The Pink Ghetto

by Liz Ireland

  “Here’s our food,” Alex sing-songed, looking relieved to have an excuse to put an end to the conversation.

  The waitress nodded to the empty seats on the other side of Dan and Fleishman. “You would like to move?”

  “No!” they all chimed.

  We all sank back into our respective seats. Back to our corners, I thought.

  Alex balanced her chopsticks in her perfectly manicured hands. “Small world.” Her voice lowered to adjust for eavesdropping.

  Mine did not. I was too mad. “Smaller than you know.”

  She tilted toward me. “So I take it you know that author well?”

  “We live together.” I added, “Lived.”

  Maybe it wasn’t kosher to give personal details, but I couldn’t help myself. I was in a swivet. I stared at the neatly ordered quadrants of my lunch and tried to sort out the mess that was unraveling. It wasn’t making any sense. All I knew was that I was feeling murderous. I grabbed my chopsticks, lamenting the dull edges. Just when a sharp object might have come in handy…

  Alex started talking about her ideas for the magazine article, and somehow in a conversation about up-and-coming editors, she managed to drop the name of half a dozen very famous authors. I half listened. Actually, I half listened for about thirty seconds and then I was off in my own world again.

  All the implications started to pile up on me. Dan and Fleishman couldn’t be a completely new development. They hadn’t just gotten together this week. An agent didn’t decide to represent someone overnight. Chances were that even before I had gone to Dallas, Dan had read the book. And that he had known, or at least suspected, that I was the pathetic, needy, easy-to-seduce Renata. I had inspired every word, after all.

  And how had I come across in Dallas? Pathetic, needy, and easy to seduce.

  In this light, a few of the things Dan had said to me over the weekend began to make sense. Cryptic comments about my wanting the lights out and being clingy. I mean, I had thought at the time that it was weird to call someone clingy five minutes after waking up from a one-night stand. Now it seemed worse than weird. It seemed sinister.

  Oh, yeah. This explained a lot.

  Like the way Fleishman had practically pimped me out to Dan. I had forgotten about that. Those flowers, that whispered comment on the way to the airport. They had been a sort of You go, girl! nudge. Had he thought it would improve his chances to have his agent and his editor sleeping together?

  Except now he didn’t even seem to need me as an editor. Or no, he just wasn’t sure. He had nibbles.

  Nauseating.

  Alex leaned across the table and peered worriedly into my face. “Is your lunch okay?”

  “Fine!” I gritted out. To demonstrate how fine I was, I gulped down a piece of sushi whole. Then another. I was barely chewing. Just shoveling. Meanwhile, waves of clammy cold and then heat washed over me.

  “Maybe you could tell me about what you did before coming to Candlelight. Mercedes said you worked for Sylv—”

  Rocket propelled by anger, I exploded out of my chair again. “Did you think it was funny?” I demanded of neither one in particular. It was hard to say whom I was the most angry at anyway.

  Dan and Fleishman glanced up, startled.

  “The book?” Dan asked. “I thought it was hilarious.”

  “Not the book,” I said, disgusted. “Or, yes, the book. The book, me, and your pathetically easy Saturday night seduction. You knew just what buttons to push—and no wonder!”

  Dan’s face went red, and he arched a brow in the general direction of my dining companion. “Bec…”

  I rolled my eyes. “My name is Rebecca. It’s not Bec. It’s not Becca. And it’s sure as hell not Renata.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this here…”

  “Where, then?”

  “In private, maybe?”

  “Oh sure,” I said with a sarcastic snort. “Sure. I’ll just wait for you to call. In fact, I’ll bet you were about to call me at any moment, weren’t you?”

  “Actually, I was,” he said.

  “To tell you the truth, Dan, I didn’t care if you called me or not. Still don’t. I haven’t given you much thought since Sunday. I’ve had other things on my mind. But to find out that you slept with me because I was easy game because of something you’d read in Fleishman’s crappy book, that makes you an even bigger sleaze than I was already beginning to suspect you were.”

