“Who cares what we’re wearing as long as we’re putting out a quality publication?”
Mimi smiles, and pauses before she speaks: “Would you say that’s what you’ve been doing, Deborah? Putting out a quality publication?” Crap, I walked right into that one.
“Listen, Mimi, I have been working at Hers for longer than you’ve been in this industry. You know as well as I do that I am a grand bargain for you; you’d have to shell out double or more to get another recipe creator with my experience and expertise. And if you did let me go, my severance package would be—let’s see, four weeks for every year at the company—two full years of my salary.”
“You’ve thought this all through, haven’t you?”
“Just the facts, ma’am. And another thing: I’ve got a full workload already, so you’ll have to find someone else to assist this Ravenous Rhee character. How about your assistant, Laura, whose taste you revere so much?”
“Deborah, I admire your willfulness.”
“But?”
“But, you will have to work with Rhee. Unless of course you want someone else using your kitchen to test out her recipes?”
Ugh. My mind flashes on the Professional Chef profile of Eileen Houtt’s hip new restaurant, an article I never bothered to read. Eileen and I had lost touch for years, but shortly before that story was published, I ran into her at a conference. When I told Eileen I worked at Hers, she said she wasn’t familiar with it, but asked if I knew the editors at Gastrome, that snooty rag for rich foodies; apparently her sous-chef used to head up their kitchen. I shudder to imagine my old friend happening upon an issue of Hers and seeing so-called recipes created by Ravenous Rhee. “Fine, I will test out that phony’s recipes,” I say to Mimi now, “but if the result is inedible, I claim veto power.”
“You may veto one out of every four recipes, and only if the Hers staff reaches a consensus on the decision.”
“How about, I can nix one out of two recipes, and I only need staff majority?”
“One out of three, and fine. Anything else?”
“I’m not buying new shoes.”
“Ha! I guess I know what I’m giving you for Christmas.”
“Hanukkah, you mean. You should watch those kinds of assumptions. Religious intolerance is a serious offense at Schmidt & Delancey.”
“Noted, Deborah.”
“Please call me Debbie.”
“OK, Debbie. Now, will you please remove these horrifying images from my desk?”
“Gladly.” I snatch up my copy of Professional Chef and march out, feeling triumphant. I decide I’ll treat myself to truffle oil mac and cheese for dinner.
The next morning I board the same up elevator as Mimi. She gives me the once-over, eyeing my usual sneakers, jeans, and T-shirt. I take out the tube of lipstick I nabbed from the beauty closet, the same crimson as Mimi’s editing pen. I apply the dark stain carefully to my lips, and then smile flirtatiously at my boss. I wink and bat my eyelashes. Mimi’s laugh is the hoarse hack of a smoker’s; it sounds terrible. I decide I’ll go up to the kitchen and brew her some herbal tea. Hibiscus flower with honey is very healing.
5
Leah Brenner, Executive Editor
I’m distracted as I enter my office, so when I go to fling my bag onto my chair, I nearly knock Victoria in the head. “God, I’m so sorry.” One peripheral glance reveals that all of my belongings have vanished, replaced by stuff that is similar, but not the same. I feel a pang for my stapler, of all things. “What’s going on in here?”
“Didn’t you get the memo?” asks Victoria. “Laura was supposed to e-mail you.” I nod like I know what she’s talking about. The truth is I haven’t checked my messages since yesterday afternoon, one of my work-from-home days. My husband surprised me by coming home early with a bottle of good champagne and takeout from my favorite Italian joint. I was wary of a catch, but Rob insisted he simply thought I deserved a break, then he powered down our computers and phones and poured us each a flute of bubbly. One evening a week Rob and I pretend we’re living in a pre-Internet age; it’s the closest thing we get to date night. (We derive all too much pleasure from the name we’ve come up with for the ritual: “Brenner Unplugged.”) As a result, unread e-mails have been colonizing my inbox for the past eighteen hours, undisturbed by the predatory Delete button, and Victoria has managed to blindside me with this humiliating switcheroo.
“The thinking was,” she says, chipper as ever, “we’re co-executive editors now, but since you’re only in three days a week, it makes more sense for me to have the office, since I’m here every day. You understand, right?”
