Pretty in Ink

by Lindsey Palmer

  As per Mimi’s instructions, I’ve gathered everyone’s final round of ideas memos for the November relaunch. It’s clear some people have gotten with the program—pitching juicy stories about women who gained and then lost and then regained one hundred pounds; round-table discussions between reality stars in which we pick the fights, let them duke it out, and then declare a winner; and fashion stories based on celebrity kid trends.

  Some of the names on the cover sheets are unfamiliar—it’s those new freelancers, the potential replacements, I think. One proposes sensational real-women stories: a tightrope walker who’s been in traveling circuses for forty years; a five foot one, ninety-nine-pound mother of three who’s the most successful bounty hunter in Tennessee; a mail-order bride who’s been hit by lightning; and a woman who found out on her wedding day that her fi-ancé was still married. Gold mine. I do favors for some people, correcting Zoe’s misspellings and grammar mistakes, jazzing up Leah’s wording, and subbing out an adjective from Debbie’s memo that I’ve learned Mimi dislikes. But ultimately, not everyone can be saved. And although I didn’t ask for it, I fear I will have a hand in who else stays or goes.

  The night before the meeting to present Hers’ fresh vision to the advertising sales team, I try on my new suit. “Spin around,” says Jenny, who’s come over to offer moral support. “Show me the full view.”

  I check myself out in the mirror. “I look like a lawyer. I don’t feel like me.” In preparation for the meeting, which I was invited to without explanation, Mimi sent me off to Saks Fifth Avenue with her corporate card and without a spending cap. I imagine Abby knew nothing about it.

  “Well, I think you look fantastic,” Jenny says. “And after so long of being overworked and underpaid, you’re finally getting the recognition you deserve. It’s a sign, I know it.” Jenny, who still hasn’t found work since Mimi fired her, seems to have transposed all of her career ambitions onto me.

  “I’m still overworked and underpaid, as you well know. I just have a new outfit.”

  “Wearing a suit like that, Mimi has to give you a raise.”

  “She doesn’t have to do a thing she doesn’t want to do.” Two and a half months removed from the corporate world, and Jenny has reimagined the whole business as a Disney movie. She has me cast as the underappreciated worker toiling away until one day the big boss miraculously recognizes her skill and talent, doubles her salary, and launches a parade down Fifth Avenue to celebrate the occasion. She may well be right, but I’ve always hated parades.

  “The brand-new face of Hers will be fresh, vibrant, and appealing to today’s thirty-something woman who’s blazing her own path through modern adulthood,” Mimi announces to the ad sales team, clicking her remote control through a series of slides. The women who appear on-screen are stylish and laughing; they’re riding bikes, buying flowers, and picnicking with handsome men and cute kids. Victoria and I flank our boss’s sides at the front of the room, and I’m trying not to fidget, nervous and itchy in my new suit. The sound system blasts “Party in the U.S.A.” and then fades into “American Boy.” The soundtrack is familiar, though I can’t place it. It’s very hot in here.

  “An hour spent with the all-new Hers will be like a happy-hour dish session with your best friend,” Mimi continues. “Through practical, can-do tip pieces, gorgeous beauty and fashion coverage, deep-dive features, and can’t-put-it-down reads, we’ll share with our reader all the joys, thrills, and complexities of what it means to be a wife, a mom, a career woman, a friend, a fashionista, a coupon clipper, and—most important—a woman.”

  Next, images of reality TV personalities flash up on the screen. Mimi goes on: “Today’s reader is obsessed with stars, and Hers will help her get that fix. We’ll expand our celebrity coverage, infusing it into our parenting, relationships, home, and food sections.” Beside each reality star, a product she shills pops up on-screen. “Plus, this strategy will open us up to new advertising revenue streams.” The nodding audience members look like bobbleheads.

  “Each section will speak to the nitty-gritty reality of our readers’ actual lives,” says Mimi. “That means recipes you can prep in twenty-five minutes or less, fashion that’s actually wearable, and juicy stories that will let the reader leave behind the dirty dishes and fights with her husband as she escapes to the bathroom, locks the door, sinks into the tub, and grabs a precious fifteen minutes with her favorite magazine.”

