Pretty in Ink

by Lindsey Palmer

  “You would not believe the deal I found at this motel, for a holiday weekend no less,” he said. I could in fact believe that he’d gotten a deal at a motel in Trenton. “I can start working on my project at the train station.”

  Ah yes, Mark’s project. Whenever I’d asked him about his work prospects—whether he was scanning the job boards or leaning on his network or doing anything at all to reenter the community of paycheck-earning adults—he’d start up about the project he was planning: to photograph all the major train stations in the tristate area, to capture on film these sites of decadence decayed, of glory rusted, of commerce and prosperity collapsed. That’s a great, if not particularly original, idea, I’d think, but what about a job? Yet if ever I expressed an ounce of this skepticism, Mark would flare up and accuse me of not caring about art or about him, of abandoning my own artistic sensibilities, of ignorantly succumbing to capitalism and corporate greed and the status quo.

  At first I took these accusations to heart. I’d feel guilty about how well I was thriving at Hers and start to wonder if I was doing myself a disservice by neglecting my own photography. Worse, I was ashamed that I didn’t feel the kind of void real artists are supposed to experience when they neglect their art. Producing photo shoots for articles about cheating spouses and Halloween costumes felt strangely fulfilling, or at least quite fun, and I internalized Mark’s disappointment in me. And so, ironically, at the same time that I felt happiest and most competent in my professional life, I’d never felt so lacking and miserable about myself.

  I realized Mark was still talking: “And I’m certain you’ll find inspiration on the gritty streets of Trenton, too. How could you not? It’s a mecca of stories, with so many people struggling to just get by, to do all they can to keep their homes and their jobs.”

  “Their jobs, huh?” I blurted it out before I could stop myself. “You find it inspiring that they’re making an effort to hang on to their livelihoods? That’s quite interesting.” I examined the train tickets, innocently stamped with information. Who knew a couple of city abbreviations on a slip of paper could cause such consternation?

  “Oh, come on, Drew. This is our kind of adventure! Don’t tell me you’re not happy for me to pursue my passion. Don’t tell me you’re not excited to venture out and explore this pocket of our country together.”

  Mark’s soulful, pleading eyes were so full of hope and maybe even love that it was almost enough for me to cave. But I took a deep inhale and said it: “That is exactly what I’m telling you, Mark. I’m not happy, and I’m not excited, and I’m not going with you.”

  I exhaled the rest of my breath, feeling like I’d shrugged off a backpack full of boulders, one I hadn’t even known I’d been lugging around. Somewhere along the way I’d stopped feeling guilty for not being the artist—or the person—Mark wanted me to be. Even more, I’d started letting myself be pissed off that my boyfriend was not living in the real world that requires income, and that in a few short, severance-dwindling weeks he’d have zero means to earn his keep.

  Then Mark turned mean: “Oh, so you’re going to stay in town and work all weekend like the good little Me-me-me ass-kisser you’ve become? Or will you go to the beach with your pack of silly friends, all of you in your skimpy bikinis to fry in the sun and eat ice cream?” He pronounced “ice cream” like it was the most detestable thing he could imagine.

  “Yes,” I said sadly, only then understanding that the conversation was marking an ending. “I will probably eat some ice cream this weekend.”

  With that, Mark jumped up, tore the tickets from my hand, and fled from the apartment—off to who knows where, to Trenton, or to wander the streets of New York, or to somewhere, anywhere far from me.

  Meandering over to Riverside Drive, I detect the faint jingle of a Mister Softee ice-cream truck. It reminds me of a photo show I put on back in college: I took shots of the meatiest kinds of meat—big, bloody steaks; pork chops glistening with fat; lamb shanks the size of my head—and at the gallery opening, I cued up the Mister Softee jingle to play on loop. The idea was, how would the pairing of those photos of so-called pleasurable foods and the melody that we all associate with the simple pleasure of ice cream change people’s perceptions of what they were seeing? I was a vegan at the time, of course, and had a very specific idea of how viewers should interpret the work. The whole thing feels so silly and naïve to me now that I shudder at my former self.