To prevent my fist from delivering a right hook to Victoria’s cheek, I practice the relaxation technique I mastered during my triplets’ colicky stage: a long, deep breath; hold for one, two, three, four—Oh, forget it, I think, releasing the inhale in one defeated burst. My eye catches on a new photo on the wall: an altar shot at what must be Victoria’s wedding. The guy’s cute, but Victoria’s dress is a horrendous layer-cake ordeal. The realization that my office has been usurped by someone who would pick that gown for the most important day of her life sets me spinning with vertigo.
“So where do I sit now?” I ask, trying to sound unfazed.
“The intern has been relocating your things to that large space over there.” Victoria points to a cubicle next to the beauty closet, where I spot Erin propping my Christmas card up against the divider.
“But that’s Liz’s spot. She’ll be back from maternity leave in less than a month.”
“I’m sure we’ll figure it all out when she’s back.” Victoria ushers me out of what I can’t help still thinking of as my office.
Seated at my new desk, I smell Regina before I see her: tobacco mixed with her Calvin Klein perfume. I look forward to the frequent visits from our entertainment director; her gossip is always first-rate, plus her kids are grown, which is a reminder that some people really do survive motherhood. “Hey, Reg,” I say. She leans down for a double-cheek kiss. “You’re looking fabulous.” An ikat-printed wraparound hugs Regina’s surprisingly taut middle-aged curves.
“Oh, shut up. I’m straight off a red-eye from L.A.,” she says. “And um, forgive me if I’m missing something, but what the hell are you doing sitting in this crappy little hole?”
“Gee, thanks for your tact. I had to clear out my office to make way for my new co-executive, Ms. Victoria Perfect, so it’s back to cubicle-land for me.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“Tell me about it. I’m picturing junior staffers perched up on my desk when we go over stories. That’ll give me quite the air of authority.”
“If you ask me, you should blow this joint for good, ship out of New York once and for all.”
“I gather you’ve been talking to my Vermont-obsessed husband?”
“Seriously, with all the craziness that goes down in this town, it’s best taken in small doses. Palm trees and the Pacific are what do a body good.” Regina’s permanent post is in Los Angeles; she visits the New York office a couple of times per month.
“This happy arrangement might not last for long, anyway,” I say. “I saw the latest masthead, and “Victoria LaRue” and “Leah Brenner” don’t even fit on one line—Mark had to shrink the font to ID us as co-executive editors.”
“Well, shit.” Regina smoothes down my hair, and I notice her discreetly removing a Cheerio from a strand. “Everyone around here does kind of look like a bully stole their lunch.”
“Yeah, and the bully is our new boss.”
“Mimi stole your lunch, huh? Speaking of which, tell me, is she a big eater?”
“More so than Louisa.”
“Well, Louisa was permanently on the herbal tea and cottage cheese diet. I’ve seriously seen celebrities with bigger appetites. I’d prefer to do without the new boss’s judgment, but you know I don’t do plane food, and what I really need right now is a big old chocolate chip muffin before our little executive rend
ezvous.”
“Ooh, get me one, too.”
Regina has flown in for a meeting to discuss the November cover star. Mimi hasn’t yet shared her vision of an ideal candidate, but I’ve taken it upon myself to compile a list of actresses I think would set the perfect tone for the Hers relaunch. I’m gunning for Dina Monahan, the breakout success and critics’ darling from this year’s Sundance Film Festival; she has a new indie movie coming out in November that’s predicted to be a crossover mainstream hit. Plus, Dina Monahan’s career is in the sweet spot for Hers: She’s right on the cusp of fame, meaning she’d likely agree to an interview, and probably even divulge some real info about herself, not just the boilerplate, publicist-approved drivel all the bigger stars have learned to spout.
The senior staff—Victoria, Mark, Abby, and I—file into Mimi’s office, where we discover that all of the chairs are already occupied by a small group of young women, spines like rods. We remain standing, awkwardly shifting our weight. “Don’t mind the whippersnappers,” says Mimi. “They’re all recent grads from my alma mater, good old Kansas State. They’re here for the day so we can hear their ideas and find out if any of them would fit in at Hers.” Oh, great, so now Mimi plans to replace all of us with twenty-one-year-old know-nothings whom she can pay slave wages. When I was their age, I drew confidence from the fact that this industry tends to value youth over experience. Now, I want to Fed-Ex all of their fresh faces directly back to campus; I couldn’t care less about their youthful ideas.
