“Thanks.” We sit there in silence, chewing and swallowing, the grease and salt and fat lulling each of us into a sullen stupor. “Listen, Mimi,” I finally say, but she holds up her pointer finger.
“Here’s a life tip, my trusty assistant. You win some, you lose some, and then you win some again. Ha! C’est la vie.”
Mimi dabs a napkin at the corners of her lips, then swivels in her seat to face her computer, where she begins typing rapid fire. Willing the floodgates of tears not to reopen, I smooth out my skirt, gather up the trash from our breakfast, and tiptoe out of my boss’s office, careful not to disturb our editor in chief at work.
21
Leah Brenner, Executive Editor
I’m willing the stalled A train to get its act together and book it uptown, to not make me later than I already fear I’m going to be for my appointment on the thirtieth floor. I hopped on the subway in the first place, forgoing my usual walk uptown, to speed up my commute, not to get myself stuck underground in transit limbo, packed armpit-to-nose with hundreds of other passengers, plus the cat-sized rats and a decade’s worth of garbage beneath us.
God, I’m a wreck. It baffles me why I should care about arriving late to a meeting where the sole agenda will be to fire me—especially when they scheduled it at eight in the freaking morning, making me jump through hoops to get Maria to the house at the crack of dawn. Still, when the train conductor repeats his announcement about more delays ahead, thank-you-for-your-patience, I groan.
My body is so heavy with exhaustion that simply standing still in kitten heels makes me feel as if someone is tugging at every one of my muscles, daring me not to keel over and collapse. I fear I may not be able to keep myself upright. So I make a decision. I glance around to make sure I don’t recognize any of my fellow commuters, and then I pull my trick: I place one hand on my belly and begin rubbing big, heartfelt circles, then I literally gaze at my navel as I purr sweet nothings to my belly button. So ashamed am I of this deception (and the fact that I’ve been relying on it semiregularly ever since becoming a severely sleep-deprived mother), that I haven’t told a soul. The thing is, it works: Usually it’s thirty seconds or less before someone in my vicinity offers me his or her (usually her) seat. But now I’m going on one minute, two minutes, three minutes—the train is still stalled midtrack—and no one has noticed, or perhaps cared about my delicate (if phony) condition. Forget it, I think. I halt my hand’s circling and suck my stomach back in its semiflat state. God, am I achy.
In addition to my usual I’ve-got-three-flipping-toddlers exhaustion, today I am sore from an entire long weekend of packing up boxes. After the antics I pulled at our first open house, Rob took the initiative to schedule the next one during one of my onsite workdays, on an evening when he knew I had to stay late; then he conveniently “forgot” to fill me in. The house sold in half an hour (Rob wouldn’t give me any details about the buyers, I think for fear I’d call them and convince them to pull out).
“Baby, the timing’s perfect,” my husband declared when I arrived home and saw the picked-over platters of cold cuts on the counter. “You’re getting fired next week, you’ll pick up your severance check, and then we can skip town the moment all the sale details are finalized. Bing, bang, boom.”
I don’t think he expected me to burst into tears.
The truth is, no matter how long I’ve worked to prepare myself for the inevitable, no matter how many times I’ve assured myself (as has Rob, and Abby, and Liz, and even my mother) that this situation is totally political and not at all personal, and that I’m just a victim of circumstances outside of my control, deep down I know I am not ready to be fired. Despite all my posturing and flippant joking, I am not cool with it. I am not accepting of it. I am not blasé or Zen or go-with-the-flow about it. What I am is scared shitless. In fact, I think, maybe if this train flew off the rails and toppled all of us passengers into a disastrous, injurious heap, then I wouldn’t have to face Mimi or Suzie in H.R. or anyone at Schmidt & Delancey ever again, and they could just messenger over my pink slip to my hospital room. Bing, bang, boom.
Just as I start getting into this trauma fantasy, trying to decide whether my hospital gown should hang in a sympathetically baggy or flatteringly fitted way, the train jolts forward. Three minutes later, it screeches to a halt at Columbus Circle, the doors swing open, and suddenly I’m being spit out into the world along with all the bankers, teachers, and whoever the hell else starts their workday this early. Climbing the stairs from subway platform to street, I see the Schmidt & Delancey building rise before me like a leviathan, its shadow stretched two blocks long. I peer up at all its thirty storys and feel myself getting sucked in and—sigh—succumbing to its powerful pull.