  Fleishman jumped into the fray. “I told you she didn’t like the book!”

  For some reason, that comment almost did me in. Literally.

  So far I had been venting mostly on Dan, maybe because what I felt toward Fleishman went so much deeper. I felt betrayed. I was seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time, and it was painful. He had exposed me, betrayed me. Worse, he had made a mockery of six years of friendship.

  I sucked in a breath to speak—it was a deep breath, because I had a lot to say—but when I did so, some half-chewed piece of sushi that had been buried behind a molar suddenly jumped into my throat. My diaphragm contracted, then began to spasm, but there was not a whisper of air coming down my windpipe.

  I started to make desperate motions with my arms. At first, no one seemed to notice. Great. Just great. Death by sushi inhalation would top off my week nicely.

  The faces staring at me began to screw up in confusion. “What’s the matter?” Alex asked.

  I jerked my arms around in a frustrating charade as my companions continued to gape at me. Maybe they thought I was just having an apoplectic fit, but I was sure I was turning blue by this point.

  Alex grabbed my arm. “Omigod!” she exclaimed. “She’s choking! She needs help!”

  The words would have made me feel better had I not feared they would be the last I heard on this side of eternity. Which, even though I consider myself mildly spiritual, happens to be the side I tend to prefer.

  After registering a moment of surprise, Fleishman jumped up and yanked me away from the table. Then he started pounding on my back. Hard. And just in case you ever need to know, when you can’t breathe, it’s not so great to have people beating you.

  “Wait!” Dan said. “That’s not right.”

  No kidding.

  “I remember!” Alex flicked Fleishman aside. “You have to grab her like this.”

  Like a rag doll, I was grabbed from behind by Alex.

  “That’s right,” Dan said, “you punch her diaphragm.”

  “With your fists!” Fleishman said. I guess all that first aid knowledge was coming back to him.

  Alex followed their instructions and miraculously managed to perform a perfect Heimlich maneuver in one thrust. She was, not surprisingly, strong. I could practically hear a pop as I unclogged and that troublesome piece of sushi went flying across the bamboo, landing with an audible plop in Dan’s miso soup.

  I’ve known a lot of embarrassing moments. More than my share, I would say. At the age of twelve I had started my period at camp on trail ride day and spent the rest of my time at Camp Promise hearing snide renditions of that stupid “There was blood on the saddle” song. Actually I pretty much consider my first eighteen years of life one bad moment after another, all strung together.

  But choking during my “Making Waves” interview in front of two ex-lovers definitely rated. Not only were Dan and Fleishman gaping at me (actually, Dan was staring at his soup bowl), the entire restaurant had turned to watch. There was no sound, either, except that burbling fish pond.

  It is hard to recover your dignity after an episode of public regurgitation, and my dignity had already been on the verge of collapse.

  Only Alex seemed at all animated. “Omigod!” she yelled, delighted. “It worked. I saved your life!”

  I mumbled my thanks. I was thankful. I just wanted to be out of there.

  “I hope I can work this into the article!” she said.

  I grabbed my purse. Call me a coward, but I didn’t really see much point in continui
ng on with my publicity lunch. The only waves I was making were the ripples still in Dan’s miso soup. “Actually, we might have to continue some other time.”

  Her brow creased. “Oh, okay…” She seemed disappointed. I think she wanted to spend the rest of the meal basking in her heroism.

  After that, there didn’t seem much left to say.

  Except, come to think of it, there was one thing I wanted out in the open.

  I brushed past Fleishman, then looked Dan Weatherby square in the eye. “Just for the record, Dan. Your new client, the new Nick Hornby? He thinks you’re a baloney sandwich.”

  On the way back to the office, I underwent a complete willpower meltdown. I passed Food Emporium, then doubled back and came out minutes later with an M&M two-pounder. Unashamed, I tore it open on the street with my teeth, sending colored candies flying like confetti. I popped a fistful into my mouth, then barely restrained myself from upending the entire bag into my mouth.

  When I got off the elevator, the temporary receptionist gestured to the message wheel. “You’ve got a bunch.”

