The phone rings, and I’m about to spout another “No comment” before I realize it’s the mail center on the line. “Ms. Maxwell, your food is here.”
Darn. I forgot about the party; we’re supposed to be celebrating our intern, Erin’s, last day. “I’ll send someone down.” I call Jane over; Mimi needs me to stay put at my post.
“Can you please grab the champagne and cupcakes from the loading dock for the party?” I ask. Jane sighs loudly. Ever since that girl announced her pregnancy, she thinks she’s at the top of the masthead.
I Google “Hers magazine.” The latest hit is an editorial decrying our tactics and urging readers to cancel their subscriptions stat. I think maybe it’s a joke, or merely the ravings of some two-bit blogger typing at home in his underwear, but when I scroll to the bottom I see it’s jointly signed by the heads of the National Organization for Women, the Feminist Majority, and the Girl Scouts of America, syndicated for dozens of newspapers nationwide. Rage bubbles up in my throat, and I’m tempted to comment: Don’t these groups realize this kind of digital alteration goes on behind the scenes of every single magazine on the newsstand, that Hers is no worse than the rest? But I resist, knowing that engaging in the conversation will only stoke the flames of their outrage.
I will come up with a solution for this, I know I will. I dig through Jenny’s old files to find the phone number for Subscriber Services. My predecessor’s system confounds me—every folder the same manila, every label written out in boring ballpoint blue. I wonder how she ever found anything, and why she never took advantage of the top-of-the-line label maker I gleefully discovered in the back of a desk drawer on my first day. I would honestly label my cat if I knew she wouldn’t bite.
I come across the phone number after ten minutes of searching (which is nine minutes longer than it would’ve taken if I’d been the one to file it), and dial.
“Jenny, long time!” trills a woman with a thick midwestern accent. Subscriber Services is based in Ohio. “Got any big Labor Day plans? How are you?”
“Oh, no, Jenny doesn’t work here anymore. This is Laura, the new assistant to the editor in chief.”
“Oh, hello, Laura. I’m Margene in Subscriber Services.” That accent is an assault on my eardrums. I’m thankful I managed to lose my West Virginia drawl during my freshman year at Wellesley.
“Can you give me the latest subscriber numbers, and any recent activity?” My heart is hammering away at my chest.
“You know, there actually has been some funny business today. We’ve gotten a 3,000 percent jump in cancellations, nearly 24,000 just since this morning. It keeps picking up, too. Strange, huh? Usually this is the time of year folks really want to just sit back, relax, and hunker down with a magazine, on the beach or in the tub or—”
“Thanks.” I cut off Margene’s rambling, unable to stifle the tremble in my voice. “Would you be so kind as to send me hourly updates for the remainder of the day?” I’ll hide them from Mimi until I can come up with an idea for how to reverse this catastrophe. Maybe some sort of two-for-one promotion for former subscribers, with exclusive access to a Hers weight-loss program. Or something like that.
Meanwhile, we have a party to throw. I pen an e-mail to the staff: “Please gather in the conference room to toast a job well done by our summer intern, Erin, and to celebrate her send-off!” I attach the animated balloon banner I picked out for the e-invite, but then I second-guess the degree of cheer and remove it just before hitting Send.
I overhear Jane telling Zoe how tone-deaf my e-mail is. As if I could have anticipated that such an unfortunate turn of events would coincide with the intern’s scheduled good-bye party, as if I can just send back all of the food and drinks we’ve ordered. Scandal or not, Erin deserves recognition for all her hard work. I’m sure Mimi would agree.
The party’s turnout is paltry, the conference room sparse with staffers. I pour twenty glasses of champagne, but half remain untouched, the bubbles left to deflate in the plastic flutes. Mimi doesn’t even bother to make an appearance. Zoe is causing a scene, as usual: She downs her drink like a shot, then reaches for another. “Who wants to go halfsies on a s’mores cupcake?” she announces to the room. All afternoon she’s been her usual flippant self, as if we’re not in the middle of a crisis. I want to stick her face in a s’mores cupcake.
