by Lucy Sykes
Imogen was ready to lie back down. “No, there isn’t. Alice only shot with one phone. She just told me.”
“Yeah, Alice did. But did you meet Alice’s assistant Mack?”
Imogen vaguely remembered a fabulous young gay dressed all in black from his leggings to his eyeliner, trailing behind Alice with an armful of lighting equipment. He was tall and lean and looked like he needed to be coaxed into fresh clothes each morning.
“I didn’t meet him,” Imogen said.
“He’s great. We talked a little when he helped me finish steaming. Anyway, he was behind Alice the whole time she was shooting. He had his own phone. I think he was taking his own pictures.”
That made Imogen sit up.
“We have backup photos?”
“We might have backup photos.”
Mack was a reluctant hero who knew better than to outshine his boss and mentor. God bless industries that had a very clear pecking order. Ashley managed to pry the phone from his hands.
Imogen could tell it was good from Ashley’s face as she swiped through the photographs. She walked over to look over her assistant’s shoulder.
They weren’t Alice Hobbs photographs, but they were damn close. Mack hadn’t just shot behind Alice. He had worked the room, finding angles that even Alice hadn’t thought of. At one point he climbed up above the models, shooting them being shot in a moment that was so meta Imogen fell completely in love with it.
To her credit, Alice behaved as though Mack’s pictures were a gift from heaven. She wasn’t so easily ruffled, but Imogen could tell her ego was suffering a small blow.
“He is very talented,” she said to Imogen. “He’s been with me three years. I got him right out of Pratt. I bet I lose him now.” Imogen took a look at Mack, still sitting in the corner waiting for his instructions.
“You haven’t lost him yet, but you should sure as hell promote him.”
Imogen walked over to him and wrapped him in a huge hug.
“Mack, you saved the day.” The young man showed the start of a smile in a lopsided and handsome way, only the left corner of his mouth rising toward his cheekbone.
“You like them?”
“Like them? I love them. I would have loved them even if we hadn’t lost Alice’s photographs. You, my dear, are a true artistic talent. You’re one to watch!”
His grin reached from Madison to Fifth Avenue.
Ashley came up from behind and threw her arms around the two of them.
“Do we need to go back to the office?”
“We do.”
“Mack, we will be in touch with you and Alice.”
“Of course, ma’am,” Mack said, straightening his curved shoulders a little. “Thanks, ma’am”—Imogen still flinched a little at the word “ma’am.”
“Ashley, why don’t you Uber us a car,” Imogen said. “Actually, no. I think I can do it myself. I can Uber.”
<<< CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX >>>
Snow days in New York can be magical or hell on Earth. Every time a storm hits, the city is surprised anew and, without fail, more than two inches of accumulation stymies city services, delays schools and halts traffic in its tracks.
Winter Storm Zeus was all anyone could talk about as Ashley and Imogen were leaving the office later that night. Would the mayor call off school the night before or would they have to wait until the morning? Predictions varied depending on the meteorologist. The Weather Channel promised Manhattan would be buried beneath a foot of snow, whereas CNN reported a mere light dusting, nothing really to worry about.
Sixteen inches of powder blanketed the city by six thirty a.m. and it showed no signs of stopping. Parked cars perched like igloos on the sides of the street with nowhere to go. When Imogen opened her eyes, Johnny was already sitting cross-legged on the foot of her bed.
“No school?” he said, his blond curls spilling over onto his thick eyelashes.
“What’s it look like outside, little man?” Imogen said, pulling him into her body.
“Gimme your phone,” the little boy demanded. Imogen grasped toward the nightstand to retrieve it. He padded over to the window and expertly opened up the camera to take a picture, then padded back to climb up closer to her head. Alex let out a grand snore into his pillow next to them.
“See, no school,” Johnny said pointing at the piles of white coating their street.