  The messages were all from Wendy. Left you a voicemail, one said. Another: Where the h are you? Then, Meet at 3 at the NW corner of 96th and B’Way.

  I groaned and popped another fistful of M&Ms. Apartment hunting. Which meant dealing with supers, or worse, real estate agents. Would this day never end?

  “How’d the interview go?” Lindsay chirped at me. She was planted next to the Xerox machine. I murmured abstractly as I whisked by her.

  “You look one hundred percent better than when you left!” she called after me.

  I shut myself into my office and leaned back in my chair, popping M&Ms by the palmful and letting them melt in my mouth for a moment before starting to chew. God it felt good. I can’t tell you. I leaned farther back, then finally just gave in, kicked off my shoes, and propped my bare feet on my desk.

  Pure sugar oblivion, that’s what I was looking for. And blessed silence.

  It’s not what I got. As I sank into my M&M reverie, my door opened and closed with a slam. And then, in the blink of an eye, Andrea was on my floor, in a fetal ball, rolling from side to side. And moaning. The most awful sound I’d ever heard was coming out of her—a horrible, otherworldly keening noise. Like a large rodent with stomach cramps. It was as if she were going through some sort of weird reversion therapy.

  I brought my feet down and leaned toward her. “Um…Andrea?”

  She turned slightly. What a sight she was! Her hair was in her face, her skirt was bunched up around her thighs. “I…AM…SO…SCREWED!”

  They were the first intelligible words she’d spoken since flinging herself down on my carpet. Maybe this was a positive sign. “What happened?”

  The question made her go slack, and she lay facedown on the floor, like a penitent. “I applied for a job…”

  “So?” She was applying for jobs all the time.

  “At Candlelight!”

  I was mystified. “How could you have done that?”

  “I don’t know!” she howled. “I didn’t know what I was doing! They didn’t put the name of the company in the ad.”

  I remembered the ad I’d responded to. I hadn’t known I was applying to Candlelight, either. Of course, to me it hadn’t made any difference. “Who received your application?”

  “Kathy Leo! And instead of coming to me, she bumped my resume right over to Mercedes. The traitor!”

  “Shit.”

  “And Mercedes called a conference with Rita, and Karen…”

  “Shit.”

  “And then invited me. They ambushed me.”

  And I thought I was having a bad day.

  Andrea heaved a deep, deep sigh. “For a minute there, I thought I was being promoted. Then she brought out my resume and cover letter, and I knew the jig was up. It was over. I was toast.”

  I shuddered sympathetically. “Oh God.”

  Her head lifted. “It’s worse than oh God, Rebecca. I had put in all sorts of cover letter bullshit about how I had been with my present company forever and was now seeking greater challenges. Mercedes read all the awful bits back to me in front of everyone.”

  “Ouch.”

  “The worse part is, the ad made the company sound so fantastic! I thought I was applying to this great publishing house that would shower me with money and prestige.” In a sign that she was snapping back from adversity, she grumbled, “Kathy Leo ought to try her hand at becoming an author. The drivel she concocted was pure fiction.”

  “What did Mercedes say to you?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Did she fire you?”

  “No—but you know Mercedes. She jawed on forever about what a valued employee I was. And how she was so disappointed that I wasn’t happy, but hoped that I wasn’t actually planning to leave.”

  I mulled that over for a moment. “You know, that doesn’t sound like you’re screwed, Andrea. In fact it sounds like she was trying to be, you know, encouraging.”

  Andrea rolled her eyes. “When were you hatched? She knows I’m trapped here like a bug on a web. She’s got my number now. I’ll be watched, tormented, and persecuted. I’ll only be sent to conferences in North Dakota. Just when I think I’ve finally cleared my name, the noose will tighten. That’s when I’ll be booted out.”

  She seemed to take perverse pleasure in seeing herself as the Jean Valjean of Candlelight editorial. “Maybe Mercedes was telling the truth,” I said.

