Pretty in Ink

by Lindsey Palmer

  “Oh no, what is this?” I plead.

  “It’s a slideshow. A realtor sent it to us when I asked about a property listing.” I groan. “Oh, come on, Leah. You adore PowerPoint presentations.”

  “Yeah, PowerPoints about demographics and brand strategy. Not about decrepit farmhouses in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Actually, Putney is just ten miles from the bustling town of Brattleboro.”

  “Ooh, the big, bad urban center of Brattleboro, huh? How many Indian restaurants are there? How many movie theaters? How many people, Rob—are we talking a population of three or four digits here?”

  “Oh, shut your trap and just watch the damn slideshow.” He chucks a pillow in my direction.

  “Fine,” I say. “But I’m steeling myself with snacks.”

  When I return from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn, Rob has changed the slide to an interior image, a living room that opens out onto a screened-in porch. The furniture is terrible—all wicker and paisley print—and the walls are lined floor-to-ceiling with a celestial scene of dancing cherubs. But when I imagine the space stripped of its owner’s terrible taste (not to mention the slide’s accompanying copy: “If you lived here, you’d be home now, relaxing on the comfortable sofa, enjoying the company of your loved ones, perhaps indulging in a delicious, wholesome meal… .”), I can glimpse the space’s promise. Sunlight floods the large rooms, brightening the blond wood, and exposed beams lend the space a rustic hominess.

  Rob clicks to the next slide, and now we see the grounds: The hills literally roll, purple flowers dot the lush grass, and a postcard-worthy stream winds its way through the panorama. “Can’t you picture the girls when they’re a little older sledding on these hills in the winter?” he asks.

  “Ah, yes. Winter,” I say, and then poof goes my fantasy of Vermont as a place of permanent fresh-aired, light-breezed summer. No wonder the realtor doesn’t show the landscape buried in snow and ice, a cold so bone-chilling you could probably feel it through the photo.

  Click. The screen animates with a dozen squawking chickens. “We wouldn’t have to keep them,” Rob says, “but the owners have offered if we want.”

  “Fresh eggs,” I say. “Just like you wanted.”

  “Yep.” Rob clicks, and the hills appear again, only this time we’re peering down at them through an oversized set of bay windows. The slide reads, “Breathtaking views you’d think you have to travel hundreds or even thousands of miles to experience.”

  “That’s right, we would have to travel hundreds of miles to experience them,” I say.

  “The bay windows are in the master bedroom,” says Rob, ignoring my comment. “Next we’ll see the rest of the room.” He clicks. I gasp, then collapse into giggles. There on the four-poster bed in the center of the room are two etched stick figures: a woman crouched on all fours, and a man penetrating her from behind. The man wears a Yankees cap. “And that there is the two of us christening our new home,” says my husband.

  “That realtor’s a real gem, including this touch of personalization. It’s so thoughtful of him.”

  “And romantic.”

  “Very.”

  “So what do you think, baby? I mean, just look at how much fun we’re having already!” Rob points to the stick figures on the screen.

  “I can’t deny that. Here’s what I think: How about if we put the kibosh on the Vermont talk for the night and we have some of our own fun right here in suburban New Jersey?”

  “It’s a deal.”

  Rob chases me up to the bedroom. As the two of us peel off our clothing, I’m suddenly struck by how small our windows are. I’ve never noticed it before. I can’t help imagining how dramatic it would feel to make love against a backdrop of rolling green hills.

  The next morning, Victoria intercepts me on my way to the November concepts meeting. “Mimi would like you to supervise today’s beauty shoot.” We’ve gotten the stars of the sitcom Office Jungle to showcase the fall’s trends in makeup for the October issue.

  “But what about Regina?”

  “She had to fly back to L.A. last night for a meeting with that terrible mother from the reality show.”

  “Oh. How about Abby, then?” Abby, queen of managing oversized personalities, has always been a staple on our celebrity photo shoots.

  “Mimi wants Abby in the morning meeting.” This is a first, the managing editor but not the executive editor getting invited to a brainstorm.

