Cosmopolitan Girls

by Charlotte Burley

  Let me help you understand my pain. It’s three in the morning and I’m sitting in the middle of a complete mess . . . my life. I’ve been sitting in front of my computer staring at the same Act 4, Scene 1 . . . for about five years now. No I’m not having writer’s block, because that would require me to actually be a writer. Which I’m sad to report, for the last four years, I haven’t been. “Miss Charlie Thornton, the famous and talented writer who took New York City by storm”: that was supposed to be the cover story. Front page of the Buffalo Challenger. The local black news publication in my hometown.

  How stupid do I look? I left my hometown five years ago, bragging to my family and friends that I was moving to the big city to make it. Put Buffalo on the map like Rick James did back in the day. I had a foolproof plan: in five years I was going to have my first screenplay on the big screen in theaters all across America. Instead the same “screenplay” is only on a seventeen-inch computer monitor, playing in the private theater of my Brooklyn basement apartment.

  You want to know the sad part, I have no one to blame. Losing focus and getting sidetracked from my master plan was all my own doing. No one forced me to say yes. No one forced me to toss my goals to the side and put other people’s happiness first. Nope, that was my choice. That’s why I just need to shut the hell up, quit my whining, and take my loser ass to bed, so that I can get up in the morning and face reality.

  Are you sure you want to shut down? my computer just flashed, asking me the ultimate question of the night.

  “Ah, ya think!” I said sarcastically, as I pressed enter and dragged my sorry tail to bed.

  Chapter 3

  You Go Girl

  The party was in full swing, and I was standing on my chair shaking everything and more that my mama had given me to the hot sounds DJ Biz Markie was pumping. Alix was getting her groove on too, dancing with Camille on top of the table like a wild woman.

  Judy and Tara were blissfully sandwiched between two exotic male model hotties. I took a break from dancing with Alix and Camille. They were definitely professional club rats. I was high, but when I looked at my watch and saw it was 2 A.M., I knew it was time to go home. I had to be at work by seven. Even in party mode I knew when to shut it down.

  Bright and early I’m on the grind again. When I step through that big glass revolving door into MediaMax’s massive lobby, this is my world and I put my game face on.

  Right now it’s all about playing my cards right, and I’m trying to break through all kinds of glass ceilings. I’m busting my butt daily to reach my five-year goal: make a move from VP into a fat in-house producer’s deal, then come back into the fold as a full-time suit, becoming the first black female president of a network.

  This morning I sat across from my boss listening intently to his words.

  “Lindsay, let’s make sure your key focus for the next thirty days is putting together the best Upfront MediaMax has ever had.” My boss Robert Gatewood’s coarse but energetic words would be etched into my brain and I would eat, sleep, and live them for the next month.

  “It’s all about the advertising dollars.”

  The Upfront was an annual presentation event where the cable and major networks set out to prove to advertisers that their dollars were well spent. The networks also went head-to-head, dazzling the advertisers with the best presentation of what each had to offer.

  MediaMax was one of the biggest media conglomerates, up there with Time Warner and Viacom. MediaMax owns several magazines, New York’s number-one radio station, and four cable networks, no, make that five. Exhale, Lifetime’s new competition, was our latest acquisition.

  This was Robert’s first Upfront since becoming CEO. He oversaw the five cable networks. Little did he know I didn’t need thirty days; I was already prepared with a slew of ideas.

  “What’s our theme?” Robert drilled.

  “This year’s Upfront is about nostalgia and strong brand identity.”

  I could feel Robert dissecting my ideas before I got them out.

  “On the Style Channel, consider our new pilot Flip Moda, where classic designers go head-to-head with hot new designers, perfect pitch for Coca-Cola Classic. For the Video Music Network and Hit Music TV channels, we’ll feature a cross-generation of music specials like Divas Doin’ It and Hiphopera. It’ll be great for Ford and their business.”

  Eat that!