I decide to pit-stop at my desk to change into my Louboutin pumps. I expect the office to be empty, but as soon as I spot Laura at her station, dutifully typing away, I think, Of course. I wonder if she keeps a sleeping bag under her desk. “Hey, Laura.”
“Hi. You’re here early.” She looks surprised to see me; I would’ve expected she knew about my morning meeting. She also looks like she hasn’t slept in a week; the dark circles under her eyes give me a glimpse of what she’ll look like at my age. Scary.
“Are you all right?” I ask. I’m about to place a palm on her shoulder, but her withering look stops me short.
Like a cartoon thought bubble popping up over my head, I flash on Friday’s photo debacle. I’d rebelled that day, spending the majority of my at-home workday not in my basement office, but packing up my home, so I was barely tuned in to the situation. I did open an e-mail from Liz with the subject line, “What the hell is happening there?!?” and then glance at the MAGnifier.net link in the message’s body. But I was immediately called away by a crisis involving Lulu and a roll of packing bubbles, and I never remembered to follow up with an Internet search or to check in with Abby about the fallout. Part of me figured, hey, it was no longer my problem, anyway. The bags under Laura’s eyes tell me all I need to know about the effects of the incident.
“How are the troops faring after Friday?” I ask tentatively.
“Fine, everyone’s fine,” Laura snaps in a way that convinces me not one bit.
“That’s good,” I say. “I’ve got to skedaddle up to Corporate. Can you believe it, an eight a.m. meeting? I don’t think I’ve ever been in the office this early. It was a huge pain in the butt to coordinate with my nanny. Though I suppose she could use the extra hours while she has the chance. I figure they’re finally getting around to giving me the old ax.” I make a gesture like I’m chopping off my neck. I must be more nervous than I thought, rambling on like this to Laura, of all people. “Well, wish me luck,” I say.
Laura offers me nothing but a blank stare. God, what a snot.
In the elevator, ascending the twenty-one flights to the corporate suite, I whip out my phone and scroll through my e-mail, hoping without hope that Suzie has canceled our meeting. No such luck. Instead, I see a “BREAKING NEWS” alert from the New York Post, which I promptly open and read:
In the wake of last week’s Photoshop cover scandal, exposed by magazine watchdog blog MAGnifier.net, Mimi Walsh is out after a brief stint as editor in chief of Hers magazine. Speculation abounds over which brave soul will next take on the editorship and navigate what are sure to be some very choppy waters.
My jaw goes slack. I find I can’t clamp it back shut. I feel my tongue hanging loose like I’m an overheated dog. I gape at the screen until the text looks like gibberish, a mishmash of symbols that can’t possibly contain any meaning.
“Good morning, Leah.” I look up and there is Suzie greeting me from the other side of the elevator doors, now open onto the thirtieth floor. She’s holding out a coffee, which is apparently for me. In my entire career no one has ever brought me coffee. I grab it, grateful for something to do with my hands, and gulp it down. Even the scald against the back of my throat can’t snap me out of my shock. “Come with me,” Suzie sa
ys, all smiles. Somehow my legs carry me down the hall beside her. I am numb.
We enter a space that cannot possibly belong to the H.R. rep: It’s twice the size of Mimi’s office, with floor-to-ceiling windows that afford even grander views of Central Park; it boasts not one but two separate sitting areas.
“Welcome, come on in.” The voice is familiar, but all I can see of the speaker is the back of a head, and a thick gray bun balancing atop it. When she swivels her chair away from her computer, I discover it’s Mrs. Winters, the editorial director of Schmidt & Delancey. I haven’t laid eyes on her since way back in April, when she visited Hers to deliver the news of Louisa’s demise. I’m starting to wonder if I misread that Post news alert.
“A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Brenner,” she says, extending a hand. “I’ve heard so many things about you.” It’s just like Mrs. Winters not to modify “things” with “wonderful” or “terrible” or some other telling descriptor; the phrase “so many things” could mean so many things. I accept the handshake, my palm clammy; Mrs. Winters’s is dry and cool.