  “OK. I suppose if Mimi felt I was the best person to handle the responsibility, I’ve got to go.” Victoria gives me a pitying look.

  “Hey, Leah,” Mimi calls out from inside her office. “Just an FYI, I absolutely abhorred all the makeup artists who were booked for the shoot, so I made a few calls and hired new ones.” I wonder if Abby knows about this; I imagine the first batch already got paid. “We’ll still have the actresses show off the season’s hottest colors, but I want them done up in the style of leopards and zebras and tigers and giraffes—you know, as a play on the title, Office Jungle.”

  “Um, so all of those animals actually live in the jungle?” I ask, playing dumb.

  “Oh, whatever. We’re just having fun, and our readers are too dense to think about whether zebras belong in the grasslands, or whatever. Ha! You can relay the new plan to the girls at the shoot.”

  Seriously? So then Mimi hasn’t cleared this nonsense with the actresses or, more important, their publicists. My heart begins clanging at my chest like cymbals, and it continues doing so for the entire cab ride to the photo studio.

  When I arrive on set, a little wisp of a man is coating his eyelashes in blue mascara. He bounds over to me and leans in for a kiss. “You must be Leah. I’m Jonathan, and I’m here to help with the shoot. I’ve done Mimi up for special events for years. Isn’t she fab?”

  “A pleasure,” I say, wondering, Help out with the shoot how? He isn’t one of the new makeup artists—they’re over by the mirrors setting out their pots and palettes. It soon becomes clear that Jonathan will be art-directing the shoot, a job usually handled by Liz, our beauty editor who recently had a baby. I’m curious if Mimi knows the danger of trying to oust a staffer while she’s out on maternity leave.

  Only one actress cries when I explain the new vision for the shoot. “So I have to wear a giraffe costume?” she asks through weepy sniffles.

  “You’ll still be modeling the saffron eye shadow, and believe me it will look beautiful against your olive skin, but we’ll just be finishing off the look with a few giraffe spots and a yellow turtleneck. No big deal.”

  “Is it because I look like an animal?” she wails. Her publicist dabs de-swelling cream under her eyes and shoots me looks like daggers.

  I want to scream out that she’s getting paid bucketloads just to freaking smile for a camera, so she should really just suck it up. Instead, I assume my patient mother mode. “No, no, it’s artistic,” I assure the actress, imagining I’m speaking to a stubborn baby Lulu. “The other women will be made up as animals, too. You’re lucky because the giraffe is the tallest, and the long neck represents power and vitality. You’ll have a real presence.”

  I’m not sure how much more of this bullshitting I can handle. It’s a good thing my daughters have been stuck lately on books about the zoo, so I’m up on my game. I’ve already made a case for the quiet grace of the zebra, the kick-ass prowess of the tiger, and the stealth charm of the leopard. At one point Jonathan suggests featuring one of the actresses as an elephant, and I tell him that, no, that will absolutely not be possible. Even my powers of persuasion are not up to that task.

  The actress is still whimpering, but less hysterically, as her publicist keeps cooing about her client’s neck—how it’s lovely and perfect and, no, not at all too long. It’s the first moment of the day when I’m not actively dealing with a crisis, and I realize my temples are pounding. And whatever that sappy crooning is coming from someone’s iPod is making it worse.

  Jonathan ducks his h
ead in. “Everything peachy keen in here?” His bright expression conveys no awareness of the crying model in the corner. “Good, good.”

  I head over his way. “Hey, my head’s about to explode. I’ve got to take five.” I notice Jonathan has started bouncing in place. “What is that godawful music, anyway?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” he says. “That’s Helena Hope. It’s the song of the summer.” He starts singing along: “ ‘We’d be bound forever, joined as one, the two of us so young and fun.’ ”

  “OK, enough, I’m ducking out for coffee. Want to come?”

  “Nah, I’m rushing to catch my ballet barre class,” he says, adding, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” which is how I realize he’s now a member of the Hers staff.

