Pretty in Ink Page 2

  Louisa’s workspace is rimmed on three sides by floor-to-ceiling windows, which means only thin panes of glass separate us from a raging snowfall outside; we’re surrounded by storm. “It’s not good,” Louisa says, the wind howling and whipping against the glass. I feel desperate to flee.

  “The problem is obvious,” says Mark, our creative director, his voice like shards of glass. “This magazine is schizophrenic. Over the course of one year, we’ve altered the fonts, the logos, and the colors three separate times. Our fashion has gone from runway to bargain bin and back. You’ve renamed the health pages ‘Monthly Checkup,’ then ‘Rx for a Healthy You!’ then ‘Doctor’s Appointment. ’ You’ve made us move beauty from the front of the book to the back of the book, then back to the front. The changes are manic!”

  Louisa sighs, and I feel a bit sick. It’s true what Mark’s saying: Someone who picked up a copy of Hers at the hair salon last June and then bought another issue at the airport over Christmas might not have known she was reading the same magazine.

  “OK, let’s all just relax,” says Abby, our always calm and reasonable managing editor.

  “We’ll work it out,” I say, my conviction weak despite my words.

  “Hey, Jenny,” Louisa calls out to her assistant. “Grab me lunch, will you? One California roll, one spicy tuna, and a seaweed salad”—her usual—“and, um, four Peppermint Patties.” Candy—a definite sign of trouble.

  Leaving Louisa’s office, I feel the attention from the trenches hot on my cheeks. Though they’re trying to hide it, it’s obvious that every staff member is staring from her respective cubicle, desperate to glean a glimpse of the goings-on behind Louisa’s door. As far as I’m concerned, they’re lucky to be spared the details. Jenny is off fetching Louisa’s food, and on her desk I spot a prescription for Ativan. It’s in Louisa’s name. I discreetly tuck it under a folder, which I notice is labeled, “Any decent public schools in NYC?” I shove both documents into Jenny’s top drawer, then retreat to my office.

  As the wintry days drag on, heavy and cold with dread, I savor even more than usual the two days a week I work from home. My home office is far from glamorous; unlike my roomy space at Hers that looks out onto Central Park, my basement work area is cluttered and windowless. But it’s quiet and calm, a temporary escape from Louisa’s naked looks of need and the worry that she now wears on skin’s surface. Plus, at home I’m treated to occasional visits from a daughter who manages to escape Maria’s watchful eye and clomp-crawl her way past my door.

  “Hello, love,” I say, bending down to pull Daisy onto my lap.

  “Ma-ma.” I grin with pride at this word that she’s recently learned to say, her first. Daisy’s tiny fingers go right for the gold—a 14-carat hoop hanging from my right ear. I swat her away. Thankfully I’ve honed laser-fast reflexes during my ten months of motherhood, and so far my daughters have failed to inflict serious injury in pursuit of my baubles. My husband, Rob, believes my refusal to stop wearing dangly earrings around our babies’ grabby fingers is masochistic and insane. In truth, it’s vanity; I haven’t managed to kick the last ten pounds of baby weight, and damn it all if I’ll be denied my shiny jewelry, too.

  Maria swoops in and reaches for Daisy. “You’re not allowed in there, chica,” she says, pinning me with accusatory eyes. She’s right; I preach “Do not disturb” during office hours, but half the time I’m alone at the computer I pine for the particular company of my three squirming babies; sometimes I go so far as to snatch one up. (Inconveniently, as soon as Maria is out the door for the day and I am inundated with nothing but baby time, I long for sweet solitude.)

  My phone rings, three p.m. on the dot, my husband as reliable as a clock. “Baby,” he says. “How’s the editing?”

  “Hey, apple of my eye. Peachy as pie. How’s the designing?”

  “Fruitful. Very fruitful.” I still love this silly routine that we’ve developed over nearly a decade as partners. “I’ll pick up a rotisserie chicken on the way home. How’s it going really?”

  “Oh, I dunno. I Skyped with Louisa earlier to review page proofs, and I’m worried she’s losing her knack, like she can’t tell what’s good and what’s not, what matters and what doesn’t. Or maybe I’m just going a little crazy myself.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s too much time spent holed up with all those crazy women.” I roll my eyes, knowing what’s next. “You need some distance. I signed up for subscriptions to a few Vermont papers so we can check out the listings.”