Imogen nodded in agreement. “Yes, no school. Probably no work either.” She checked her email. Nothing new. No word on whether the offices would be closed, but last time a snowstorm like this had hit, three years ago, Robert Mannering Corp. closed their entire office for three days. At the end of the day, it was up to her. She didn’t want employees out in this kind of mess, rushing to get in, possibly driving in hazardous conditions or getting stuck in a crippled public transit system. They worked online now. Wasn’t the beauty of the Internet supposed to be that anyone could work from anywhere? After she and Ashley returned to the office the night before they had gone through all of Mack’s pictures and agreed they would make an amazing feature, but it wasn’t set to run for a few weeks. They had time.
Imogen sat up in bed and straightened her back against the headboard, pulling Johnny into her lap.
From: Imogen Tate ([email protected])
To: [email protected]
Subject: Snow Day
The gods have decided to grant us a snow day. Work from home today. Obviously check in with your direct supervisors ASAP and make sure that you are meeting all of your regular deadlines, but right now it’s safer for everyone to stay put.
Keep warm and dry.
xx
Imogen
Alex let out a groan when she nudged him. Johnny ruffled his father’s hair.
“Daaaaaaaady, is time to wake up!” their son’s voice boomed.
Imogen leaned in to brush her lips against Alex’s scratchy cheek. “You might want to check in to see if the courts are going to be open today.” Her husband moaned a little again and then rolled right on top of Johnny, unleashing a torrent of tickles that made the little boy wail with laughter. He expertly and modestly wrapped the sheet around his middle like a toga as he strode over to the window.
“Nothing in this city is going to be open today,” Alex remarked.
Johnny leaped up and down.
“We should make pancakes.” His tiny cheeks flushed with excitement. “We should definitely make some chocolate chip pancakes!!!”
“Beignets,” Imogen said, feeling inspired and having a sudden, mouthwatering urge for the comforting, powdered sugar–coated New Orleans–style doughnut. “I’ll make us some beignets.” Her husband glanced at her with a healthy dose of skepticism, but smartly kept his mouth shut.
There was no way Tilly could make it downtown from her apartment on the Upper West Side. The snow continued to blow in drifts down Jane Street and up against the front door. Imogen could see some resolute neighbors, the ones with the kinds of jobs where a snow day would never be an option, bundled against the ice and the wind, fighting for each footstep as they slogged to reach the subway. No plows had reached the West Village and not even the most dogged taxi would make it down the road.
A few emails trickled in over the next six hours, but nothing earth-shattering. It seemed that everyone had taken her advice to have a lazy day. The content producers could obviously still post from home. It was nice to be able to give the girls a break.
Leaving Alex to do his own work remotely for a few hours, Imogen walked the kids over to Washington Square Park, where a giant snowball fight was in progress. At the far end of the park some older kids had built some of the biggest snowmen that Imogen had ever seen. Still, the snow was coming down so hard, both of her children lasted only thirty minutes outside before they begged to go back into their warm house for hot chocolate.
For a moment, walking home, with one child’s hand in each of hers, Imogen was lost in the contentment of it
all, dreaming about her life as a stay-at-home mom. She quickly dismissed the notion. This was nothing like what her life would be like. If she didn’t work, both of her kids would be in school all day and she would be bored silly.
Snowflakes caught in her eyelashes, giving everything a fine layer of shimmery sequins. A deliveryman passed them on foot, his head hung low, his weatherproof poncho flapping in the wind as he dangled six bags, three in each hand, like the scales of justice. His gait was at least twice as fast as theirs, determined to reach his destination while the food was still warm. It reminded Imogen that some people didn’t have a choice about going to work and that it was a blessing to be able to work from home when it was like this outside.
As the kids changed, Imogen signed into the TECHBITCH page.
My boss has an MBA, but no real work experience. Sometimes I think he was actually created in a lab…like a cyborg.
The other day we got $50 million in funding and the next morning pictures turned up on the Internet of our CEO rolling around naked in the money. I can barely pay my rent.
Does anyone post things about their jobs on Glassdoor.com?