I escape to the kitchen to gather a gallon of milk and a stack of cups, and when I return Zoe is nestled in the corner with one of the Post reporters, piercing his cupcake with a fork and laughing idiotically. I march over. “Excuse me,” I say. “This gathering is for Hers staff members only.”
“What, am I too fat and imperfect to grace the Hers staff with my presence?” says the man, who actually does have quite a substantial gut. “I guess I better lay off the cupcakes, or you can just airbrush away my flab.” Zoe beams up at him.
“Please leave before I call security.”
“OK, OK.” On his way out, the reporter grabs another cupcake from the platter and scarfs it down. Repulsive. I dread the story that will appear in tomorrow’s paper: “Hers editors celebrate amidst the scandal, fancying themselves above the nation’s harsh judgment,” or worse, “Hers editors react to media brouhaha by feasting on cupcakes to demonstrate that they’re not the wicked anorexic freaks everyone suspects them to be,” then some silly reference to Marie Antoinette.
Drew slips in to the party. She takes a flute of champagne and clinks a plastic fork against its side. “Attention, everyone,” she announces to the room. “Look, I know it’s been a rough afternoon for all of us, but I’m glad we can take the time to acknowledge that today is Erin’s last day here at Hers. Please bear with me while I make a little speech.” She casts an arm around the intern’s shoulder. “Thanks to Erin’s talent and hard work these past three months, snafus like this one have been a bit easier to handle. She’s had a lot on her plate this summer, but throughout it all she’s maintained her cool and stayed poised and professional. Cheers, and good luck for your final year of college!”
We all raise our glasses. I wonder if Erin is aware of what’s going on in the office, although she has Internet access like the rest of us, so how could she not?
“It’s been a great summer, and such a privilege to work with all of you,” Erin says in a trembling voice, contorting her face into a queasy smile. Her complexion is ashen. Oh no, is the intern drunk? I realize I don’t even know if she’s of age, and I reprimand myself for not being a better monitor, for not living up to the level of professionalism I expect of myself. As I leave to fetch her a glass of water, I see Abby, flanked by our company lawyer, pull Drew out of the conference room.
An hour later, the managing editor’s office is still sealed shut, and no one has emerged. I wonder how long this silly investigation will be drawn out for before they cut loose the obvious culprit.
I do respect how carefully Mimi has proceeded with staff changes throughout the summer—she’s given everyone a real chance before making decisions—but I think it might’ve been better if she’d ripped off all the Band-Aids at once, right at the start. On one of my first days at Hers, I happened to glance at an e-mail up on Mimi’s screen, addressed to someone in Corporate; she planned to keep Leah on staff through the summer, it said, because the old staffers liked and respected her and because it would have looked bad to immediately fire a mom of three little kids. But by now surely more than enough time has passed, and I think it’s weird that she and Victoria share the same title. Plus, Leah is the biggest slacker; she hardly does anything anymore. And, though I know it’s selfish, I can’t help thinking that the more the old staffers get the boot, the less the remaining people will view me as some kind of Grim Reaper.
Margene from Subscriber Services e-mails me the latest update: 13,000 more subscriptions canceled. I re-Google Hers, and it turns out the Post isn’t waiting until tomorrow’s paper to tear us apart: There’s already a 1,500-word story up on their Web site, including detailed descriptions of staff me
mbers in the write-up. I suppose I’m “the huffy assistant-slash-hall-monitor who worked her damnedest to protect her turf but still took twenty-five minutes to get us ousted from the building.”
“Laura!” Mimi calls me into her office, and I worry I’m in trouble.
“Hi, Mimi.”
“Jesus, are you OK?” she asks. “You look like you just ate a pound of jalapeños.”
“I’m fine. How are you?” I ask idiotically.
“Listen, I need you to be my eyes and ears this afternoon, to really try to figure out who let this photo leak, OK? Corporate is on my ass and wants information by the end of the day.”
“As in, an hour from now?!”
“I know, it’s completely impossible. But anything you can do would be an enormous help. I’m desperate. We’ve interviewed Drew, and I think she’s being honest when she says she has no idea who’s responsible.” Yeah, right.
Abby, Victoria, and Johanna scurry into the office. Abby smiles at me uneasily, but the others seem oblivious to my presence. Sometimes I wonder if they consider me just a piece of furniture.