  Wait a minute, I think. That’s Louisa image: the woman in the tub stealing her precious moments with Hers. As “California Girls” queues up on the speakers, I realize this is the exact soundtrack Louisa played in her last ad sales meeting; it was compiled by Leah, who incidentally wasn’t invited to this meeting.

  “We’ll draw in the reader with fun entertainment and practical advice that’s specialized just for her,” Mimi drones on. I’m wondering how long this meeting will last. My heels are rubbing raw in my new pumps; I can feel the beginnings of blisters. “We’ll give the reader the tools to live a life she can feel passionate about, and to make every day calmer, richer, and happier. We’ll talk to her on her own level about the topics and issues she cares about most. And if that’s plastic surgery and TV catfights, so be it.” Polite laughter all around. My knees feel weak.

  “Perhaps most important, the new Hers will be an advertiser’s dream,” Mimi says, emphasizing the last two words. “Our stories will be perfect companions to their products, which will give them every incentive to get in on the revival of a classic brand and to be integrated into the stories that will be the talk of mommy blogs, Facebook threads, and afternoon carpool chats and coffee dates. Hers’ fresh editorial mission will usher in a new chapter of success for the brand and launch us into earning the big bucks. So who’s with me?”

  Half the room leaps to their feet, and the applause is raucous. If I weren’t standing up at the front, a so-called ambassador to the brand, I would plug my ears.

  “Now who has questions?”

  Suit after suit stands up and spouts jargony nonsense, asking about projected growth and advertising base rate and other concepts I know zilch about. I do my best not to zone out entirely, to chime in here and there and toe the appropriate party line. But I’m struggling with an intense bout of déjà vu; each time I look over and see Mimi, not Louisa, running the show, I feel disoriented. These ad sales meetings have always called for a smoke-and-mirrors routine, as the editors sell the content to the folks who actually bring in the money (and that’s why they’re the ones who get the ka-ching Christmas bonuses, Zoe likes to point out), but this meeting feels extreme. All this talk of “the new Hers” sounds strikingly similar to how we talked about the old Hers, only now with the clothing price tags slightly dropped and the celebrity-to-real-woman ratio tipped. I look around the room and the faces are beaming, their eyes glinting up at Mimi like she’s the second coming. Most of them were here under Louisa’s reign, so why don’t they see what I see?

  I shift in my suit uncomfortably. My skirt feels like it’s shrunk a size, and a slick sweat sprouts up across my back, sticking camisole to skin. I feel myself overheating. I’m struck with the realization that, standing here at the front of this room, I am serving as a key seamstress of our fair empress Mimi’s new clothes. I peel off my jacket, but the feeling that it’s choking me remains. Then, black.

  When I blink awake, three faces are hovering over me in a huddle, three strands of pearls hanging from their three corresponding necks. The necklaces dangle so close to my face that I could stick my tongue out and lick them. “She’s awake,” says one of the faces. I blink again and realize I’m lying atop the worn carpeting of the conference room, a foot from the front row of chairs.

  “What happened?” I ask. In my peripheral vision I glance shiny wingtips and slim ankles, vulnerable in teetering heels.

  “You passed out for a minute there,” says another one of the faces. A hand begins fanning me with a copy of Hers. “It was a very dramatic end to the meeting.”<
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  “She must’ve been wowed by all of the big changes to the magazine. Ha!” It’s Mimi’s voice from somewhere far off.

  “She’s OK now,” I hear Victoria say, and then her face appears in my range of vision, her features pinched together like a prune.

  “You’ll be OK, right?”

  I nod, sitting up slowly. My head feels filled with helium. By the time I manage, “I think I’ll just sit here a minute,” Victoria has already turned away.

  The voices fade, the people file out, and then I’m alone in the conference room. The white noise sounds loud and distorted, as if someone has amped up the bass and transformed the office into a deserted nightclub.

  It’s Zoe who eventually comes and finds me on the floor. “I heard what happened and ran over stat,” she says. “So what’s the dealio, they abandoned you and left you in here for dead? Way harsh.”

  “I told them it was all right. I’m fine, really. I just need to rest for a bit.” I’m suspicious Zoe is here only to hound me for gossip, but she passes me a glass of water, which makes me realize how thirsty I am. I take in a long drink, the liquid like a salve. My blurred vision begins to clear. “Thanks, Zo.”

