“So listen,” Mimi says. “I want to warn you, it’s going to be rough going for a while around here.” I nod. I’ve been through several redesigns before, so I know the late-nights-and-weekends drill. “You’ll be the new executive editor—a big job. You’ll be coming in and shaking up the staff’s cozy complacency, forcing them to get off their lazy butts and raise this magazine from the grave.”
“I’m prepared and willing.” I perform my best military salute.
“They’re not going to like you.”
I doubt this—I’m very likeable—but I concede, “They’re in a hard position, having their jobs on the line.”
“Whatever. The truth is I have it harder, and you will too if you sign on. Believe me, it’s much more difficult to handle the burden of other people’s resentment than it is to fear being fired.” I’m still nodding, though I’m not so sure.
Mimi says she has to make a call and that I should show myself around. I weave my way through the rows of workspaces and run my fingers over the nameplates, wondering which ones will still be here in three months. I pass Laura’s cubicle—she was Mimi’s first poach from Starstruck—and then a desk labeled “Zoe Lewis,” piled so high with papers and takeout containers that I literally can’t see the surface. As executive editor I’ll be able to mandate that desks be kept clean, and people will have to listen (unlike how Jesse ignores my pleas to put his dirty laundry in the hamper, not on the floor).
“Shit!” The shout comes from behind. I swivel around and see a woman squatting on the floor surrounded by the contents of her purse. She looks up, startled. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t think anyone would be in today.”
“That’s OK,” I say, not sure what to add.
“I work here. I’m Leah Brenner.”
“Victoria.” I wave at her, like an idiot. “I’m, uh, Mimi’s friend.” I see her eyeing the outfit I was so proud of just a few minutes ago: a French Laundry belted number that makes my figure look fantastic but requires me to take small, ladylike steps (which means I hardly ever wear it), plus Jimmy Choo sling-backs. Now I wish I were in jeans and sneakers. This woman looks scared; she knows I’m not here just to visit.
“Nice to meet you.” She extends a hand.
“Here, let me help.” I bend down and begin gathering objects—a compact, a picture book, a strange-looking contraption with tubes and suction cups.
“Sorry, that’s my breast pump. How mortifying.” She snatches the object from my hand and finishes recovering the scattered stuff.
“So then Mimi’s here too?” she asks. I nod, and she smoothes down her hair. “God, I’m a wreck. I didn’t think anyone would be in, but I guess I should’ve known that that one would work on a holiday.” She rolls her eyes, and then glances up nervously to check if I caught her doing so.
“I was on my way to this barbecue with my family, but then one of my babies started throwing a fit in the backseat, wailing for her Petey the Penguin. That stupid stuffed animal is the only thing that’ll soothe her, the monster. I remembered I’d left it in my office. God knows how these things end up in my workbag. So here we are, driving from Westfield to Hoboken via midtown Manhattan. Very convenient. The whole gang—my husband, the triplets, the nanny—they’re all outside in the car idling by the curb, and here I am spilling the entire contents of my Mary Poppins purse like a complete klutz. Thanks for your help, really.”
“It’s no problem at all.” I find myself following Leah down the hall to her office. It looks lived-in. Her bulletin board is plastered with photos. I point to one. “Is that your family?”
“Oh, that’s our Christmas card from last year. My husband, Rob, and the little troublemakers, Daisy and Lulu and Rose, just nine months there. Now, where on Earth is that freaking penguin?”
As Leah rummages through drawers, I can’t stop gazing at the photo that seems like it could be the stock one from a picture frame—the well-scrubbed family posed in a Pottery Barn living room, Leah pretty in a hunter green wraparound, her handsome husband a good sport in his reindeer sweater, and the three little ones practically edible in matching elf onesies. I’ve been designing the LaRue family Christmas card in my head for years. Last year Jesse suggested we pose just the two of us with Floppy the Cat, but the idea seemed too pitiful.
“So do you have kids?” Leah asks. I quickly shake my head. “Lucky you. Doing the working mom thing is a total mess ninety percent of the time, even though they let me work from home part-time. You can’t even imagine.”