  The catchy tune draws me to its source. I spot the iconic cartoon of the smiling ice-cream cone, and I order myself a chocolate shake. The sweet, cool liquid slides down my throat smooth as butter, and my mind starts motoring about all the novel ways we could shoot a Hers story about milk shakes. We could treat the ice-cream flavors like paint colors, and show them pouring out of paint cans and swirled with brushes onto bright white surfaces. Or we could meld a food and beauty story, and shoot fingers clutching at tall glasses, the nails polished to match the flavors of the shakes that the hands hold: “Match your dessert to your manicure.”

  I’m now sucking at the dregs of my milk shake, having devoured the whole thing in about four minutes. The sound snaps me out of my brainstorms. I can hear Mark’s voice in my head: “This is what you’re wasting your thoughts on, coordinating your nails with your ice cream?” He wouldn’t be wrong—I admit it’s silly—but it also makes me laugh. I’m sitting on a park bench guffawing like an idiot, so much so that the woman next to me gets up and rolls her stroller to the next bench. But I don’t care. I realize that Mark may come off as belittling and judgmental, but he really just wants the best for me, even if he doesn’t understand that his idea of the best doesn’t necessarily match my own. The thought spreads over me like a soothing balm. My boyfriend has been trying to take care of me, just as I’ve been trying to take care of him. The truth is, neither of us can give the other the right kind of care. It makes me a little sad, but mostly I feel all right.

  And then I’m dialing Lynn’s number. “Drew, is that you?” my boss answers, her voice more frantic than usual.

  “Yeah, I wanted to tell you I’m feeling a lot better, so I’ll come in this afternoon.”

  “Oh, thank you, sweet Jesus. Shit is hitting the fan up in here, and Mimi is demanding to see you on the double. I was about to beeline it to your apartment and ply you with ginger ale and Saltines until you felt well enough to haul ass out of bed and make an appearance in the office. I’ll see you soon—run if you can.” She hangs up before I can ask her exactly what kind of shit is hitting the fan.

  Still clueless, I enter the Schmidt & Delancey building, ascend the elevator, and cautiously make my way toward my desk. Laura blocks my path and redirects me to Mimi’s office. “You are wanted immediately,” she says, the glint in her eye suggesting I should be worried. I can’t possibly imagine what I’ve done wrong.

  Stepping over the threshold to Mimi’s office, I discover a group gathering. All eyes land on me, each pair projecting a different attitude: those of Mimi, Victoria, and Johanna are different shades of predatory; those of Lynn look apologetic; and those of Abby appear both agitated and sympathetic.

  “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” barks Mimi.

  “Let’s all remember that Drew was home sick this morning,” says Abby, “so she probably doesn’t know what’s going on.”

  “Oh, rubbish. As if!” It’s Johanna, fixing me with a glare. “Here, eat it up.” She plants a laptop in front of me, and the screen flashes up two images of Helena Hope: the first is the original from the photo shoot, and the second is the one I massaged and tweaked and practically alchemized into what will be our November cover. I think I’m looking at Hers’ internal server until Johanna scrolls down to what is clearly a blog, meaning it’s published on the Internet, available for anyone and everyone to see. I quickly scan the post. Oh no.

  “Who did this?” I plead, searching the faces around me for an answer. But I read the looks in their eyes. Oh.

  “See, I told you
Drew had nothing to do with it,” Lynn says. “She didn’t even know about the blog post.”

  Johanna rolls her eyes. “What, you fancy she’ll up and admit she’s responsible, like it’s no big deal? Bollocks!”

  My mind starts racing. Who could have leaked the images? The way Johanna’s attacking me, I wonder if it was actually her—a backhanded publicity stunt to drum up more press for the big relaunch, kind of like what we all know Zoe did back with her Randiest Rachel Twitter account. On the other hand, Lynn is acting awfully sympathetic; maybe she feels bad that the blame for something she did is falling on me. Lynn came to Hers out of nowhere, and it wouldn’t totally surprise me if she took on a job in women’s magazine with the express purpose of exposing our not-so-noble inner workings; this kind of subversive act would definitely do the trick. Then again, there were a dozen people on that photo shoot, and Helena Hope was categorically awful to each one of them. Every single person involved would have a motive to swipe the film and expose the singer for her true, ugly self.