I LOVE Glassdoor almost as much as I love this site!!!!!
What is Glassdoor.com? Imogen clicked the link. It looked like a place where companies could post help wanted ads for jobs. As she poked around she saw that employees could also post reviews of the places that they worked. She entered Glossy into the search box. Nothing appeared. Then she entered Glossy.com. The rating system was based on stars. Out of five stars Glossy.com received an average of two, with twenty-five reviews. The first one Imogen read gave it only one star. The headline was: When Mean Girls Grow Up, They Work Here.
Pros—Lovely location in midtown Manhattan in the very fancy Robert Mannering Corp. office tower
Healthy snacks provided (also some not-so-healthy snacks )
Cons—Crazy hours
Very cliquey, like high school
Does not act like a publishing company
Editorial director frowns if you eat the “unhealthy” snacks and makes you go to Spirit Cycle with her. Someone was fired for not going to Spirit Cycle with her. I mean SERIOUSLY!????? Who wants to go to Spirit Cycle with their boss?
It’s hard to get work done when the girl next to you is crying all the time.
Horrible office morale.
Advice to Senior Management—Management needs to learn to treat people like human beings. We aren’t your worker drones. Maybe don’t go on a juice cleanse if it makes you so mean you fire people.
No, I would not recommend this company to a friend—I’m not optimistic about the outlook for this company.
And another one: A Lady Techie’s Worst NIGHTMARE
Pros—As if!
Wait, sorry. There are good places to eat lunch by the office.
Cons—There’s absolutely no innovation in the technology here. It’s all about mimicking website designs and functionality from other websites.
The tech team is looking to jump ship. Someone in management (why hide it on here, the Editorial Director) actually told me I could benefit from a juice cleanse, then she started calling me the Tubby Techie…to my face.
The same Editorial Director is always asking the product team (ME) for people’s passwords so she can fuck with their email, their accounts, their documents and their social media. SHE LIKES TO PLAY GOD! She is terrifying. When I said no, she said she would fire me. I think she got someone else to do it.
Advice to Senior Management—STOP SENDING US SEXY SELFIES OF YOURSELF. YOU KNOW WHO YOUR ARE. Also, it’s bad for the company when you’re in the press for all the wrong reasons. Keep your personal life personal—not in the public spotlight—although you pretend you don’t like it…it’s obvious you do.
One more: THE JOB from HELLLLL!!!!!
Pros—Maybe I’ll get hired by Vogue after this? Working with Imogen Tate is wonderful.
Cons—My boss is making her staff be in her wedding because she has no friends. It is so awkward. Too bad Imogen Tate won’t be working there much longer.
Advice to Senior Management—Please just let us do our jobs. PLEASE!!!! Can someone help me get a contact at Vogue?
The other reviews were more of the same. One mentioned Eve specifically, calling her the Cruella de Vil of e-Commerce. “We are all her puppies, expected to sit, stay and shit at her bidding.”
Imogen wouldn’t be there much longer? What the hell. What did that disgruntled employee know? Who was that disgruntled employee anyway? For a second Imogen wondered if it could possibly be Ashley.
Her iPhone began vibrating on the tabletop with a blocked number.
“What the hell, Imogen?” spat a livid woman’s voice on the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry. To whom am I speaking?”
“It’s Alice.” Why was Alice Hobbs screaming at me?
“Alice, darling. Wonderful to hear from you. What on Earth is wrong?”
“I know we lost the photographs I took on my phone for you yesterday and I am delighted that my assistant saved the day, but putting his pictures on the website for the shoot without crediting me when I spent weeks with you planning the concept, directing the shoot and setting up the majority of the photos that you used is just shitty. It’s really shitty. Beyond getting the credit…I wasn’t even given a heads-up that anything would go online today. I assumed I would have some say in the photo selection process and the retouching and postproduction. What kind of an operation are you running over there?”