  “Okay, you’ve given me enough for now, some interesting ideas. I like the direction you’re headed in,” he replied coolly.

  “Robert, one more quick thing. I also think we should think about a hot female-driven drama series. It would be a great lead-off for Exhale, since the channel doesn’t have any original programming yet,” I said.

  “Lindsay, not so fast. You’re getting ahead of yourself. This Upfront I want to concentrate on what we have. Exhale is a future creative discussion. In the meantime, you’re onto something with the other stuff, but you need to dig deeper.

  “I want you to come back tomorrow morning with some stronger thoughts and a bigger idea list. Remember, thirty days to put together a helluva schedule that will bury the competition and score some major advertising.”

  My confidence had taken a blow, but now was not the time to pout. Sure, Robert put the pressure on me, but I was his protégé. The only female on his executive team, and I was definitely going places. Robert was going to make sure of that . . . and so was I.

  I was fueled, so I decided to keep working through lunch. Unfortunately, my hunger pangs wouldn’t let me. I figured I’d compromise and grab some quick brain food from the lobby café and come back to my desk. With Robert on my back I had my work cut out for me. My phone rang.

  “Lindsay Bradley.”

  “How’s my busy daughter?” Mama asked.

  “I’m good. How you doing, Mama?” I’d forgotten about the mental note I’d made to call her. “I’m sorry, but I’m really swamped. I can’t talk long.”

  “You know I hate to call you at work, but I just wanted to remind you to give your sister a call.”

  “Which one?” I said. I had two sisters, and it was hard keeping up on everybody’s lives.

  “Lindsay! I can’t believe you. Your sister Faith! That MRI’s tomorrow and I want you to keep her in your prayers.”

  “That’s right!” I felt awful. How could I forget? “Let me run so I can call her before my next meeting. I gotta go! Love you!”

  “I love you too. And slow down, Lindsay. I worry about you. Say your prayers,” Mama said, concerned. “And call Angie too, she said she hasn’t heard from you in a week.” I stopped what I was doing and quickly dialed Faith. Faith’s test was critical since the doctor suspected she had MS. Faith had gone through a series of tests, but this was the big one.

  “Hello?” Faith answered, sounding like she was out of breath.

  “Hey girl, it’s me, Lindsay. You must be fooling with those kids.” Faith was a homemaker who spent her afternoons planning Jack-and-Jill socials, and picking out new wallpaper. “I want you to know I’m praying that all goes well with your test tomorrow.”

  “I thought I wasn’t gonna hear from you,” Faith said, making sure I felt guilty.

  “You know I couldn’t forget about my big sis,” I said, grabbing my wallet and checking the time. “Ugh! Faith I’m sorry, but my day is crazy.”

  “Don’t sweat it. Get off the phone, don’t work too hard, and call me later.”

  “I won’t and I will. I love you. Don’t worry, the test will be fine. I’ll check on you after,” I said and hung up. I closed my eyes and said a quick but powerful prayer.

  I hopped on the elevator just as the doors were closing and occupied myself by reading over my ideas on the ride down. The doors opened and I stepped out still lost in thought.

  “We have to stop meeting like this.”

  I didn’t have to turn around. I knew that voice anywhere. A smile spread across my face. “So, what, are you following me now?” I said, turning to find myse
lf trapped in Troy’s gaze yet again. The second time in less than twenty-four hours. This time I wouldn’t let this man get away.

  “I’ve got a meeting on twenty-five at Video Music Network, but before I lose you again, can I please get your number?” Troy asked with raised eyebrow.

  I could see he wasn’t taking any chances either. We didn’t waste another second swapping business cards.

  “I have to go out of the country to shoot a Jennifer Lopez video, but I’ll be back in two weeks. When I get back can we get together for dinner?” he asked, as he looked half at my card and half at me.

  I was trying my best not to get carried away. He was too cute, in an overgrown boyish kind of way, and the more I looked at him, the more I blushed.

  “So?” he asked again.