“So I’ll come right out with it,” says Johanna. “I’ve talked to Helena’s publicist, and she wants to pull out of the issue.”
“What?!” Mimi opens her drawer and extracts a package of Oreos. Uh-oh, Code Oreo, as we used to say at Starstruck. At the old office, Mimi would bust out the snack food every time a celeb threatened to sue. One by one she pops the cookies into her mouth, then appears to swallow them whole. “But Helena can’t do that, can she? We have a contract.”
“Well,” says Abby, “Sylvia always used to handle our contracts. Since we haven’t hired a full-time researcher to replace her, the final version of the contract with the lawyer’s notes has just been sitting around collecting dust, unsigned by either party.”
“No way. Get Helena on the phone right this minute.”
“It’s no use,” says Johanna. “She’s bloody furious and totally humiliated. Her publicist says she’s taken to bed with a family-sized bag of barbecue crisps. As if that’s the solution to her big, fat arse.” Johanna laughs. No one else joins in.
“It’s hilarious to you, is it?” says Mimi. “All of this is some big joke?”
“Lord, calm down,” says Johanna. “I’m going to try to talk some reason into her tonight. We’re meeting for drinks at her flat.”
“Her apartment!” yells Mimi, cookie bits flying from the corners of her mouth. “In the United States of goddamn America it’s called an apartment, not a fucking bloody flat!”
“Mimi,” says Abby, steadying our boss with a hand on the shoulder. “Johanna is doing all she can.”
“She better be. Her job is on the line. Now everyone scram this instant. I can’t take any more bad news for the day.”
I skulk back to my desk and survey the rows of cubicles. How can I get some relevant information, and from whom? I wander over to Zoe’s desk. “Hey,” I say.
“That was not cool earlier when you kicked out that reporter from the party,” she says. “I was working on swaying his opinion in our favor.”
“Oh yeah, by performing some kind of kinky sexual rite with a cupcake? Clearly very effective.”
Zoe rolls her eyes. “If nothing else I was delaying the inevitable fact of him getting back to his desk and writing up that total skewering of us.”
“Zoe, we can’t have Post reporters fraternizing with the staff during this kind of crisis.”
“Did you just say ‘fraternizing’?”
“Also, did you see he ate three whole cupcakes? He was disgusting.”
“Whatevs. TTYL.” Zoe turns away from me and begins filing her nails.
Well, that was a total failure. I decide to try Jane, and sidle up to her cube.
“Hey, Laura, what’s the scoop?” Jane asks, not looking up from her screen. “You were just inside Mimi’s office, right?”
“Nothing much, they were, um, discussing final tweaks to November pages. So what’s new with you? What kind of gossip do you have for me?” I’m trying to sound casual, but it comes out wrong, like I’m both interrogating and chastising her.
“Uh, nothing,” she answers, sounding defensive. “I’m just sitting here, getting my work done.” Ugh, I’m hopeless.
I meander over to Jonathan, who’s buried in the beauty closet trying on lipsticks. “Hey, how’s it going?”
“Listen, I feel as morose as Little Miss Muffet,” he says. “Why hasn’t anyone written anything yet about Helena’s makeup?”
Seriously? “I guess because it’s not really relevant, right?”
“In the before and after shots, that coral lipstick is beyond hot—and it was my pick! It’s going to be the next big color, thanks to moi, and no one has even deigned to mention it. I’ve been trolling the blogs all day.”
“Wow, I’m sorry,” I say, completely confused.
“Yeah, well, I’m cheering myself up with a makeover.” Useless.
I return to my desk, defeated, and dip into my own Oreos supply.
Mimi is still at her desk at seven p.m., when I see a call come in from the thirtieth floor. I let her pick it up. Her voice is as singsongy as ever, punctuated by her signature laugh, but through the glass of her office I see her larger-than-life features straining to stay sunny. She looks tired. Old. I find I can’t bear to keep watching the conversation, and for the first time since I began working for Mimi two years earlier at Starstruck, and nearly four months ago at Hers, I shut down my computer and leave the office before she does.
