast, hoping I can duck away, but Mimi takes my arm. “I don’t know if you’re privy to the fact that Hers’ ad sales have been plummeting, and that newsstand numbers are way down, too, and it’s precisely because we’re writing about”—she does air quotes and changes her voice to a droning monotone—“the number of women heading online to date postdivorce,” which is the subject of my most recent blog post.

  “We should be covering the passionate, sexy stuff, the juicy tidbits that readers can’t wait to call up their best friends to share. Sex sells,” she says loudly, shocking a woman who’s reaching for her bagel. “Zoe gets this. I understand that you have journalistic aspirations that may or may not align with this reality, but you cover love and sex, for Christ’s sake. You need to get with the program.” Mimi saunters off, and I stand there watching pieces of bread at various levels of char pop out one after the other. I eventually chuck my breakfast and leave the cafeteria empty-handed. My stomach rumbles all morning.

  That afternoon, I stare at the computer screen and think of Jacob. It’s been six months since he confessed he’d fallen out of love with me. I begin typing:

  Title: The peculiar behaviors of the brokenhearted.

  Main text: My morning routine: J’s Facebook profile, his Twitter feed, his Tumblr, his Instagram, Google alerts for his name, the card he gave me last year on my birthday that I still keep in my top desk drawer.

  J is my ex-boyfriend. Half a year post-breakup, I’m ashamed to confess I’m still deeply in love. I crave the minutia of his life without me. I figure, if I can’t wake up next to him and text and IM with him all day and meet him after work for drinks and cuddle up with him in bed each night, I’ll settle for all the dinky consolation prizes: his 140-character opinion of last night’s Daily Show, his race time in the 5K for the heart disease foundation, a snapshot of the lemon roast chicken he cooked for Sunday dinner, so gorgeously browned that the sight of it slays me with pangs of lust.

  I seek out these artifacts with a maniacal devotion. I know it’s sick because afterward I have that same shameful, headachy hangover I get after a boozy bender. Yet, everything J and I shared when we were together is now untouchable. I can’t listen to our music, or eat at our restaurants, or wear the clothes he once peeled from my body. So I occupy this strange non-space, renouncing everything he touched—and after dating for four years, what didn’t he touch?—yet hunting down every trace of him now that I can’t have him, now that he isn’t mine.

  I wonder, when will I get to be me again? —Jane

  Though it’s not even so deep down that I know this embarrassing confession belongs only in a private diary with a secure padlock, I consider Mimi’s morning pep talk. And although I hate to admit it, part of me hopes that Jacob cyberstalks me in the same way I do him, and that he’ll happen upon the missive. I wince and, with trembling fingers, press “Submit post.”

  I watch with fascinated horror as the comments pour in—“OMG I hear you!” “Totally went through that last year. It’ll get better, I promise!!! Just keep your head up. And get OFF-LINE!” “Web stalking is the best, right? LOLZ.” “Get a life, loser. YOLO.” Thirty comments in fifteen minutes. I’ve never gotten such a response to a piece of my writing. I suspect I’ve unleashed a monster, and when Mimi races up to my desk a few hours later, I know it for sure.

  “Daily Scoop wants Zoe and you on the air tomorrow for the morning gossip roundup,” she squeals. “They called you two—what was it?—‘the hot new sex bloggers for a flagging brand that may just be turning over a new leaf.’ That show gets seven hundred thousand viewers. Congrats, this is huge!”

  In terms of activities that would make me proud of myself, talking about my love life on national TV ranks at about the same level as prostitution. But I understand I’m not allowed to say “no.” My only consolation is a pang of hope that Jacob will see me on the show all dolled up with my hair and makeup done and then decide he wants me back. I know how pathetic this sounds. I also know Jacob would register Republican before he’d sit and watch the inane banter of The Daily Scoop. He doesn’t even own a television.

  “So I drag my husband to Prada and show him the to-die-for boots,” Zoe says. “The moment he turns over the price tag, I slink up next to him and whisper my proposition in his ear.” I’m marveling at how, in the space of four minutes, Zoe has established what appears to be an actual friendship with the Daily Scoop hosts, Kelly and Shelly. They’re tilted toward her, gasping and cooing at her every word. The live audience is rapt.

  Kelly interrupts: “So how much would your dear hubby actually have to spend before you’d, um—”

  Shelly cuts in: “Do the nasty?”

  The audience erupts into laughter. They sound like mad hyenas. I zone out Zoe’s chatter and instead watch her face; it’s animated with the excitement of sharing intimate details of her marriage. But it strikes me that her story is oddly impersonal, as if she and her husband are characters in a bad rom-com. I start remembering all the movies Jacob and I watched together, curled up in my bed or his.