“Sounds hard.” I picture her and the husband and the slew of kids hanging out in a grassy backyard behind their big house in the suburbs. It doesn’t seem fair that she has all that and this beautiful office, too.
“There you are, you little twerp,” she says, freeing a threadbare stuffed animal from between two file cabinets. “Thank God. Now we’re only going to be, let’s see, an hour and a half late. Ridiculous. OK, I’m running. It was nice meeting you… .”
“Victoria.”
“Right, Victoria. Take care.”
I hang back in Leah’s office after she’s gone, scanning the photos and knickknacks, the mug full of pens, and the tabs on her file folders: “The Rise of Gun-Toting Mothers,” “Natural Treatments for Postpartum Depression,” “Style Solutions for America’s Busiest Women.”
I see another snapshot; it’s Leah in a hospital bed holding the three infants, each as small as her hand. For a period of time I fantasized about this very scene; I was considering in vitro, which everyone knows often leads to multiples. But after I researched the price, the image receded from my mind. Ditto with picturing myself the mom of an African or Asian baby, and then discovering the exorbitant cost of adoption. When I confessed to Jesse that I’d always assumed adoption was free or nearly so—someone wants a baby, someone else has one that she can’t care for, what’s so complicated? —my husband looked at me like I’d been adopted from outer space. “Hey, maybe one of us has a long-lost aunt who’ll croak and leave us with an enormous inheritance,” he joked; I silently seethed, not for the first time, over his sculptor-slash-waiter career that seems to cost us more in supplies than it brings in. (I imagine Jesse has suffered his own moments of resentment about my slightly out-of-control online shopping habit, but these are topics we tend not to discuss.) I’ve since started a savings fund that Mint.com tells me will take a decade to accrue the funds needed to adopt.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” Mimi says, poking her head into Leah’s office. “Leah Brenner is our executive editor—for now.”
“Oh.”
“Total mommy mush brain, that one.” She rotates a finger by her ear, making the cuckoo sign. “Anyway, I need you to write out some story ideas—a few features and front-of-book items, a couple of new sections, nothing too involved. It’s a formality, but I have to include it in your application file. I’m heading out for a shopping spree with the company’s stylist—poor me! ha!—but feel free to linger in the records closet for as long as you like. You can page through back issues for inspiration.”
We trade cheek kisses and I watch her leave, thanking the universe for Mimi Walsh. Gratitude is key to happiness, according to countless articles I’ve read in women’s magazines. Jesse rolls his eyes at it, but lately each night I’ve been trying to list all I have to be thankful for (along with bemoaning my lack of luck, a habit I can’t seem to kick). Mimi has been like my fairy godmother, hovering over my shoulder and waving her wand to sprinkle fairy dust on me throughout my career. Years ago, when I wanted to try my hand at writing a novel, it was Mimi who cheered me on and gave me the courage to quit Yummy Weekly. And then my literary aspirations devolved into daylong TV marathons and crippling despair, which led to a six-month dry spell between Jesse and me and a conversation where we flirted with the idea of separation. Meanwhile, our meager savings dwindled to nothing and were fast replaced by four-and then five-figure credit card debt. All of that happened to coincide with the economy’s implosion that sent shock
waves of layoffs and magazine shutterings through the publishing world. It was Mimi, of course, who miraculously found me a job at Starstruck, rescuing my self-worth, my marriage, and my credit score all in one fell swoop. I practically owe her my life.
Sitting among the back issues in the records closet is like rewinding twenty-five years to my childhood in Oklahoma City. Rather than page through recent issues of Hers to spark story ideas, I’ve pulled out nearly every issue from the eighties and fanned them out around me.
As a child, I remember the thrill when I’d return home from school and see a new issue of Hers peeking out of the mailbox. My friends all read Girl Talk, then later Teen You, but I cherished the Hers ritual I shared with my mother each month. She would prepare our afternoon snacks—Oreos and milk for me, nut mix and a gin and tonic for her—and together we’d pore over the pages. The fashion tips and home decorating tricks seemed like magic wisdom from a faraway land, and I was in awe of my mother’s cool when she successfully pulled off the chic outfits and executed the projects in our own home. Each month we’d study the cover model, and Mom would try her hand at replicating the makeup and hairdo on me. All done up, I’d gaze at myself in the mirror for hours, trying to mimic the model’s glamorous, sophisticated expression.
