Pretty in Ink

by Lindsey Palmer

  What I want to say is, “I’m terrified and I’m not even sure I’m going to go through with it.” What I actually say is, “I’m excited, but also scared. I’m not sure if I’m ready, but can you ever really be?”

  Zoe, meanwhile, has stopped ribbing me about getting fat. When I start polishing off entire calzones at lunch and then visit the vending machine for Kit Kats an hour later, I see her pretending not to notice. Bless her. But as if to make up for Zoe’s discretion, Johanna approaches one afternoon just as I’m tearing open a second candy bar; in her dumb British accent, she offers the following unsolicited advice: “Pardon, but you know you only need three hundred additional calories per day when you’re pregnant. That way, you won’t blow up like a blimp and forever be known as the mum with the giant arse who couldn’t shed her baby weight. Cheerio!” My mouth is full of chocolate as she walks away.

  Debbie appears with a tray of cheese and crackers. “Five more hours until Labor Day weekend—three whole days of freedom!” she says, holding out her spread to our cluster of cubicles. But when I reach for a piece of Brie, she snatches my hand away. “No soft cheese, Jane,” she snaps. “Do you want your kid to be born with two heads? Jesus!”

  “Not fair,” I say, sulking empty-handed while everyone else samples the offerings.

  Victoria is a fountain of syrupy sympathy: “You just relax, take a seat,” she says, loading up a cracker with a wedge of cheddar. “It’s probably going to get harder and harder for you to move around, right? It’s a good thing we don’t have the time to take lunch breaks these days, so you can just stay put at your desk!”

  I want to throttle her, but I remind myself of what Debbie just mentioned: only five more hours to endure until my weekend at the beach. “Staying put at my desk sounds great,” I say. I can’t resist adding, “Can I count on you, Victoria, to deliver my meals?” Debbie snickers.

  Instead of responding, Victoria hands me a stack of proofs. “These pieces still need some work.”

  I sigh and return to my desk, cheeseless. As usual, the stories are marked up to the gills with that curlicued penmanship Victoria should have grown out of by her early teens. I toss the pages aside and decide to Google my name instead. This habit doesn’t deliver the same fix as accruing office supplies, but it’ll do in a pinch. I expect the usual posts about the other Jane Staub-Smith, a successful stockbroker in Cincinnati who’s always doing respectable things like making donations to open a new branch of the local art museum or winning third place in her age group (thirty-five to forty) in her church’s 10K. I’ve learned her husband is a hand surgeon, and from her picture I can tell she’s tall and slim with these impossible boobs that are both large and perky. I rely on the other Jane Staub-Smith to continue racking up accomplishments as my life plods along mundanely.

  When the new posts pop up on the screen, my first thought is, Oh no, what has Cincinnati Jane gotten herself mixed up in? There’s a message board called “Winners’ Circle,” and the teaser shows our shared name beside a series of expletives. I click through to the site, which displays a long string of messages. It’s not until I see the word “Hers” that I realize the posts are in fact about me. One says, “Hers sent me a load of crap! I was supposed to win a big beauty basket, but all they mailed me was a bunch of useless JUNK!!! Screw them! Associate editor Jane Staub-Smith handles prizes. Send complaints to Jane.Staub-Smith@Hers.com.” I’m shocked and indignant. As if this commenter worked so hard to win her goddamned soap basket instead of just filling out a three-line form! I scroll down to the next one: “I’ve never won anything before, and boy was I disappointed when I opened my package to find three XXL T-shirts all with the slogan ‘This Bitch Votes.’ ” (A fair complaint, actually.) I read another: “So unfair for you guys! Thanks for sharing the e-mail for the evil Hers prize lady. I plan on giving her a piece of my mind!” Evil Hers prize lady! Shit.

  I’m trembling as I check my e-mail, and sure enough, a torrent of notes have poured in during the past half hour. They’re all variations on a theme: Hers rips people off and I’m a terrible person. It’s not just the prizewinners writing; they’ve got dozens of supporters, too. The messages keep arriving, ping after ping of vitriol delivered directly to my in-box.

  I start to sweat. I wonder if the angry e-mailers have dug up Hers’ physical address, too; if they’ve organized a protest group; if any minute they’ll burst through the elevator doors and charge at me with burning torches, or at least very sharp pencils. Will they find out where I live and come stalk me at my home?