  “What?” I yelp. I realize everyone’s eyes are on me, and my heart pounds. Although our entertainment director, Regina, didn’t specifically give me the tip in my media training, I imagine you aren’t supposed to daydream while on live TV.

  “I said, exactly how heartbroken do you feel in the wake of your breakup with your ex, Jacob?” Kelly cocks her head, awaiting my answer.

  I begin to laugh. It’s the first time I’ve realized that “breakup” rhymes with “Jacob,” and it seems absurd, like of course dating a
guy named Jacob wouldn’t work out. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, remembering where I am. “Sometimes if I don’t laugh, I know I’ll cry.”

  Kelly and Shelly nod in unison, looking like very understanding marionettes. “I’ve been there,” says Shelly. “We’ve all been there, right?” She turns to the audience, and they burst into applause. “Now, tell us, do you feel like Jacob was The One?”

  “Um …”

  And then Zoe, sensing a comrade in need, heroically comes to my rescue. “You should’ve seen Jane and Jacob,” she says. “They were the perfect couple, totes adorbs. He was always sending flowers and chocolates to the office.” (Not true.) “He would drop by all the time just to say hey.” (Sort of true—he did this twice.) “Everyone was seriously jealous. We all wanted a guy like that, so sweet and sensitive, plus smoking hot.” (Very true.) “And the breakup came out of nowhere. One week flowers, and the next—bam!—he peaced out. It just goes to show that love is unpredictable and that heartbreak can happen to anyone.” Zoe rubs my shoulder, and I feel genuinely comforted. I’m so thankful I want to kiss her on the lips.

  “Wow,” the hosts chime together, offering me their most TV-friendly looks of pity. “Breakups are hard.” I plaster a smile onto my face, wanting to punch them both in their perfectly rhinoplas-ted noses.

  Back in the office after the segment, my coworkers make the required fuss over my fancy newscaster coif. “You look incredible,” Regina squeals. “You could be a movie star,” says Erin, the intern. Only Ed, the mail manager, winces at my appearance. “Go a bit easier on the war paint next time,” he says, winking.

  I smile at the joke, but my stomach actually feels like it’s a war zone. I dash to the bathroom, lean over the toilet, and empty the contents of my gut. Emerging from the stall, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My hair is shellacked stiff as straw and my makeup resembles a clown’s; it’s horrifying how little I resemble myself. My image makes me think of the magazine, how Mimi wants to dress it up in garish, unnatural colors, obscuring any substance with a glossy sheen.

  I splash water onto my face and attack the layers of gunk with a handful of rough paper towels. The caked-on colors run and smear, transforming my skin into an abstract painting. After scrubbing for a full five minutes, my real face begins to emerge in the mirror. My relief is immense.

  I stare at my reflection. When I decided to become a journalist, I wanted to uncover truths about the world and to help people by disseminating valuable, important information. My goals never included offering up my heartbreak as fodder for entertainment television, or capturing the lowest common denominator’s attention by any means necessary. I spit a heavy globule of phlegm into the sink, and then exit the bathroom, knowing exactly what I need to do.

  I stride into Mimi’s office. “I have to tell you something,” I say, talking quickly so I can get it all out before I lose my nerve. “I understand what’s happening to the industry with the competition from the Internet and people’s shortened attention spans and the terrible economy and all of that. And I get why you’re changing Hers the way you are. But—”

  “Jane, stop,” Mimi says. “I can see where this is going, and I’m not going to let you do it.”

  “I just don’t think—”

  “You have such great potential.” Always a sucker for a compliment, I feel something soften inside of me. “I admire your gumption, Jane, I really do. In fact, it makes me even more confident that you’ll continue to thrive and excel here at Hers.”

  “But … what about that speech in the cafeteria? What about—”

  “You heard what I had to say, and you responded. You got on board. Listen, do you really think you’ll be able to find another job in this crappy economy? How much money do you have saved up? Have you really thought this through?”

  Mimi is right, and she knows it. Less than a month’s rent remains in my checking account. My boss’s smile is a haughty, triumphant one. I feel her might encasing me like tentacles. I know I’m powerless to resist.

  “Fine, I’ll stay,” I say, barely audibly. “But I don’t want to do the blog anymore.”

  “Oh, all right. Zoe can tackle it all for now. But enough of this nonsense. Back to work.”

  I retreat from Mimi’s office, feeling ridiculous. But as I stride the length of the floor, I consider that the editor in chief called me brave and then fought for me to stay. She actually wants me here. I pass by Laura’s desk and wave hello. She and I now have something in common that no one else in the office has: security.

  3

  Victoria La Rue, Food and Diet Director at Starstruck

  Mimi’s phone number flashes up on my call waiting, and since I’m on the line with Dr. Harris, I stifle my squeal. Ever since Mimi left her executive editor post here at Starstruck and fled for Hers, I’ve been on high alert, awaiting her call. After nearly a month, I sense my patience is about to pay off.