I locate the November 1987 issue in the records file and I flip back to the recipe pages. There it is, Festive Apple Spice Pie. I remember I was in fifth grade, and it was the day before Thanksgiving break when my mother announced she would teach me to bake a pie. Even at age ten I fantasized about someday passing along this lesson to my future daughter. I’d share the secret trick of adding nutmeg to the crust dough for extra flavor, Mom’s personal touch.
The whole of my mother’s dinner repertoire came from the pages of Hers—turkey meatloaf, buttermilk mashed potatoes, pineapple upside-down cake. After my third miscarriage last year, I dredged up Mom’s recipes and spent the entire afternoon cooking pot roast and cinnamon bread pudding. Jesse thought it was endearing, my stick-to-your-ribs meal, and he cleaned his plate. He didn’t even complain that I’d transformed our studio’s matchbox kitchen into what looked like the aftermath of an earthquake; he washed and dried and put away every dish. Jesse likes bi bim bop; Jamaican spiced patties; and other hip, eccentric fare that he carries home in brown take-away bags (and which costs us a fortune, I often complain), but I secretly prefer Mom’s Hers-inspired, totally uncool home cooking, pure comfort on a plate.
I begin sketching out a story idea based on vintage Hers recipes—how to cook the magazine’s classics in less time and with healthier ingredients (Mom used to spend the better part of each evening in the kitchen, preparing the rich, artery-clogging food). Everyone’s always rushing around these days, and who wouldn’t love to prepare sweet potato casserole in just fifteen minutes and have it be nutritious, too?
I’m feeling that familiar tingle of discovery, the ideas popping up in my mind like soda bubbles. It’s that delicious thrill of creation that makes me feel like I’m perpetually winning a medal. Another article could take a fun, kitschy look at which old Hers advice is worth reviving versus which advice should remain buried in the past. We could run a series on women’s biggest dreams and disappointments; we’d get celebrities to pen personal essays describing what they imagined their lives would look like and how their actual lives measure up. I’m scribbling down thoughts like a maniac, my notebook filling up with ink. Before I know it, it’s five p.m. and I’ve put in a full day’s work.
Back at Starstruck the following day, the editor in chief assigns me a piece on the cravings of middle-aged, knocked-up celebrities, which is how I find myself sitting across the table that afternoon from a six-months-pregnant, forty-five-year-old movie star and getting very drunk. At first I order a single glass of merlot, but then I think, What the hell? and ask the waiter to bring over the bottle. This is the type of not-so-brilliant idea that Mimi would have talked me out of if she still worked at Starstruck.
“So what do you find yourself eating late at night?” I ask listlessly, notebook in hand.
“Pickles and ice cream. I’m a total classic,” the actress says, and I’m tempted to point out that sporting a baby bump when you’re on the brink of menopause is not at all classic. “And when I want ice cream, there’s nothing getting between me and Ben and Jerry. My husband runs out to the store at all hours of the night. It’s so adorable.”
She’s probably told this anecdote—invented, most likely—to a dozen other sources, and I know my boss will want me to dig up something fresh. “What brand of pickles?” I ask.
But I don’t listen to her answer. I swig the rest of my wine and pour myself another glass. “Let me ask you something, off the record,” I say, leaning across the table. “How did you do it? I mean, really: Was it special vitamins, a certain sex position, some kind of miracle worker gyno, what?”
I’m thinking that maybe she’ll be honest. Maybe she’ll admit she got an egg donor or is faking the whole thing, or she’ll reveal some other strange truth; I’m always hoping these celebrities will cast aside their P.R.-approved talking points for one second and say something real. But to no avail: The actress shrugs, smiling smugly, and takes an infuriatingly small sip of her green tea. “My beloved and I figured if it was meant to be, it was meant to be. I went off the Pill and—boom!—one month later I was with child.” She giggles, and I take too much pleasure in noticing the deep, crinkly lines that frame her eyes and mouth. My mother would be ashamed of me. I gulp down my wine and excuse myself, ending the interview.