  “Oh, no. I’m doomed, I’m sure of it. I’m going to lose my job, my apartment, everything. Not only will I not be able to tread water in Queens, I’ll be forced to move back to my parents’ house in East Orange. I’ll be lucky to get a job as a grocery scanner. I will die a spinster.”

  “There aren’t spinsters anymore.” One of Andrea’s authors wrote very popular western romances.

  “They just don’t call them that anymore.” She poked at her chest. “Maybe that’s where I’ll be a trendsetter. I’ll single-handedly bring back the pathetic, middle-aged no-hoper.”

  I tried to imagine Andrea as a modern-day old maid. Zazu Pitts with a potty mouth. “I don’t want to disillusion you, but I think you’re overreacting. I don’t think Mercedes has it in for you.”

  “Ha.”

  “Think about it. She had your resume. She could have had it for days. She had plenty of time to sit around deciding what to do with you. But instead of firing you, she called in all your superiors and staged this intervention.”

  Andrea crossed her arms. “She just wanted to see me squirm.”

  “Or there’s another possibility.”

  “What?”

  “She really doesn’t want to lose you.”

  I was ready to be barked at, belittled, and told I was a gullible rube. Remarkably, Andrea’s head slowly tilted, as if she were actually thinking over what I’d said. “Is that some kind of joke?”

  “No, I mean it. Why shouldn’t she want to keep you? You’re a good editor. I would have been sunk without your help these last few months.” Which, I realized, was actually true. In her own curt way, Andrea had been invaluable to me.

  “But she knows I want to leave!”

  “So?” I shrugged. “A lot of people have their eyes out for better jobs. Didn’t you notice Mary Jo looked awfully good a day or so after that ad appeared in BM for a senior ed at Avon?”

  “Get out of here.”

  “It’s true. And remember what Mercedes said after Cassie left? She said she wanted to prevent that from happening again. Maybe she was actually telling the truth.”

  We both took a moment to chew over the possibility that corporate groupspeak wasn’t entirely BS. That we actually were valued employees. It was an unsettling thought. Briefly I thought I saw tears welling in Andrea’s eyes.

  Or maybe not. She frowned at the candy bag on my desk. “Jesus Christ. Is that a two-pounder?”

  I nodded, ashamed.

  “That’s disgusting!” she said. “Can I have som
e?”

  I offered the bag, and, sitting cross-legged, she emptied about half the contents into her skirt. “I love these things.”

  “I needed chocolate therapy.”

  “Why? What happened to you?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to enter into a game of one-upmanship.

  But Andrea egged me on. “C’mon. It couldn’t have been worse than what happened to me.”

  I couldn’t resist the challenge. I told her all of it. Andrea’s lavish reactions to my tale of woe were very gratifying. Her eyes bugged when I went into the details with Fleishman, she issued profane exclamations when I explained what had happened over the weekend, and she agreed—whole-heartedly—that my dress was hideous. By the time I told her what went down at the Japanese restaurant—or rather, what came up—she was staring at me, slack jawed.

  “That is seriously fucked up,” she finally declared.

  In the battle of the bad days, I guess it was a draw.

  She devoured a few more M&Ms. “What were you doing sleeping with Dan anyway? I thought you were holding out for elevator man.”

  “Elevator man is the impossible dream. Dan was available.”

  “I’m beginning to think what’s out of reach is safest in the long run.”

  “You mean abstinence?”

  She shuddered. “I am becoming a spinster. Maybe I should go out and get a few cats for my apartment.”

  Apartment! I bolted straight up in my chair and squinted at the clock on my monitor screen. The tiny numbers said twenty till three. “Crap! I’m late.”

  I jumped up, and so did Andrea. M&Ms went flying. “Where are we going?”

  “We?”

  “You can’t leave me alone here,” she said.

  There was something almost touching about Andrea in needy mode. “I have to go look at an apartment with my roommate. I’ve only got twenty minutes to get to the other side of town and up to 96th Street.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You’re going to live up there?”

  “We’re just looking. We have to find a place…”

  “Right. The new Nick Hornby has rendered you homeless,” she said. “I’m definitely going with you.”