  I was still smiling. “In two weeks? Hmmm, that would be nice . . . really nice.”

  Chapter 4

  Superwoman

  Before I knew it 6 A.M. had rolled around and now I was mad that I had stayed up so late feeling sorry for myself.

  “I can’t find my shoes!” yelped Tiffany, the youngest crewmember of what I called Company B. B stood for baby.

  “Tiffany did you look underneath the bed?” I yelled, continuing to set the breakfast table.

  “Oh yeah, I found them,” Tiffany said, running her tiny six-year-old body to the table. Hair so wild, only baby oil and a stern brush could help me tame it. But my ritual of combing it after she ate always allowed me a few extra minutes to get a kick out of just how cute she is. I leaned over, kissed her cheek, and slid a plate of hotcakes in front of her.

  My biggest baby of them all, Michael, a.k.a. my better half, frantically searched the apartment for his work boots.

  “Michael your work boots are in the laundry room,” I said while I pointed. I suddenly remembered that I had left his shirt on the ironing board. I wasn’t quite sure if I’d ironed it, but when Michael joined us in the kitchen wrinkle-free, I remembered that I had completed that task just before I finished pressing Michael Junior’s pants.

  Michael gave me my morning kiss before taking his seat next to Tiffany.

  “MJ!” I called. “Is he still in that bathroom? I bet he’s trying to see if he has a mustache,” I joked, questioning the whereabouts of baby number three. “MJ get out here before your food gets cold,” I called out again.

  As he came into the kitchen I pecked MJ on his cheek and waited for him to wipe it off, as if it were bug repellent. I was surprised when he just sat down and started to eat.

  “No wiping my kiss today?” I said, sitting down.

  “Naw, not today. I guess I’ll let you slide,” MJ said, looking up at me with the same big brown eyes and jet-black curly hair his father has. That boy is the spitting image of Michael, and at eight years old, he’s already a trip.

  Michael and MJ were headed out the door when suddenly Michael turned back.

  “Charlie, don’t kill me. I know this is last minute, but after you pick up Tiffany from day care, I need you to pick up MJ too.” He tried to give me a sad face. “Please babe? I totally forgot that I have to work a double shift tonight.” Michael knew that what he was asking wasn’t fair. Tiffany’s day-care center was closer to the house, but MJ’s day camp was on the East Side of Manhattan, nowhere near my job. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. Next weekend I’ll pamper you just how you like it.” Michael always knew how to soften me up.

  Picking up Tiffany and MJ was a big favor, but Michael always keeps his promises. That’s one of the things I love about him. So, knowing him like I do, I would come out on the better end of the deal later.

  “Okay, but you owe me,” I smiled back.

  “Five-thirty,” MJ blurted out.

  “Boy, I know!” I laughed, closing the door only to turn around to see Tiffany standing in the middle of the hallway with a broken rubber band in hand and a huge portion of hair sticking straight up.

  “I didn’t do it,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

  After what already felt like a full day of work, miraculously, I made it to my “real job” on time. I briskly walked across Rockefeller Center and entered the side door to my office building. When I stepped off the elevator onto the third floor, the first face I saw was Kyle’s, a dead ringer for Bryant Gumbel. He was an old college buddy, and I’m sad to say my only friend other than Michael in the entire city of New York.

  “Kyle!” I said, greeting him with a warm hug.

  “My girl! So, I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said as we made our way to my office.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard. Everyone is talking about your ad campaign, and how it served as the key tool for Miranda to seal the deal with B-Caps!” Kyle said.

  Miranda was the vice president of Imagination City, the advertising agency I write copy for. Thanks to Kyle, a freelance consultant for the company, who rescued me from temping. Temp agencies often found it difficult to place me, with my natural unprocessed hair and throwback seventies style. If you know what I mean.

  “Really? So everyone is talking?” I gave a slight grin.

  “Yes, sounds to me like somebody’s due for a bonus check,” Kyle said, grabbing a seat, pulling it up to my desk.