  I try to hurry Dr. Harris along: “Georgina Sparks’s publicist says she’s now a size 2, so what do you think that is, fifteen pounds down?” I ask.

  “I’d estimate the weight loss as eighteen pounds. Her cheeks have really hollowed out, and check out that collarbone.”

  “Thanks as always, Doc,” I say, disconnecting and clicking over. “Well, hello Ms. Fancy-Pants Woman in Charge. How’s the new gig?”

  “Divine,” says Mimi. “I’ve finally adjusted my desk chair to the perfect height.”

  “That’s an important step.”

  “What are you up to at the old haunts?”

  “The usual,” I say. “Covering a starlet’s gaunt debut at her Cannes premiere. Dr. Harris says she’s dropped eighteen pounds.”

  We quip in unison: “Though he hasn’t personally treated her.”

  “What’s the total tally now?” Mimi asks. She knows I keep score of celebrities’ collective weight gain or loss for the year.

  “Let’s see, up 379 pounds since January.”

  “They’re obese, those celebrities.” Mimi, a perpetual yo-yo dieter, has probably gained and lost as much weight during the time I’ve known her.

  “Maybe they should try that juice fast you’re a fan of,” I say. “Although we are entering summer—bikini season—so I expect a major reversal any day now.”

  “Listen, I know how attached you are to chronicling the weight loss triumphs of actors and reality TV stars. But what would you say if I tried to lure you away from Celebrity Mecca to the slightly more glamorous world of the midmarket mommy mag?”

  “I’d say, when can I interview?” I perform a celebration dance in my seat, pumping my fists until I notice coworkers staring. Working at Hers has always been my dream; I grew up worshipping my mother, who worshipped the pages of Hers. Of course I’d never admit such an earnest desire to Mimi, the least sentimental person I know.

  When Mimi landed the Hers gig, she hinted at bringing me on board, but she also made it clear she’d have to learn the lay of the new land before making any decisions.

  “Great,” says Mimi. “I hate to ask you to do this—”

  “No, you don’t. What is it?” For Mimi I’ve gone on full-day stakeouts at restaurants where an A-list celeb was rumored to have a reservation.

  “You’re right. Can you come in on Monday? Yes, it’s Memorial Day, and yes, you probably have some big, celebratory, start-of-summer plans, but—”

  “I don’t,” I say, cutting her off. I promised Jesse a beach day, but we can go lie on the sand and soak up cancerous rays another time.

  “Fabulous. This way none of the staffers will be there to throw darts at you as you walk through the office.” She emits her signature cackle, and I wonder how bad it really is over at Hers.

  “Perfect.” I picture breaking the news to Jesse, and his mocking impression of Mimi: Victoria, I’ll need you in the office Saturday morning to watch the cartoons with me and my precious puggle, he’ll say in an uncanny version of my former boss’s voice, flipping his pretend curls. Then in a chirp that’s suppose
d to be me, he’ll add, I’ll be there at the crack of dawn, at which point I’ll wrestle him down to the couch with a tickle attack.

  A security guard lets me in to the abandoned Schmidt & Delancey building and, alone on the elevator, I have a sneaking suspicion I’m being sent on a sting operation; I imagine the doors opening, and then out pops Starstruck’s editor in chief to say she knew I was a traitor all along. But when I step into the Hers lobby, all is still. I let myself into the office and search for Mimi, paranoid about the click of my heels amidst all this hushed sleekness. Nearly every surface is made of glass, without a fingerprint in sight, an environment designed to make people feel like they’ve truly made it. It couldn’t be more different from Starstruck’s open-plan maze of clapboard cubicles, an office we joke was built out of discarded materials from the set of some sleazy reality TV show.

  I spot Mimi in the corner office—of course—spinning like a child in her oversized chair. “Knock, knock.”

  “Don’t mind me, I’m just playing.” She slows to a stop. “Come on in.”

  I obey, struck silent by the space. It’s nearly the size of my apartment. Floor-to-ceiling glass separates us on three sides from the outdoors; we’re hovering directly over Central Park.

  Mimi catches me gawking. “Amazing, right? I’ve instated a rule that people must use Purell before entering. Ha!” I’ve missed that laugh. “Check you out, so chic!”

  “Thanks,” I say. Mimi is well aware that my usual work look involves more elastic and pleather than cashmere and silk, but today I jumped out of bed at six a.m., pumped to pick out the perfect interview outfit. A very groggy Jesse was less thrilled to be awakened so early on a holiday and then quizzed about all my different getups. When I finally decided on a look it was nearly eight-thirty and I had to book it to the train. I was almost at my destination before realizing I’d left without taking my basal temperature. I’ll initiate sex tonight, just in case.