  In Starbucks, I order a skim cappuccino and carry it to a stool by the window. The air conditioning is arctic, and it’s disconcerting to shiver while watching passersby sweat in the ninety-degree heat outside. I cup my hands around the warm drink and think, that actress will be fine. In fact, I will be, too. All I have to do is get through the workday; just four more decent shots for the beauty story, probably a handful more meltdowns from the celebs, and two more hours until end-time, tops. After that, who knows? Probably more countdowns to countless more endpoints. For this moment, though, I push aside the urge to look ahead and ahead and ahead, and decide to sit here, right now, sipping at my drink’s hot foam, savoring its bittersweet taste.

  6

  Abby Rollins, Managing Editor

  I’m wading through stacks of invoices and receipts and contracts when Mimi flies into my office. “Great news,” she announces, a statement I’ve come to realize could mean anything coming from her. “Lucia What’s-her-name, the author of that superhot, bestselling zombie series, has agreed to write a short story for the November relaunch. Regina’s hammering out the details, but I’m thinking some kind of Thanksgiving tale. Picture it: A housewife whose biggest everyday excitement is a visit from the mailman returns to her hometown for the holiday and, over turkey and cranberry sauce, discovers that all of her awful relatives are actually undead zombies. Cue the total life shake-up, followed by a few thrilling action scenes, and finally a life-affirming, zombie-embracing catharsis in which the protagonist suddenly understands that her ho-hum, dull-as-dirt existence is actually the happiest, most fulfilling life ever.”

  “Oh boy, that’s an idea,” I say. I’m worried not only that Mimi has insisted the writer pursue this particular plotline, but also about what she’s promised her in return. That kind of hotshot author probably commands far more than the standard $2.50-per-word we offer our top-notch freelancers. “Do you want me to draw up the contracts?” I ask, hoping to have a hand in the payment.

  “Nah, Laura’s on it.” Meaning, Mimi doesn’t want me in the loop.

  “OK, well, I’m finishing up the August cost record today, so we should go over the budget—”

  The way Mimi simultaneously winces and dismisses me with a wave, it’s as if she’s allergic to the word “budget.” More likely, she knows something I don’t about Hers’ finances. “I’ve got to run to a meeting,” she says, “but I dropped by to let you know we’re taking on four of those girls from my alma mater as freelancers. They’ll help out during the transition. So please get the paperwork going.” Mimi can tell that I’m doing the math, calculating the thousands of dollars in extra wages I’ll have to factor in to the next cost record.

  “They’ll be worth it, you’ll see,” she says, then makes a fast exit. It’s in my best interest to trust her, even if her sense of what’s worth it seems fairly skewed; this morning I had to distract her so she’d forget about the Bloomingdales.com shopping cart she’d filled with three thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry, about to be charged to her corporate credit card, no doubt.

  My phone rings, and I pick up. “I just saw quite the sick puppy.”

  “Hey, Jule,” I say into the receiver. Some veterinarians probably take notes between patients, but Julia prefers to call me to debrief. I’ve told her at least a hundred times that I’m not free to chat at hourly intervals throughout the work day, but her calls keep coming. And I always pick up.

  “That poodle must’ve gotten into one very emotional eater’s stash of chocolate,” my wife says. “Seriously, his owner weighed like three hundred pounds.”

  “Julia, I’m really kind of slammed right now.” I take in the pileup on my desk, a paper trail of everything we’ve paid out for the August issue: writers, photo shoots, clothing and props, models, intern stipends, and a dozen other things. “I can’t really talk.”

  “Oh, come on, did I offend you? I’m just joking. I resuscitated the little doggie, I promise. And this morning I extracted a penny from a cat’s stomach.”

  “Yuck.”

  “So how’s the tabulation going?” It’s Julia’s usual question; she likes to poke fun at what she views as my very dull job. It just so happens I am midcalculation. I’m only halfway through the issue’s expenses, and we’re already $250,000 up from the July issue.

  “Not great, actually. We’re grossly overbudget. Although all Mimi seems to want me to do is track what comes in and what goes out, not make any actual changes based on the numbers. I’m like a Monopoly banker.”

  “Or an Excel spreadsheet.”