As Laura carries in chairs for the editors, Regina struts in and throws her arms around Mimi. “We finally meet up in the flesh,” she says. “What fun!”
“Welcome to the East Coast, dear.”
Regina must have treated herself to a triple espresso (or an alternative I don’t want to consider), because she launches right in, speed-talking like she’s been given a time limit: “I was just at the September cover shoot, and Liliana Line cannot be more of a nightmare. She hasn’t been in a hit movie since the nineties, yet she’s kept up her diva routine with full force. I had my assistant running all over the Valley trying to locate tropical Starbursts and Cherry Vanilla Coke for Her Highness. The upside is, we did get some killer shots that we can all look at today; Drew’s manipulating them now. I’m sitting down with Liliana next week for the interview, and I hear the trick is to get a couple glasses of merlot in her and then she talks.”
“Whoa, let’s hold on a minute,” says Mimi.
“Oh, I just assumed you’d want to get straight to business. I’ll start again. Hello, I’m Regina Peck, entertainment director of Hers magazine. It’s a pleasure to see you.”
“Hello, Regina. Mimi Walsh. Of course you know Leah, Mark, and Abby, and this is Victoria, our new co-executive editor. My assistant, Laura, was the one who showed you in. So how long has it been?” I had no idea Regina and Mimi knew each other.
“I don’t know, a decade?” says Regina.
“More like a century,” Mimi responds.
“My daughter’s actually planning to intern at Starstruck this summer. You’d think having a mom like me would be enough to turn her off of celebrities for good, but she did grow up in Santa Monica, so what could I expect? I was hoping she’d get to work with you over there.”
“You don’t mean the daughter I remember you being pregnant with? You’re telling me she’s a teenager now?”
“Actually, in her last year at NYU.”
“A college senior?!” Mimi says. “Christ, you’re ancient!” Regina forces a smile. She often jokes about her flagging memory and sagging everything (and then happily passes around cards for her plastic surgeon—for the referral discount, she says), but no one else dares poke fun at her age. It occurs to me that she must be at least a decade older than Mimi.
“Regina’s daughter is both beautiful and brilliant,” I say.
Mimi ignores me. “So, I want to talk reality,” she says.
“Wow, OK, let’s do it,” says Regina, with an artificial laugh. “So, tell me the situation. I sincerely hope you’re not planning on shopping around my job, because I’ve got ears all over this business.”
“No, not reality-reality,” Victoria interjects. “She means reality TV.” I wonder if Mimi and Victoria have already discussed the November cover in a premeeting prior to our meeting.
“Oh, obviously,” says Regina. “What a relief.”
“That’s what our readers watch on the boob tube, so those are the stars I want on our covers,” says Mimi.
“Really?” I say. “Because I am hearing amazing things about Dina Monahan, and I know she might not be a superstar quite yet—”
Mimi sighs, cutting me off. “Let’s all make a deal. We’ll agree to stop featuring B-list, artsy-fartsy actresses on our covers and filling their interviews with highfalutin, pseudointellectual bullcrap, while in the meantime we pine away for the A-listers and wish we were Vanity Fair. OK?”
I manage a nod. I can feel my cheeks burning red. I crumple up my dossier of the Dina Monahan info I’ve compiled. The crunch of paper in my fist is oddly satisfying.
Regina, meanwhile, has bounded up out of her seat and is literally shaking her booty. “Mimi, you’ve just made my week,” she says. I catch Laura peering in at Regina as if she’s from Mars rather than just the West Coast. “I have to tell you, I’ve been pushing to include reality stars in the magazine as far back as the third season of Survivor. Those loonies give the best interviews—you practically have to shut them up before they blurt out their ATM code.”
“One thing to consider,” says Mark, who is always considering and reconsidering everything, “is that reality stars don’t quite look like models, or even actresses. The camera does love a train wreck, but not exactly in the way we’re going for.”