  “From your mouth to God’s ear. A bonus would be perfect right now,” I said, hopeful, glancing at the photos of Michael and the kids that adorned my desktop.

  “Why, so you can buy more of these expensive posters? I see there’s a new edition,” Kyle said, looking around my modest office, pointing to one from the hit series Soul Food. “Whoa, and honey I can understand why! If them ain’t some fine brothers in that show!” said Kyle, who was openly gay.

  “That’s not the reason I got that poster, thank you very much,” I said, laughing.

  Collecting black movie posters was a hobby I’d developed after seeing the film The Best Man. I was so proud when I saw it—not once but three times—that I went on a shopping spree and purchased the poster. I made a promise to myself that every couple of months I’d splurge on a new poster from the new breed of black filmmakers. So far I have the soon-to-be classics Boyz N the Hood, Menace to Society, and the original Soul Food movie, as well as the TV series poster. That last one was an exception, like Kyle said—those brothers are too fine! Next quest, Brown Sugar, and hopefully, one day soon, a Charlie Thornton.

  Susan, another copywriter, poked her head in the door.

  “Charlie, congratulations on your little spot,” she said with a smile that felt more like a warning than an actual compliment. “Kyle, I didn’t see you in there,” she winked, and then said, “Oh well, gotta run, I’m working on something big for Miranda.”

  As soon as Susan was out of sight, Kyle closed the door, placing his hand on his hips.

  “Now that heifer knows damn well she saw me!”

  “Kyle! I’m having a positive day so let’s just try to keep it that way.”

  “Well, all I know, Miss Honey, is that you better watch Blond Ambition. She is not your friend. And these people better recognize the fact that you da bomb, okay!” Kyle said, emphatically.

  I cracked a smile knowing all too well that he was speaking the truth.

  Huffing and puffing I found myself out of breath running toward MJ’s day camp. I was a half hour late, thanks to yet another track fire on the subway. MJ’s long face and silence vilified my tardiness even more.

  “MJ baby, I’m so sorry I’m late but there was a fire on the train—”

  “Whatever!” MJ interrupted my plea.

  “How about I make it up to you and treat you and Tiffany to some ice cream at Ben & Jerry’s?” I said, trying to win him over.

  “Listen Charlie, stop trying to act like you’re my mama. You ain’t, okay!” He rolled his eyes, “Man I can’t wait to get back to my mama’s house!” MJ smarted off as he b-boy strutted away.

  Chapter 5

  Prince Charming

  I kept watching the
clock all day like a school-kid. Troy called two weeks to the day and our first date is tonight. Unfortunately, Robert and I were deep in a brainstorming session for the Upfront. I two-wayed Troy, letting him know I was running late, and I’d meet him at the restaurant. Troy insisted on picking me up at the office.

  I was uncomfortable with him doing that so soon. I wasn’t ready for Robert to be privy to my private life. Robert hired me and took me under his wing five years ago, and from day one he stressed that one should avoid excessive socializing. A person would have more than enough time to enjoy all that on the other side of success. As far as Robert was concerned I lived for MediaMax. I was his faithful, trusted right hand. Therefore, I never mixed the business Lindsay with the social Lindsay, and that was that.

  This particular night Robert and I were working after hours, and everyone else had gone home. Before leaving, Robert’s assistant posted our Upfront plans on large boards in Robert’s office where there was more space and privacy. When Robert started running the company, he implemented what he called an open-door policy. All the executives were in cubicles. He felt it would boost company morale to have the entire staff mixing and mingling.

  Robert’s office was on a whole different level. It was as meticulous as he was. In the center of the room sat a massive mahogany desk, sparsely decorated with matching leather accessories, surrounded by large windows. A butter-soft imported leather sofa that sat across from it was the only other ostentatious object in the room. A small halogen bulb spotlighted the glass shelves of his bookcase where rows of Emmys, Aces, and certificates of achievement were prominently displayed.