  “Oh, goody,” I say, not bothering to mask my sarcasm.

  “Just to look, Leah. Just to dream. Picture it, you and me cozied up under a blanket with a fire going in a big old farmhouse, the girls running around some giant swatch of land, all of us planting vegetables and raising chickens—we’d have fresh eggs!”

  “Newsflash, Rob: We have fresh eggs here, from a lovely little place called Stop & Shop. No shitting chickens, either.”

  “Just think about it, OK? Imagine all that extra time you’d have with the girls.”

  I feel a pang. Rob can be good at this, and sometimes I even fall for his fantasy of what my freelance writing career out in the country would look like—batting around great ideas with enthusiastic editors, interviewing brilliant experts about fascinating topics, and pouring my heart into groundbreaking features for big, important publications. In reality I know freelancing is 90 percent hustling and churning out rehashes of the same articles over and over and 10 percent fighting against the spiral down into derangement due to lack of human interaction. Rob is lucky he can do his web design job from anywhere.

  “If we moved to Vermont, we wouldn’t have Maria,” I say. “I’d keel over and collapse within a week.”

  “Baby, you can bring Maria in your luggage. Just poke out some air holes.”

  “You are terrible,” I say, picturing our white family packing away our Colombian nanny in a suitcase and tossing it in the back of our station wagon. God, somebody’s probably done such a thing. “I have work to do. Bye, sweetheart.”

  Through my office door, I hear Maria singing, “Hasta mañana, nos vamos a la cama,” a tune the girls love regardless of whether it’s actually bedtime. Maria is a gift. When she gets finicky Rose to go down for a nap or tickles Lulu’s belly and makes her explode into hiccup-y laughs far more excited than I can elicit, I feel not at all wistful in the ways I’ve heard some working moms talk about their children’s caregivers. I’d clone Maria if we could afford to shell out double her salary.

  It’s around the time the frozen ground begins to thaw (when you may as well face it that whatever shoes you wear will end up matted with mud) when Louisa’s and my private language starts deteriorating. It used to be, we could maintain an entire conversation with glances and gestures. Louisa would conclude a meeting and offer hearty assurance to some VIP and then shoot me a split-second peek that meant, “No way in hell!” or “Thank the Lord that’s over,” and I’d nod politely and understand just the right way to dismiss the visitor. But lately Louisa’s looks have become garbled. Now she fixes on her Competent Editor mask and forgets to remove it when we’re speaking privately.

  The day it proves to be all over is one of those unseasonably warm days in April. Ed the mail guy enters Louisa’s office bearing a bouquet of lilacs; I wonder who’s sent them and why: her husband as a gesture of support? a public relations rep eager as always to woo? the corporate suite as some kind of final offering?

  “Thanks, those are my favorite.” Louisa’s voice is wooden, like she’s reciting lines, like she doesn’t remember that of course both Ed and I would know what her favorite flowers are. She stares perplexedly at the bouquet, looking as if she’s aged about a decade.

  “We’ll have Jenny put them in water,” I say, going to grab a vase.

  I’m still sitting in Louisa’s office, awaiting instructions from our formerly fearless leader who’s now putzing around her space like she’s lost, when Jenny patches through a call from
the teacher of Louisa’s five-year-old son. “She claims it’s urgent,” says Jenny, who knows closed-door meetings are usually noninterruptible. Louisa puts the phone on speaker.

  “Hi, Ms. Harding,” we hear over the line. The teacher sounds nervous. “We had a double recess today. You know, because of the nice weather. So we stayed at the playground through what would have been reading. I know, I know, reading is important. But the kids were excited, and—” I start to zone out, wondering if the $40,000 sticker price for the private school where Louisa sends her kids includes this kind of mundane daily update from the teachers. My ears perk up when I hear the words “sprained ankle.”

  “Is Jasper OK?” Louisa gasps, her voice shrill.

  “Yes, he’s fine. He fell from the monkey bars, but he’s all right. The nurse set him up with an ice pack and a cherry Popsicle, but we do need you or your husband to come fetch him immediately and take him to a doctor.”