  “I’ll ask it again,” says Mimi. “Do you have anything to say?”

  “I suppose I’m meant to defend myself,” I say, with a strange measure of calm. Part of me feels like this is all a charade, like even Mimi knows I would never commit this kind of betrayal and that they just need a scapegoat. “I’m not sure what I can say except that I’m sorry this happened. It’s true I was in charge of that photo shoot, and in that sense I bear some responsibility for the fact that the film was clearly not as guarded as it should have been. I would be happy to draw up some ideas for how we can run a tighter ship in the future, and I am more than willing to participate in any investigation you wish to conduct. Beyond that, I can assure you I played no part in the leaking of these photos. I love my role here at Hers, and I would never intentionally do anything to jeopardize it.” Voicing these sentiments aloud makes me realize how genuinely I feel them. I find myself sitting taller in my seat. “I hope my word is strong enough to convince you.”

  Johanna again rolls her eyes. “Look, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out you’re ticked off that your bloody boyfriend got fired. He’s out of a job, with bugger all cash flow, and you could use the easy money. Just confess already!”

  At the mention of Mark, a lump forms in my throat. “I don’t have anything more to say.”

  Abby turns to Mimi. “You sure you want me to do this?” she whispers. Mimi nods resolutely. “OK, well, here goes. Drew, thank you for your statement. As you said yourself, you were in charge of the shoot where the photos were leaked. We are asking that you voluntarily resign, and in appreciation we would like to offer you what we consider to be a generous severance package: three months’ paid salary.”

  I look from face to face. It takes me a moment to realize this is a serious proposal. “Wait a second,” I say. “You want me to fall on my sword and effectively admit I was the one who did this, to give in to your nonsense accusation?”

  “If you care so much about Hers like you say, you’ll understand that this would be a significant help to the brand,” Victoria says. “We will do everything we can to help you find a new position. It might be difficult in magazines for a while, but we all have many connections in other industries.” I guess she’s attempting to play good cop to Johanna’s bad cop; it makes me feel sick.

  “If you’re so sure I did it,” I say, “then why don’t you fire me?” I see Victoria glance nervously at Mimi. “Aha, I get it. You don’t have a real case against me, do you? Where’s your evidence, huh? If you fire me, you’re worried I’ll lawyer up and sue. Well, you’re right.”

  “Four months’ severance,” says Mimi. “How about that?” I gape at her incredulously. “Five,” she says.

  “Mimi,” Abby says, placing a hand on her arm.

  “Screw your severance,” I say. Abby’s lips curl up into the smallest smile. “I didn’t leak any photo. I am good at my job, and all of you know it. Kindly direct your witch hunt elsewhere.” I storm out of Mimi’s office, totally shocked by my own gumption.

  My heart is still pounding when I return to my desk. I pick up the phone to dial Mark, but then stop myself. Even if he did answer, he wouldn’t tell me how proud he is that I stood up for myself; he’d say I was an idiot to not take the money and run. I can hear his words exactly: “You had the opportunity to hurl a big ‘F you’ to the world of commercial quote-unquote art, and better yet, to take responsibility for an incredible act of corporate treason, and you totally blew it!” I replace the phone in its receiver, and for a moment wonder if Mark would be right. I glance at my to-do list, which includes color-correcting the images for the “Dress Like Your Fave Celeb” spread and sorting through the shots for the “5 Minutes to Hotter Sex” story. I feel a swirl of confusion in my gut.

  “Yoo-hoo.” I jump. Lynn is crouching next to my chair, her face inches from my knees. “I sneaked down here. I didn’t want anyone to see me chatting to the office’s Public Enemy Number One.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  She waves me away. “Don’t worry, in no time this will all pass and then we’ll be on to the next scandal. Mimi knows you didn’t do it, anyway. I just wanted to let you know, I’m superproud of all you said back there. You’ve got real guts, girlfriend!”