  My palms go clammy and I’m gasping for air. I feel desperate to scavenge. A hole punch would really do the trick. I race to the supply closet. I sneak through the door, and then—smack!—bump into a body. I scream.

  “Hey, calm down,” says a deep voice. “It’s just me.” The light flicks on.

  “Oh, Ed. Jeez, you scared me.”

  “Sorry, honey. I was just grabbing an extra bin.” The mail guy puts a hand on my shoulder, and I take a deep breath, finally able to take in oxygen. “Oh, hey, congratulations on the big news,” he says. I notice his eyes are emerald.

  “Oh, thanks.” Apparently even the mail guy knows I’m knocked up. He reaches to place his palm on my stomach, and unlike with the rest of my coworkers, I find I don’t mind the touch. His hand is warm, his fingers long and calloused. My breath slows, and I imagine even the creature inside me is soothed, pausing its persistent campaign to make me panic.

  “Isn’t that nice,” Ed says, smiling down at me. I suddenly realize how small the supply closet is. Ed and I are inches apart. He smells like Old Spice.

  “I’ll be sure to save you some goodies from the mailroom,” he says. “Someone’s wife is always baking us something or other. I’m sure you’re extra hungry, eating for two now.”

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling utterly grateful. I don’t think it’s just because Ed is the only straight man in our office that I’m so attracted to him. Unlike most of the wispy, skinny jean–wearing men I encounter in New York (my ex included), Ed has the sexy brawn and ruggedness of someone who hauls things for a living. He could star in a commercial for Home Depot or Budweiser.

  “You’re glowing, you know.” He’s looking at me in a way that I remember Jacob used to. Maybe Ed is one of those mythical men you hear about who actually finds pregnant women sexy. A flood of desire surges up inside of me. I step over a pile of legal pads, lean in, and press my lips against Ed’s.

  He stumbles backward. “Whoa there, hang on a minute, Jane.”

  Oh, shit. The words from the e-mails start flooding my mind: You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re an awful person to screw over decent people. What is wrong with you? Evil Hers lady. I will the supply shelf to come crashing down upon us, to shower us in envelopes and binder clips and red pens, to free us from this cramped nightmare.

  “You’re a very beautiful woman, of course, but I’m a married man.” I nod stupidly, paralyzed in place, tears starting to stream down my face. The newsreel of the inevitable is unrolling in my head: Everyone finds out about this kiss, the rumors of my slutty stupidity spread like wildfire, I’m shamed in front of the entire staff, then fired, then sued a million dollars for sexual harassment and blackballed from the industry, so that I go broke and can’t make rent and have to declare bankruptcy. Fast-forward eight months, and I’m all alone, raising a newborn on the streets.

  It feels like minutes later when I manage to snap out of my stupor. I bolt from the closet.

  The entire office is in a frenzy. I wonder if I’m imagining it. Could they possibly already know? Is there a hidden camera in the supply closet? I start hyperventilating. My hands are trembling like crazy.

  Zoe rushes to my side. “Hey, it’s OK. Really, it’s not that bad.” She swings an arm over my shoulder.

  “It is that bad. It’s humiliating.”

  “I know. Shhh, calm down.”

  “I mean, I’m pregnant, for God’s sake.”

  “I know, I kn
ow. But I really don’t think it will affect us.”

  Huh? I look up and see all the bigwigs huddled in Mimi’s office: Victoria, Abby, Johanna, and Lynn. The door is closed, and all four look as if they’re in the principal’s office, awaiting suspension. Mimi’s shouts carry through the glass, and though it’s difficult to make out the words, the sentiment is clear. I hear, “Who the hell—” and “Major scandal …” and “Totally fucking screwed!” I’m not positive, but it doesn’t seem like they’re talking about me sexually harassing the mail guy.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper to Zoe. Laura shoots me a look of disgust.

  “Seriously, where have you been for the last fifteen minutes?” asks Zoe. “Come here.” She pulls me over to her desk, and types “MAGnifier.net” into her Web browser. A photo of Helena Hope loads up on the screen, the image that’s planned for our November cover.

  “What is this? How did they get that picture?”