  “I’ll be right over,” Louisa says, then hangs up.

  “Shit,” she shrieks. “Shit, shit, shit.” She shrinks in her seat and her eyes go misty and brim over with tears. The fact that I’ve never heard my boss curse, never mind seen her slump or cry, makes me want to break down, too. I manage to maintain my composure, and offer Louisa a tissue. She draws me in for a hug, which shocks me into silence. With her mouth inches from my ear, she whispers, “An hour ago they fired me.”

  At first I say nothing. Still pressed up against her body, I can feel the narrow fragility of Louisa’s frame—my shoulders are a good six inches broader than hers. She’s like a frail kid. This realization stirs up my anger. My boss is like a child, delicate and innocent. How could they do this to her? “But, but …” I stutter idiotically.

  “I know.” Louisa plucks the tissue from my hand and blows her nose, a horrible honk. “They’re morons.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” Louisa inhales deeply and looks up at me. “I’m really sorry.” She smoothes out her skirt, sighs, and then emerges from her office into the maze of cubicles.

  “Louisa, what’s wrong?” I hear Mark ask. “Are you OK?”

  “Jasper broke his foot,” she responds, hurrying out of the office. Jenny has to chase after her with her purse.

  Louisa doesn’t return that afternoon. Our managing editor, Abby, calls a staff meeting. We shuttle into the conference room, and everyone seems restless. I overhear Zoe and Jane chattering about Hers’ poor newsstand numbers and flagging subscriptions; Mark and Debbie are murmuring guesses at Louisa’s latest crazy scheme to save the magazine; Drew is telling the intern that some people are concerned Hers isn’t making the transition fast enough to tablet technology. I stay on the sidelines and give my stomach a silent pep talk to stop its lurching.

  I see the looks of shock as, instead of Louisa, Mrs. Winters, Schmidt & Delancey’s editorial director, enters and takes her place at the front of the room. Mrs. Winters is known for her thick gray bun and her formidable poker face, though privately I suspect a wig is responsible for the former and Botox for the latter. A halo of hush surrounds her at all times. Mrs. Winters delivers the official party line: “Ms. Harding is stepping down from her position as editor in chief of Hers magazine in order to pursue other interests.

  “Are there any questions?” she quips.

  No one dares speak up. I hear Zoe mumble, “Is that what we’re calling unemployment these days? ‘Other interests’?”

  “OK, then, that’s all for today,” says Mrs. Winters. “We’ll give word as soon as there’s any further news.” Filing out of the conference room, we all flash our fake “No hard feelings” smiles at Mrs. Winters. I catch Drew, our photo editor, staring at me with a look of uncensored pity. Then Abby pats me on the back in a “Keep your head up” kind of way. Accustomed to being envied and admired and looked up to, I feel totally out of my element—and scared. That’s when I understand. Louisa wasn’t saying she was sorry about her own situation; rather, she was apologizing to me. Because I will soon be out of a job, too.

  2

  Jane Staub-Smith, Associate Editor

  As any decent (and anxious) reporter would, I begin preparing for my Mimi meeting as soon as we get the e-mail. It’s from Laura, the new assistant: “Hi all! I’m scheduling each person fifteen-minute time slots with Mimi so she can get to know you and your roles at the magazine.” In other words, so we can defend our jobs with everything we’ve got. My appointment is on Friday, two days from now, which leaves plenty of time for due diligence.

  A morning’s scroll through LexisNexis reveals that Mimi hails from Kansas farm country (which may as well be Uzbekistan, as far as I’m concerned); she attended the state school, then bartended in St. Louis for two years before shipping out to New York and working her way up at the big tabloids, meanwhile marrying and divorcing two men, first a nurse and then a doctor. Most recently the executive editor of the lowbrow celeb rag Starstruck, she’s earned herself a reputation for being smart (despite the mediocre pedigree), ruthless, and impulsive. I uncover a decade-old photo of Mimi with her arm slung around our very own recipe creator, Debbie.

  I make my way to Hers’ test kitchen, and then hover outside until Debbie invites me in, as is protocol. “So you know the new boss from before, huh?” I ask.

  “Diligent digging,” Debbie says. “What, did you hire a PI to get the scoop before your meeting?”