  “You should’ve seen Victoria. Her ears were practically spouting steam, like you planned this whole thing on purpose just to steal Mimi’s thunder. I was ROTFL.”

  “Oh no, really?” The lightheadedness returns, and an image of a pink slip floats through my mind.

  “Don’t worry, it’s NBD. I told Mimi you suffer from a rare condition that causes you to faint when you get overly excited.”

  “What?”

  “She totally ate it up, believe me. I don’t think she’s steamed. In fact, she seemed flattered to hear you had such a strong reaction to her presentation.”

  “Zoe, you’re a trip.”

  “Come on, I’m helping you up and taking you home ASAP.” She walks me back to my desk, then insists on accompanying me in a cab all the way to the Upper East Side, even though she lives down in Tribeca.

  When we pull up to my street, Zoe leans out the window. “Hey, look, it’s a bar.” She points to a sign featuring a buxom barmaid holding a pair of hefty beer steins. “Out of the car, lady, we’re getting you a drink.”

  “I don’t think I’m up for that, Zo.”

  “Here’s what I think, Jane S.S.: You’re stressing about a job that’s not worth the energy and you’ve spent way too long down in the dumps about some lame dude who stomped on your heart ages ago. In my professional opinion, what you need is a generous dose of booze and some flirty convo with a cutie-pie guy.”

  “Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Zoe, but I’m wiped.”

  “Nope, sorry, enough of this FML B.S. We’re going in.”

  And then I’m being hoisted up, dragged into the bar, and forced to down a shot of bourbon. “OK, I’ve spotted our prey,” says Zoe. “See those guys down there? Don’t look now, but they are hashtag-adorbs.” Suddenly Zoe is flipping her hair and batting her eyelids and laughing as if I’ve said something fascinating and hilarious.

  After five minutes, the bartender approaches. “Excuse me, ladies. Two shots of bourbon, compliments of the gentlemen at the end of the bar.” He points to the same guys Zoe zeroed in on earlier.

  “Bingo, works like a charm,” she says, raising a shot glass and nodding at the guys. “Bottoms up.”

  I tilt my head back, then come up coughing. My cheeks are burning. Jeez, I must be getting drunk. “That-a-girl,” Zoe says, patting me on the back. The boys make their way toward us.

  “Ladies,” says the cuter of the two, sidling up to Zoe. She deftly shifts positions, so he’s now next to me.

  “Yum-o, we coulda used a double of that, right, Jane?” Zoe says.

  I nod like an idiot.

  “I’m Jon,” says the cute one, shaking my hand. “Pete,” says the other guy, who manages a hand on Zoe’s thigh for a millisecond before she swats it away.

  “Jane S.S. here is a brilliant rising star in the super-glam world of magazine publishing,” says Zoe. “And what do you guys do?”

  “We’re drifters, wanderers, nomads of the soul,” Jon says.

  “Interesting,” I say, finding my voice. I notice Jon has the same dreamy chocolate eyes as Jacob, my ex.

  “What does that mean exactly?” Zoe asks. “Are you unemployed?” I shoot her a look.

  “More like, in between gigs,” Pete says.

  “Hmm,” Zoe says. “Well, thank you, gentlemen, for the drinks. We actually have some work to do. We’re in the middle of a business meeting. TTYL.” They slink away, clearly stung.

  “What the hell, Zo? They seemed nice.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Jane, listen, you’ve got to take care of yourself. It’s all well and good to get a free drink, but with your crap salary—sorry, harsh, I know, but I’ve been there—it’s important to find a guy who can make bank, not some so-called musician” (this is a dig at Jacob) “and not some lame-o who doesn’t even earn a paycheck.”

  Zoe buys us another round of shots, doubles this time, which is when the room starts to spin. In retrospect, it’s difficult to piece together the rest of the night, the various gestures and glances and decisions that led me from sloshing those several ounces of liquor down my throat to waking up in an unfamiliar bed with an unfamiliar boy lying next to me. What I do remember is rocking out to that terrible Helena Hope country song that’s on every radio station this summer, first with Zoe on our stools and then later with some guy on the dance floor. I remember another round of shots—vodka? gin?—with a pack of guys out on a bachelor party. I remember Zoe telling me that Mimi wants me to write about my supposed fainting condition for the magazine, and then saying it was late and skedaddling before I could wring her neck. I remember a gust of night air in my face, and then climbing into a cab even as I was half-aware that my apartment was less than a block away. And … that’s it.