“Take a seat,” she says. The chair’s cushion is plusher than my living room couch. I sink in about a foot, so that I feel like a child looking up at Mrs. Winters from across the desk. Suzie plops herself down in the chair next to mine, letting out a small yelp when she too sinks into its softness. Despite what I read in the Post e-mail, I keep waiting for Mimi to walk in and deliver the official “We’re letting you go” spiel (after Liz was fired, I made her repeat the speech to me over and over again until the words were etched into my brain like the Pledge of Allegiance).
“As you know,” Mrs. Winters says, which is when I start trembling. There is so much I know, and I fear for which sliver of that knowledge she’s going to select to repeat back to me and somehow wield against me. “Hers has gone through quite a shake-up these past few months. Louisa Harding struggled to keep the publication afloat during what was admittedly a difficult time, economically speaking. When she couldn’t hack it, of course we brought in Mimi Walsh, a wonderfully talented editor with a standout track record and stellar reputation in the industry. We had high hopes that Ms. Walsh would pull in newer, younger readers and revive the Hers brand to its former glory.”
To hear the past year of my professional life summed up into this tidy little trajectory—the demise of my former boss meriting a mere sentence fragment—makes me understand just how powerful Mrs. Winters is, reigning from her throne on the thirtieth floor. Powerful and ruthless. I know what’s coming next, and I wonder if Mrs. Winters realizes she’s already been scooped by the Post. I feel a bizarre urge to defend Mimi, to say that the leaked photos could not have been her fault, that no single person can control every little action of her whole staff and all the random hangers-on at any given photo shoot. It’s such a heartless industry we work in, and so hard to be at the top, and how fast any one of us can topple from glory. “Have you guys seen the redesign?” I blurt out. “It’s beautiful.” Because as much as I hate to admit it, it is beautiful. Still, I’m not sure what I’m doing.
“Yes, the pages have turned out very nice,” Suzie says, smiling nervously.
Mrs. Winters looks puzzled. “Well,” she says, shifting in her seat, “it’s my job to face up to some hard truths. In this case, the devastating impact of Friday’s debacle with that pop singer on your cover. I’m not sure if you’re aware that Hers’ subscriber base has fallen by fifty thousand in just the past three days.” Wow, I’m actually kind of impressed that our readers are so plugged in to media news, and also willing to take a stand against the Photoshopping of cover images. I feel a strange surge of girl power. Mrs. Winters is still talking: “And fairly or not, nearly the entire blogosphere plus about half of the talking heads on TV have rallied to have Mimi burned at the stake. Something had to be done. We really had no choice.”
“I understand,” I say, although I’m not really sure I do. I’m distracted by the thought that I could never stomach having Mrs. Winters’s job, and also the question of why she’s offering up this whole explanation to me.
“Which brings me to why you’re here,” she says. I try to sit up straighter in my cushiony seat—to no avail. “Mrs. Brenner, you have demonstrated exceptional talent through your years at Hers, rising in the ranks to the prestigious spot of second-in-command and acting as a rock to the staff during these recent bumpy times.” My mind goes fuzzy. I’m being praised, aren’t I? After an entire summer of putting up with all the backhanded compliments and hits to my pride and harassment both subtle and blatant, it’s hard to trust my ears. But if I’m not mistaken, I am sitting here before the Schmidt & Delancey editorial director, in the largest office on the building’s top floor, being applauded for a job well done. “So, what do you say?” Mrs. Winters asks.
I realize I’ve zoned out. “Excuse me, can you repeat that?”
Mrs. Winters and Suzie both laugh. “I said, will you do Schmidt & Delancey the honor of accepting the position of the new editor in chief of Hers magazine?”
Everything stops. All is white noise. I am alone at the top of this mammoth of a building, not about to get thrown off, as it turns out, but to be exalted. I look from one face to the other—are they serious? Is this for real? It must be. Suddenly the events of the past fifteen minutes sprint to catch up in my brain. It’s a pileup of images and thoughts and sentences, until all that’s left is a solid feeling of certainty. Of course this is what would happen. Of course after all my hard work and dedication and experience, of course after enduring the kind of summer that even Job would cower at, of course I am finally being rewarded.