Imogen scrambled for some device that would get her on the Internet. She tried pantomiming that she needed a laptop to Alex and the kids over on the couch, but they raised their hands in confusion and then just waved at her. Finally she spotted an iPad lying on the floor and grabbed it. Out of juice.
“Alice, darling. Please hold on just one second.”
Imogen ran downstairs to grab the laptop, which took its sweet time whirring to life.
Imogen could hear Alice release a long sigh from the other end of the phone. “I thought that we had a certain level of both trust and professional courtesy. I’ve never, in all of my work with magazines, with websites, with commercial brands, been blindsided like this.” Why was it taking the website so long to load?
“Imogen, are you there?”
“I’m right here, Alice.”
Imogen gasped. Oh shit. Alice was right. Who posted the pictures? There it was, the main splashy story on the first page of Glossy.com.
IT’S TECH, BITCH! screamed the headline. “Photos taken by Mack Schwartz,” read the byline. It was really just a gallery of the photos overlaid with the BUY IT NOW! graphics. That wasn’t what they had planned. The whole point of doing the shoot was to turn it into a beautifully laid out aspirational spread. These weren’t even retouched.
Imogen clicked through.
“You could have given me some kind of warning.”
“Alice, I’m so sorry. This is a mistake. I never approved any of this. I swear to you, I never would have done this without talking to you. Let me get to the bottom of this?”
“You’re supposed to be the editor in chief. That’s why I signed on to do this project in the first place. You think I agree to work with every blogger on the street? If you don’t have control over this, what do you have control over?”
Imogen went to interrupt her, but realized she didn’t have an answer.
“I’m sorry, Alice.”
“Kill it. Issue a correction. Make sure my check is in the mail and make it out to me and not my assistant.” The phone went dead. Imogen tried to figure out what to do next. Who was posting these pictures? Who had access to them? Ashley had them. She wouldn’t have posted them without speaking to her.
Who was in the office anyway?
She dialed Ashley. As the phone rang Imogen sank down onto the hardwood floor of the downstairs family room. They renovated this basement two years earlier and it
was now the most lived-in room in the whole house besides the kitchen. Imogen gazed over at the bookshelves stuffed with children’s books, young adult books and family photos.
After five rings it went to Ashley’s voicemail. “Heya. It’s Ash. Are you seriously leaving me a message right now? You’re so old-school. Text me if ya want to hear back from me.”
Imogen stood and began pacing across the sitting room, trying to work out what to do. Should she just log on and try her hand at removing the photos from the site altogether? Alex, finally finished with his own work, called out to her: “Babe, are you in for a game of Monopoly?”
“Start without me.”
She was about to dial Eve when her phone rang. Ashley’s photo popped up on the phone. A selfie, her blue eyes wide and head cocked slightly to the side. How did that get there? Ashley must have programmed it herself.
“Hi, Ashley. I was just trying you.”
The girl’s voice was muffled, as though she were holding her hand over the mouthpiece.
“I saw. That’s why I am calling you back. What’s up?”
“Where are you? I can barely hear you. Can you talk louder?”
“I’m at Eve’s with everyone else.”
“With who else?”
“With the whole office.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Eve told us that we all had to come to her place to work from there because of the snow.”
“I didn’t hear about that.”
“She told us not to say anything to you. She said you probably had to take care of your kids so it wasn’t worth it for us to bother you.”
“How did you all get there? Everything is shut down today.”
“Most of us walked. Sabine’s dad has a big SUV, so he let her take that out and she picked up some people on the Upper East Side, but they ran into a snowbank so they got here real late.”
Imogen didn’t know what to say. There was no way that Eve was being kind and giving her a snow day with her children. She wanted to make a fool of her for not being there working with everyone else.
“I emailed the staff this morning. Did you get it?”
“Eve wrote back to all of us two minutes after you did and told us to ignore it and find a way to her apartment. She said”—Ashley let her voice slip into Eve’s nasally one—“we can’t let productivity slip just because of a few flurries.”