  “Very funny.” Money matters were a different story with Louisa. Every year Corporate kept shrinking our budget, and we’d have to scrimp and scrounge and practically work magic to make the show go on. I scrutinized expense reports line by line—a midafternoon latte while on location was not a valid professional expense, I’d tell the staff—and I unearthed up-and-coming photographers who hadn’t yet realized they could charge the going rate for shoots. It was a real challenge, but a gratifying one.

  “So you’re a big spender now?” Julia teases. “Hard to imagine from Target’s number one customer.”

  “You know how it is, always living large at Hers.” I’m not being as facetious as I sound. The thirtieth floor mysteriously hasn’t called us out on our new free-for-all spending sprees, despite no news of an expanded budget. I’ve heard rumors of this kind of thing: Corporate turning a blind eye when a new editor in chief steps in. I’ve learned to not push my questioning with Mimi, but it makes me feel inconsequential to have so little control over the finances, which I’m supposed to be in charge of.

  Erin tiptoes into my office and sets a frothy drink down on my desk. “What’s this?” I ask.

  “Huh?” Julia says through the phone.

  “Sorry, the intern just brought me coffee, but—”

  “Oh, the pretty little intern has a thing for you?” Julia asks.

  “Mimi thought you might like a Frappuccino,” Erin whispers.

  “Of course she did,” I say to Erin, who smiles, then steps out.

  “By the way, check your in-box,” says Julia. “I’m sending you more profiles.”

  “All ambitious, sporty, and upbeat?” I ask.

  “Triple check, and with green eyes, too.” I roll my brown ones—I don’t know what Julia’s obsession is with having a green-eyed child. “Just read them, OK?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Lately I feel like I moonlight as an examiner of sperm donor profiles. The process makes me uneasy, and I’d just as soon let Julia pick the guy, but she insists I be involved.

  “You have to go, don’t you?” she asks.

  “How can you tell?”

  “I can hear you fretting your brow from here. It’s deafening. I’ve got a German shepherd waiting on me, anyway. Ta-ta, my love.”

  I hang up, then poke my head out of my office to survey the scene: I’m not surprised to see that the desks are all dotted with Starbucks’ signature green straws stabbed through clear cups. I lock eyes with Mimi, who raises her drink in a toast. “It’s hot as hell out there,” she says. “It seemed like a nice treat, iced beverages for all.”

  Five-dollar iced beverages, I think, but I swallow my reprimand along with the sugary froth. It ta
stes delicious.

  Victoria’s shouts echo down the hall, and I assume she must be hopped up on all that Starbucks: “They’re obviously pretending they didn’t say those things because they’re having second thoughts,” she trills. But then I spot our research chief, Sylvia—oh, dear; whatever the situation is, it’s likely due to more than caffeine. Victoria’s voice escalates: “You have the transcripts, don’t you?”

  Deciding to intervene, I go hover outside Victoria’s office (which I still think of as Leah’s). I can see the back of Sylvia’s head, that tight coil of jet-black hair. The woman is a dynamite fact checker, but she tends to bring out the worst in editors. “You guys OK in there?” I ask tentatively.

  “We’re discussing some alleged facts in the cheaters story,” says Sylvia. Victoria rolls her eyes. “Certain sources are claiming they’re being misrepresented.”

  “That’s because our writer is top-notch and she got the women to open up about all the horrible ways they screwed over their husbands,” Victoria says. “Now they’re panicking that they revealed so much. But it’s all there in the transcripts.”

  “We don’t have tape recordings of these so-called transcripts. And it’s not just that. The expert quotes have been twisted to the point of no recognition. Let’s see now: Dr. Masterson said that some couples, with a lot of hard work and in most cases counseling, can sometimes work to repair the trust in a relationship after an affair. You have him saying, ‘Cheating is the new spat. Plenty of pairs go through it, but they get over it and move on.’ I’ve looked through his book and, for starters, he would never use the word ‘spat.’ ” Sylvia spits out the word, and Victoria recoils. The staff is constantly complaining about Sylvia, but most of her concerns seem valid to me. I admire how she stands her ground.