“Well, what do you say?” asks Suzie, which makes me realize I haven’t yet said a thing.
“Of course!” I exclaim. I sense my daughters’ we’re-getting-ice-cream! look of glee spreading across my own face, and I immediately dial it back. I affix a pleased-but-demure expression that I imagine would be fitting for an editor in chief. “I would be honored,” I add in my best professional tone.
Seemingly from nowhere, Suzie whips out a bottle of champagne, and I think, good for her. After all she’s been through, delivering terrible news all summer long, she deserves a drink. She pops the cork, which soars in a perfect upside-down parabola before landing squarely on top of Mrs. Winters’s bun. I brace myself, imagining a swift end to the party, but Mrs. Winters just shrugs and lets the cork sit atop her head until it eventually topples off on its own. She pulls out three plastic champagne flutes from a drawer.
“To the woman of the hour,” she says, raising her glass. “God willing, you’ll turn this publication around into a grand success.” Though I sense a vague threat there, I remove it from my mind, knowing there will be plenty of time later on to discuss facts and figures. We clink glasses.
The champagne goes straight to my head, and my thoughts flit about like fireflies: I think of little old me sitting in that big corner office, my name printed at the tippy-top of the masthead, my photo stamped at the front of every issue. I am awed by my new power to yay or nay every single decision, and—oh, my God!—the clothing, makeup, and hair allowance. Little ions of happiness are performing somersaults in my head, and as much as I try to be cool, I’m certain a stupid grin has all but tattooed itself across my face. After two refills of champagne and more handshakes and congratulations, I must look as blithe as Bozo the Clown.
It’s not until I’m back in the elevator that the reality of my life hits me—Rob! Our entire home packed up in boxes! The new house in Vermont! My heart starts to sink as I plummet the twenty-one floors. All summer, I’ve been working so hard to feel OK about leaving behind my career in magazines, to feel at peace about moving to the middle of nowhere and starting over. But now that this golden, new opportunity is glittering before my eyes, that sense of peace feels like a cheap, plastic consolation prize. I cannot turn my back on the job I’ve been dreaming about since I was a child playing office at my mother’s feet.
But, of course, there is R
ob. Rob, whom I love deeply. Rob, who is deeply in love with both me and the idea of our beginning again in Vermont. Still, one of the reasons I first fell for my husband was his beautiful, open mind, his willingness to consider and reconsider a scenario and to readjust his views accordingly, without reservation or resentment. Like the best editors, Rob always sees the potential for revision. Hopefully that outlook will prevail now, and my husband will recognize the Vermont plan for what it was: simply a rough draft. Surely when he hears about the new plan, he’ll see it as a vast improvement over the original, a revise that’s been tweaked and edited and perfectly polished—the final.
This reasoning does not prevent my stomach from catapulting into my throat as I reluctantly dig out my phone and dial my husband’s number. Before I know it, I’ve dropped past the Hers floor and I’m speaking into a recording: “Rob, sweetheart, hi! I have news. It’s big. And it’s going to sound scary at first, but don’t worry. I love you. We’re going to make it work, I just know it. And even better, you’ll soon have the benefit of being married to the happiest version of me I’ve ever been. And I love you. Did I already say that? Well, it’s still true, I love you. Call me when you can. Bye!”
To halt the panic I sense creeping into my head, I adjust my focus—to all the money! When Mrs. Winters slid across her desk a piece of paper containing my new salary, the number made me gasp. I’ll be earning more than double my current income. I picture never again waking up in a cold sweat, wondering how the hell we’ll afford tuition times three for twelve years of private school plus college for the girls; now I’ll sleep soundly through the night, happily ever after. I’ll finally be able to spend and splurge and squander as I’ve always dreamed. I imagine tearing up the horribly restrictive budget Rob and I hammered out for Vermont, and then immediately hitting Barneys. It’ll be just like that show our nanny likes where the contestants race through the supermarket with unlimited budgets, loading up their carts willy-nilly, only for me instead of groceries I’ll be loading up on buttery leather handbags and gorgeous calfskin boots.
Pretty in Ink Page 30