I’m still more than a little tipsy when Mimi calls to officially offer me the executive editor job at Hers. I accept in five different rambling forms before she tells me to shut up or she’ll rescind the offer.
I dial Jesse. “I got the job,” I squeal, not caring that I’m surrounded by my Starstruck coworkers.
“That’s amazing, babe. It’s a big step up.”
“That’s right. I’ll practically be at the top of the masthead.”
“I know you’ve wanted a change for a while, and this might be just what you need.” I find I’m suddenly irritated. What my husband knows is that I’ve hoped for a change along the lines of cutting back at work to focus on being a mother. He continues: “There’s a new Indian place that just opened down the block that looks great. Let’s go tonight—just me and you hitting the town to toast your big achievement.”
“OK.” I know Jesse is just trying to help me celebrate, and maybe it’s on account of the pint of wine sloshing around my bloodstream, but my mood goes sour. This is supposed to be my big, special moment, but it doesn’t feel like one anymore. I consider my typical day: Every morning it’s a battle with the alarm clock over whether I’ll force myself up to face the treadmill or catch another few winks, then it’s off to the office for nine or ten hours of the grind, and then Jesse and I hit up happy hour or the latest blockbuster or some gallery exhibit, after which we return home to our tiny apartment to watch crappy TV or have crappy procreation sex; finally we collapse like zombies onto our pillows, and within several hours it’s up and at ’em for the same thing all over again. Jesse seems content with this life (though I’m sure he wishes for hotter sex). I, on the other hand, swing like a mad pendulum between restlessness and lethargy, rage and despair. I’m terrified that one day soon Jesse is going to suggest we stop trying for a baby. The thought makes my eyes pool with tears. I blink them back furiously.
“I love you, babe,” says Jesse. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I love you, too,” I say quietly, then hang up. I glance at my computer’s screen saver, a shot of Jesse and me dressed up as Mario and Luigi from last year’s Halloween party. The costumes were a hit, all the guests admiring our twin mustaches and reminiscing about their own favorite Nintendo games from back in the day. Jesse and I had stuffed our matching overalls with cotton and entertained ourselves throughout the night by bumping each other’s potbellies, increasing our gusto as we downed more and more drinks.
I had a blast at the party, but looking at the photo now fills me with shame. How pathetic I look with my drunken smile and fake belly paunch. I flash on Leah Brenner’s Christmas card—her gorgeous Norman Rockwell family.
I shake my computer mouse, and the screen saver vanishes, pixilated Jesse and me and our comically distended stomachs instantly replaced by my Internet browser. I remind myself that I am getting Leah’s job. Her perfect life will soon be less so, and it makes me feel sinfully happy. I load up the menu for the new Indian restaurant on our block and begin planning my order for the celebration meal.
4
Deborah Rosser, Recipe Creator
All morning I’ve been tweaking the cream cheese-to-sugar ratio in the frosting, and I’ve finally found the sweet (but not too sweet) spot. “Mmm,” I announce to the empty kitchen, seducing the spoon with my tongue. The phone begins blaring—I set it loud so I can hear it over the hand mixer. I peek at the lemon cupcakes rising in the oven—fluffy and golden, gorgeous—then grab the receiver.
“Mimi would like PB&J, but they’re out of it in the cafeteria.”
“Hello, Laura.”
“Hi. So can you make it up there?”
“Are you asking if I am able to construct a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” I ask, trying to affect the patient but stern tone I use with my four-year-old grandniece.
“She prefers chunky, and she has a meeting in twenty minutes, so please aim for sooner rather than later.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I put my work on hold and set out the bread and the jars of peanut butter and jelly on the counter. I wonder how the French Culinary Institute, a graduate degree in nutrition, and twenty-five years’ experience as a food editor and recipe guru have landed me here, personal chef to a forty-year-old with the tastes of a kindergartener. I consider cutting off the bread crusts, but refrain.
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