  “Watch,” says Zoe. Just then the screen flashes and another image appears: It’s nearly the same photo, but in this one, Helena looks different—puffier and older, her eyes rimmed with crow’s feet and bags. The coloring is off, too, and her dress is mussed in an unflattering way. Another flash and the screen reverts to the prettier photo, the November cover.

  “Seriously, what is this?!”

  “OMG Jane, really? Just read.” I scan the post:

  We Have a Winner: Hers Destroys Our “Hope” with Major Hackup of Singer Helena Hope

  Women’s magazines have a habit of making us feel terrible about our weight, our hair, our skin, our clothes, our relationship, our social life, our career, our finances, the conflicts in the Middle East, etc., etc., etc. Then they make us feel bad about feeling bad about those things, y’know? You may remember we put a call-out for submissions of pre-Photoshopped covers of lady mags (with a not-too-shabby reward of $10K), so we could uncover yet another reason these mags give us to feel bad about ourselves. Nearly a dozen photo assistants, production interns, and whoever the hell else lurks around at photo shoots and digital alteration caves heeded our siren call, and the day has come for the big reveal. Drum roll please! And the winner, the worst offender in women’s magazine land, the parent production of the photo most heinously airbrushed is (OK, we know the header was a spoiler) … Hers magazine!

  Granted, Hers faced quite the conundrum with its November cover girl, popular crooner Helena Hope: On the one hand, at age 39, the country-western star is squarely within Hers’ demo, plus a hugely successful singer whose last two albums went platinum and who therefore has the potential to sell millions of magazines (yeah, we know you’ve only ever heard of that one earworm of a song, but you’re not exactly the coupon-clipping midwestern soccer mom Hers is targeting, are you?). Helena’s kinda hot, too. But on the other hand, Helena is only kinda hot, she’s pushing 40, and we’re guessing she’s ingested her fair share of chicken-fried steaks on her recent tour across Dixieland. In other words, she’s probably not gonna squeeze into those size-2 stonewashed jeans that stars like her seem to favor. And really, who would buy a magazine with an über-successful but only average pretty, slightly pudgy, slightly aged singer on its cover?

  Hers’ apparent conclusion: NO ONE! So let the airbrushing begin! For those who don’t know, the November issue marks the grand reboot from newly minted editor in chief Mimi Walsh—her big, splashy, highly anticipated redesign! This Helena Hope hack-up sends a strong message about the new direction of the magazine, don’t cha think? The revamped team at Hers is upping the airbrush ante, ladies. Find the fakey-fake issue on newsstands in six short weeks.

  After the jump, check out our airbrush-by-number look at just how far the Hers miracle workers went in transforming heinously fat, ugly, old (read: not supermodel-anorexic-20-something) Helena Hope into standard cover girl fembait.

  “Wow,” I say. I can’t bring myself to click through past the jump.

  “Uh, you think?” says Zoe. “There are already parodies up all over the Web, too. Someone posted a YouTube video pretending to be our photo editors in the digital studio. They have a pic of Kate Moss up on screen and they keep moving around her body parts until she looks like a Picasso. They claim she’ll sell more issues that way.”

  “That’s actually kind of funny.” I start giggling and find I can’t stop. The monster performs somersaults in my stomach, as if in relief. Here is a scandal that no one can blame on me. I am not responsible. I am not involved. The truth is, I pretty much agree with the Web site’s post, and I feel a small thrill that someone within our ranks took a risk to expose the kind of unrealistic standards of beauty we promote. Still, I could not be happier that that person is not me.

  The taste of Ed—cigarettes and Swiss cheese—is still faint in my mouth, but no one saw, no one knows. The whole office is flipping out, phones ringing like crazy and at least one person crying in a cubicle. Stay sane, Jane, I say to myself, relishing the opportunity to seem like one of the calmer ones. And I actually feel sane. I rub my belly and whisper, “Hey, little guy, my secret scandal’s safe with us.” What I’m going to do about this other scandal, the one currently growing in my stomach, is not at all certain, but for the moment I don’t feel panicked about figuring it out. Whatever I end up deciding will be all right—I’ll make sure of it. I return to my desk and, amidst the mayhem surrounding me, I set to work with laser focus. For the first time in weeks I feel confident I will survive the storm and still have a job come tomorrow.

  19

  Drew Hardaway, Photo Editor

  I never call in sick. As a policy, I don’t get sick. I believe that once you’ve made a commitment to show up, you show up, no questions asked. I once photographed a Bar Mitzvah cruise ship party in December while running a 103-degree fever and delirious with the flu. The pictures turned out gorgeous.