“That’s a good point,” I say, glad to have an ally. I glance at Abby, who’s staying judiciously silent.
“Well, that’s your job, isn’t it, Mark? To make them look pretty,” says Mimi. “I have faith you can work your Photoshop magic.” I see Mark clench his teeth.
“So who should we snag for the November relaunch?” Regina says, her mind clearly motoring away at possibilities.
“How about one of those horrifying housewives?” suggests Victoria.
“I was thinking everyone’s loving Janine, that disaster from Worst Moms in the World,” says Regina. “We could pair her Q&A with some tongue-in-cheek parenting advice, and she could share her favorite Thanksgiving family traditions.”
“That would be perfect.” Mimi engulfs Regina in a bear hug. Victoria’s jealousy is almost palpable, like a toxic gas emanating from her pores. I wonder if my own dismay comes off so obviously.
Later that day, I corner Regina. “So you know Mimi from before?”
“Oh yeah. I first met her through her then-boyfriend, soon-to-be-husband, now ex-husband, Steven, when he was my attending nurse in Lenox Hill’s maternity ward. Even at nine months pregnant I was a pro at the art of bedside flirting.”
“I bet you were. So give me some dirt.”
“He and I became friendly, and when I mentioned I was an editor, he said his girlfriend—that was Mimi—was looking to break into magazines. In the interest of racking up some career karma, I set her up with a friend at Persons of Interest. And the rest is history. Her star has been rising ever since.”
“So then you’re responsible for the unleashing of the monster,” I say. Regina laughs her great big guffaw.
“Shhh.” We both hear it and wheel our heads around. It’s Laura.
“Excuse me?” says Regina.
“Can you please be a little quieter? Your speaking voice is quite loud, and you’ve been on the phone making a racket all day. I can hardly hear myself think.”
Regina mouths to me, “Who does this girl think she is?” Aloud to Laura, she says, “And why exactly do you need to hear yourself think? Is it that complicated to slot in appointments and schedule dinner reservations? You may be interested to know, I’m bu
sting my ass over here, trying to book our November cover.”
Laura sighs loudly. Regina gives her the finger from behind her screen, and I stifle my giggle.
That evening after the triathlon feat of getting my three girls to sleep, I’m detailing our November cover-girl options for my husband. “Janine from Worst Moms in the World is our top pick, but apparently she’s knocked up again. If we can’t get a pre–three months shoot, we’ll have to wait for post–six months.”
“No one wants a cover girl who just looks fat,” says Rob, “even if she is pregnant, right?”
“Correct, sweetheart. So you have been paying attention all these years.” I pat my husband affectionately on the head. “The second choice is Eliana from Trapeze Rehab. Victoria went on about how she’s captivated everyone with her brave let-go-and-catch performances even as she tweaks out in heroin withdrawal.”
“How very inspiring.”
“Yeah, right. Regina also nailed down Brandy from Make Me a Cake, Bitch!”
“Oh, I know that show,” Rob says. “I got the recipe for the girls’ birthday cake from the season finale.”
“You’re kidding me. Well, apparently Brandy’s lemon meringue tart was key in reuniting her with her estranged mother, and Regina claims that episode sparked a ten percent spike in lemon sales nationwide.”
“That cannot be a real statistic.”
“Sadly, I think it is. Mimi envisions a heartfelt interview alongside the contestant’s latest cake recipes. Our food guru, Debbie, will have a conniption, but that’s pretty much a new job requirement at Hers HQ.”
“Oh, baby.” Rob grabs my sleeve and leads me into the living room, where he’s set up our projection screen. “I have something to show you,” he says.
I experience a brief swell of hope that Rob has secured an advance copy of Dina Monahan’s forthcoming film; Rob’s brother works in the movie business and often sends us screeners. But when my husband dims the lights and presses play, my hopes are dashed: The screen flashes awake with an image of a moss-colored house well past its prime. If the house were a human, I think, it would be my ninety-year-old grandma slowly deteriorating in a nursing home upstate. Like my grandma, I learn this house also resides in the country. Up by its chimney, in the spot where a child’s drawing would feature a curlicue of smoke, floats a sentence: “Discover the seductive charm of Putney, Vermont.”
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