  Despite the fact that my boss looks ridiculous squatting next to my chair, I’m truly touched by her words. “Thank you,” I say.

  “And as I’ve told you before, I think you’re doing a fantastic job here. Once we all move on from this hiccup, I’m going to see about getting you the raise and promotion you deserve.” Lynn pats me on the knee, then skulks away in a crabwalk, which makes me giggle.

  I shake out my shoulders and feel the day’s pressures peel away. I lean back in my seat, close my eyes, and imagine the perfect photograph, that elusive one that’s nearly impossible to get: the composition crisp, the lighting honeyed, the image magically capturing so much more than appears before the lens. The picture in my mind’s eye is not yet in clear focus, or even developed, but I believe it’s getting there. It feels like maybe I’m picturing my future.

  I cue up Craigslist apartment listings and Google “Upper West Side moving companies,” and then get to work.

  20

  Laura Maxwell, Assistant to the Editor in Chief

  I’m on autopilot, repeating “No comment,” “No comment,” “No comment” into the receiver before the callers even identify themselves. I haven’t visited the ladies’ room in hours, terrified that a call will make it through to Mimi unimpeded. I prepared her favorite chai tea with two shakes of cinnamon just like she likes it, but she hasn’t touched the mug; this is unprecedented.

  The maintenance office called about a spill in the kitchen and said they were sending up a couple of janitors, but only once the so-called janitors burst through Mimi’s office and revealed themselves to be undercover reporters from the New York Post did I realize the incoming call hadn’t contained Schmidt & Delancey’s signature three-digit code. The weasels have parked themselves beside Mimi’s desk, unbudgeable. I’ve asked Mimi several times if she wants me to call security, but she keeps saying no. Apparently kicking them out will only make for a more disastrous story in tomorrow’s paper. Mimi has even stooped to answering their questions.

  “Look, a magazine cover is an art object that plays into women’s fantasies of the celebrity lifestyle,” I hear her say, her voice tinged with anxiety. “It’s an invented image, not a photograph. Everyone understands that when they’re at the newsstand.” One of the reporters emits a guffaw that pierces through the office’s white noise and carries down the hall. I would like to chuck my computer in his direction.

  All the interoffice calls route through my phone, so I see it when Lynn dials Drew. The photo editor doesn’t betray anything as she walks into the creative director’s office and closes the door behind her. If I had any friends around here (I gave Mimi my college roommate’s résumé last week, a not-so-subtle hint that she would be an excellent
replacement for Jane), I’d share my conviction that Drew is definitely the leaker. It’s obvious. And even though she’s one of the few holdovers who doesn’t seem to harbor a massive grudge toward me, I’m still in favor of letting her go. I know Mimi is obligated to conduct a full investigation, but if it were up to me, she would’ve canned Drew on the spot this afternoon. If Mimi can convince those smarmy reporters that one rogue staffer was responsible for all the Photoshopping, then hopefully everyone will shut up about the whole thing and just get back to enjoying the amazing new version of the magazine.

  I tilt my computer monitor away from Mimi’s office and clandestinely click through the comments on MAGnifier.net. Women are blathering on about antifeminist depictions of models in magazines, the fact that the average American woman is a size 14, and how the media is responsible for the epidemic of eating disorders in this country. Oh, cry me a river. The truth is, no one would buy a magazine that had a big fatso on its cover with acne scars and an ill-fitting dress, or even if the cover model were a normal-looking person. When I was at Starstruck, the bestselling issues featured celebrities’ new diets and how they dropped the baby weight and got back to looking amazing. That’s what readers want, even if they claim otherwise. Everyone loves hearing about how celebs are prettier, thinner, and richer than the rest of us—it’s what makes reading magazines so fun. Working in publishing, it’s our job to play into those fantasies, simple as that. The fact that Mimi is savvy enough to understand this, and therefore to produce and sell a buttload of magazines, apparently makes her a target. The mediocre are always trying to bring down the superstars, which is something I remind myself on a near-daily basis in this office.