  Today, for the first time in my career, I’m copping out. No, I didn’t spend the night upchucking into the toilet bowl, and I don’t have some hacking bronchial cough. And it isn’t because of the very real fact that I was awake all night waiting for Mark to come home or at least call (I’ve pulled plenty of all-nighters), or that I’ll likely be out both a boyfriend and a home in the very near future (I’ve always been fast to adapt to new circumstances).

  Rather, I’m lying in bed consumed with fear, actually sick with it. The various accusations Mark hurled at me last night—that I’m not a real artist, that I’ve sold out to corporate America—keep resounding in my head. But although it’s troubling that my boyfriend would put me down with such disdain, I’m not actually scared that what he said is true. I know it’s true, and what terrifies me is that this knowledge doesn’t bother me. If I’m brutally honest with myself, I’ll admit I feel more passionate about what Mark calls my “bullshit corporate job” than I ever did about my personal photo projects or gallery shows. Working at Hers was originally supposed to subsidize my real work, but as it turns out, the former may just be my real work. Never mind that I kind of love going to a chic office every day where I get praised for my talents and hard work. Is it such a crime to enjoy all the trappings of a glamorous job with a fairly prestigious title and to aspire to climb the ladder of corporate career success? Is it really so bad to turn my back on the struggles of the true, starving artist? And so what if I have to put up with a few meetings now and then?

  Despite, or maybe because of, these discoveries, I am freaking out—hide-under-the-covers-and-avoid-the-chic-office-at-all-costs kind of freaking out. I’d like to indulge myself with the belief that this spontaneous sick day is the result of a full-on Identity Crisis, though a part of me knows it also has something to do with the fight with my boyfriend and his subsequent disappearing act. I sigh and reach for my laptop.

  I e-mail Lynn a lie about a stomach bug, and then pull myself out of bed. I avoid glancing back at the twisted, abandoned sheets for fear they’ll make my heart ache. Mark split hours ago—who knows to where?—and the apartment feels dark and echoey all by myself. I pul
l on clothes and wander outside to Riverside Park. It’s prime commuting time, and the promenade is packed with people. I pass hordes of smartly dressed workers rushing to their respective places of employment (I will not find Mark, still unemployed, in this crowd). The air feels fizzed with anticipation of the long weekend ahead.

  Mark and I were supposed to go away for Labor Day, our first real trip together. It was his idea to surprise me with the destination. I tried to get him to leak some intel: I shared news of coworkers heading to the shore and friends’ camping plans in the Adirondacks, hoping Mark would spill something of our plans. But he would only respond elusively, saying, “Isn’t that classic for Labor Day?” or “Fun, fun, fun!” Then he’d put on a wry little smile, as if to imply that whatever plans he had up his sleeve were far more interesting, far more whimsical and exotic. The secret made me crazy with anticipation.

  Last night marked the big reveal. I uncorked a bottle of sauvignon blanc, and Mark ceremoniously handed me an envelope. I felt like a presenter at the Oscars, holding in my hand the answer we’d all been waiting for. The envelope clearly contained tickets, and I imagined Venice or Madrid. I dreamed of rich culture, richer food, and roll-off-the-tongue romance languages. Of course I knew my fantasies were just that; Mark hadn’t earned a cent since he got pink-slipped from Hers, so Europe was not exactly a realistic guess for our getaway. More likely my boyfriend had booked us a cozy weekend at a bed-and-breakfast upstate. “Go on, open it already,” Mark pleaded.

  So I did. What I found were two New Jersey Transit tickets to Trenton. At first I assumed it was a joke, which is why I smirked at Mark. I thought, he couldn’t possibly have psyched me up for days and days in order to swoop me away—surprise!—to a city known best for its boarded-up storefronts, its rampant blight, its poverty and crime.

  Mark grinned back at me, and his words—“So cool, right?”—made me understand this was not some hilarious antic. Poof went my fantasy Academy Awards gown, my glamorous updo, my neck and wrists glittering with jewels; I pictured myself falling from the prestigious podium right back down to Earth, here in the cramped apartment I shared with my boyfriend, a guy who was ecstatic about a romantic getaway to Trenton, New Jersey.