Back home, even though it’s the Friday of a holiday weekend, I decide to stay in. I partake of my usual evening-in diet of E!, TMZ, and celebrity blogs, but after a couple of hours my stomach begins aching from overindulgence. I click off the TV, set aside my laptop, and grab my purse. From its special safekeeping pouch, a side zippered pocket, I remove and unfold the printout of Mimi’s November editor letter. It’s just an old draft, one she crumpled up and tossed out last week when she decided it was too earnest, but I adore it. I smooth out the paper and read it over for the tenth time:
Dear Hers readers,
During this time of year when we mull over all the things we have to be thankful for, I feel most grateful (and honored! and humbled!) to have taken the helm at this incredible brand so steeped in history and tradition. I’ve been told you readers are a superpassionate and superbusy bunch, and that you wear many hats: mother, wife, professional, friend, sister, daughter, and (here’s my favorite!) magazine lover. I can’t wait to get to know you and to hear all about what you want from your favorite magazine—so please do let me know! I’m here to serve you, of course, and I plan on giving it my all. Happy late autumn, and here’s to turning over a new leaf! XO, Mimi
When I overheard Mimi read this draft to Victoria and ask for feedback, Victoria said she thought it would open a big can of worms, encouraging readers to write in with all their silly opinions; they’d insist we run stories about their kittens and their favorite brands of laundry detergent. The current version of Mimi’s editor letter announces the redesign and promises readers flashier, more forward-thinking content. I prefer the original.
My clock flashes 10:00. I wonder if Mimi is still at her desk, working furiously or passed out across an empty package of Oreos. Perhaps she’s out at a bar surrounded by friends and throwing back round after round of shots. Or maybe she’s made it home and is sitting on the couch with her beloved dog, zoning out to the Home Shopping Network. Or she could be tucked into bed in a deep, restful sleep. I resist the urge to pick up the phone, and I will my boss to call me instead. It’s like we went out on a first date and now I’m trying to appear aloof. My phone doesn’t ring all weekend.
On the Monday that honors laborers nationwide, on the day when everyone who has toiled so hard all year pauses for a collective, well-deserved rest, I do not partake in the celebration. I do not hit the beach or attend a barbecue. Instead, I mark the occasion by staying holed up in my bed and pagi
ng through back issues of Starstruck and Hers. I admire the photos of the stars who have inspired me to eat more veggies and to get my butt to the gym several days a week. I examine their perfectly sculpted jaws and cheekbones, their shiny hair and eyes, and the expensive dresses that hang just so on their trim hourglass figures. I don’t care how much the photos have been altered; they’re beautiful, and I am in awe.
Tuesday morning I’m the first one to the office, as usual. I love the quiet buzz of white noise, all the sleek surfaces, and the decades of big, glamorous Hers covers lining the walls. I admire the breathtaking view of early day lighting up the trees in Central Park and the office pristine and pretty before the inevitable bustle and complications of the coming workday. I pour my first cup of coffee and plop myself down in Mimi’s chair, spinning around my ritual three times, briefly masquerading as editor in chief.
When Mimi texts me, “I’m on my way down,” I assume she made a typo and meant to write, “I’m on my way up.” Knowing she likely downed a few too many glasses of wine last night, I set out on her desk two aspirin; a strong coffee; and a bacon, egg, and cheese I picked up at her favorite deli around the corner. I’ve already erased all the hate mail from her e-mail queue, turned down the volume on her phone, and arranged her set of red pens in a neat row on her desk. She walks in wearing big black sunglasses, her skin pale and clammy.
“You are such a lifesaver,” she says, sinking her teeth into the sandwich. “What will I do without you?”
Will. I swear she says “will,” not “would.” My arms perk up with goose bumps and I find I can’t catch my breath.
Mimi, however, looks calm. She kicks her feet up on the desk and I see she’s wearing loafers—beat-up, worn-out, moss-colored loafers.
I begin to cry. It’s mortifying, but I can’t stop the fat tears from plopping down and depositing dark stains onto my silk shirt.
“Oh, Laura,” Mimi says, removing her sunglasses and scrutinizing me with pity. “Here, share the sustenance.” She hands me half of the breakfast sandwich.
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