  I sit up in this strange bed, and it takes my head a moment to catch up with the rest of my body; when it does, the pounding begins. I observe that I am wearing a bra, but no underwear and that the mystery man next to me appears to be naked. I glance around the room that belongs to a guy whose name I cannot recall but who seems to have won the dubious prize of being the third person I’ve slept with (besides Jacob and my college boyfriend). I see a desk, a dresser, a butterfly chair, and—aha!—the various pieces of my new suit twisted up and tossed onto a set of golf clubs in the corner.

  Careful not to disturb the unknown sleeper beside me, I vacate the bed and tiptoe back into the various pieces of my suit, feeling even more uncomfortable in the outfit than I did a day earlier. On the street, it takes me less than a minute to orient myself. I spot two falafel joints and a tattoo parlor, and then a pair of teenagers clad all in black, both of them lugging giant backpacks and looking and smelling as if they haven’t showered in a week. I shudder, feeling unclean by association. I must be on St. Mark’s Place. I hail a cab uptown.

  Back in my apartment I chug three glasses of water, peel off each wrinkled piece of my suit, and stand naked before the mirror, blinking at the image of my nude self. Here I am, I think, the survivor of a one-night stand. Feeling half-amazed and half-ashamed at this turn of events, I search for physical signs of my transformation. But my skin neither beams a special glow nor breaks out in hives; it’s as unblemished as ever, not a freckle marring the smooth, pale surface, nothing amiss to give me away. Mimi would probably love for me to blog about this experience; the thought brings on a shivery wave of nausea.

  I begin to detect the cling of an invisible film, sticky and stinky on my skin, and I scratch at it, feeling even sicker. I try to convince myself that I’m imagining it. I simply feel icky from last night’s random coupling, I reason; all I need is a cold shower to rinse off the foulness. But a part of me knows better. I flash on yesterday’s meeting—Mimi’s empty presentation, the meaningless corporate speak, all of the gleaming eyes and clapping hands—and just in time, I rush
to the wastebasket.

  11

  Ed Comello, Mail Manager

  Just for kicks, I decide to time the morning’s mail drop-off: twenty-three minutes to sort and distribute the load into everyone’s individual boxes. Damn, it used to take me sixteen. The names keep changing on the slots, and it’s been like musical chairs out on the floor—this one going to that cubicle, that one moving into that office, another one booted out for good. I’ve been at this for a while now, but all this lunatic switching around and trying to figure out whose mail goes where, it’s keeping me on my toes.

  Used to be, it meant good news when the mail labels changed. One of the girls moving up to a better job somewhere else, someone new coming in, eager to take over the spot. But now it’s like I work at a funeral home, only removing labels for tragedy and misfortune. I don’t always know the story—what with all the new folks around I’m not as entrenched in the gossip—but I can feel it. It’s in the atmosphere; it’s frosty, makes me shiver.

  I take a quick break to page through the Post and grab a cup of coffee. One of the new girls walks by and gives me a look like, What’s with the slacking? As if I don’t see the lot of them messing around on Facebook half the day. No one used to mind if I rested my legs now and then. The girls would strut by in their tall shoes, and ask me, “How ’bout them Mets?” like they knew anything about the team besides that I’m a fan. Just being nice. Even Louisa would stop to chat. I’d ask after her two kids, and she’d do the same about my Becky and Joey, wondering how they were doing in school. Small talk, but friendly. Real nice. The boss’s assistant, Jenny, would bring me little knickknacks for Becky, sparkly nail polishes and rainbow socks. Sweet girl. Too bad.

  Leah passes by and offers up a little smile, but doesn’t stop to talk. Everyone’s on edge these days. Probably would do them all a world of good to just wrestle it out in a good old-fashioned catfight. Some scratching, hair pulling, the whole works. But I’ve learned these girls are experts at the nicey-nice kind of fighting, the subtle digs and jabs that are hard to spot. Sneaky sabotage. Much nastier.