  “Guilty as charged, minus the PI. I’m nervous! So is it true?”

  “Yeah, Mimi and I worked together at VIP, although I don’t like to advertise the fact. That was the brief blip I spent hounding celebrities’ every move. I reported on what they ordered in restaurants, how much of their meals they actually ate, and whether or not they requested doggie bags. A very fulfilling job, as you might imagine.”

  “Jeez. So what’s Mimi like?”

  “If I remember correctly, she’s notorious for never using the bathroom—even after downing venti lattes and on late nights. Total freak. Also, she adores purple.”

  “Huh.”

  “I’d love to keep gossiping, but I’m neglecting my risotto, and I fear if it dries out the new boss will have my head.” Debbie flashes a wicked smile.

  “Return to your stirring, then.” I swipe an apple on my way out.

  On the day of my meeting with Mimi, I’m dressed smartly in eggplant capris and a lavender button-up, a manicure to match. But my scheduled time slot comes and goes, and then the appointment is pushed back three more times. I struggle to come up with three more just-right outfits. When it’s finally my turn, I enter Mimi’s office with as much confidence as I can fake. For my first real-life encounter with the woman who’s already become a myth in my mind, I’m wearing my fourth and final purple getup, a lilac silk sheath I picked up at a BCBG sample sale (unfortunately by this point I’ve bitten my magenta nails down to the quick). I’ve brought with me a long list of my responsibilities, plus a longer list of ideas for revamping the magazine. I’m genuinely excited at the prospect of transforming Hers into a more impactful, serious-minded publication. I’m anxious to finally show off my journalistic chops.

  The first thing I notice in Mimi’s office, perched on a ledge behind the desk, is a portrait of the old boss Louisa’s children, the boy gap-toothed, the girl squinty-eyed—some sort of joke or just an oversight? My research revealed that Mimi is not a mother. I feel the kids eyeing me accusingly from within the frame, like I’m on trial.

  “I hear you work on our marriage coverage,” Mimi says, pronouncing the word “marriage” like it’s “cancer.”

  “Yes, for three years I’ve been writing the love, sex, and relationship pages.” I’m proud of the stories I’ve written for Hers, especially the marriage ones; it’s thrilling to receive dozens of letters each month from readers praising my work and thanking me for helping their relationships. “I actually have some ideas for—”

  “Are you married, then?” Mimi interrupts.

  “No.”

 
“In a relationship?”

  “Well, until recently, yes.”

  “So then, no?”

  “Um, I guess not.” I flash on an image of Jacob, and my eyes blur with tears. I blink until they recede.

  “So, where do you get your ideas, Jane? How do you put yourself in the shoes of our readers?”

  “I do research, of course. I know plenty of people who are married, so I talk to them, and I pay close attention to our reader mail.” I’m trying to hang onto Mimi’s wandering attention, secretly fuming that marriage has apparently become a prerequisite for my job. Never mind that I graduated top of my class from Medill School of Journalism. “I don’t pretend to be an expert, but I have a dozen real experts on speed-dial, and their knowledge—”

  “Oh, Jane, I think the reader is bored to death of hearing how to spice things up with her slob of a husband, how she should buy lingerie to impress him, how she needs to schedule sex to stay intimate, blah blah blah. I think she’d rather die than read another article about the Holy Grail of date night.” I’m making an effort to maintain a neutral expression as my new boss insults everything I’ve covered at the magazine for three years. It’s a particularly cruel prelude to firing me, I think, but at least it will soon be over. She adds, “Don’t you agree, Jane?”

  “Uh, I guess so.” Mimi nods, like we’re now collaborators. Maybe this is a game, and she’s egging me on to see if I’ll wither under the pressure or stand up for myself. I take a breath to calm my racing heart. “I will say, I’ve gotten lots of mail from women grateful for our sex and marriage advice. And Dr. Sharon Hellerman—”

  “Oh, Christ, Dr. Sharon Hellerman!” Mimi emits a strange sound that may or may not be laughter. “Do you think that old bag has had sex once in the past decade? I picture Sharon and her husband of a thousand years sitting down to watch reruns of Love Boat each night, then chastely kissing each other on the cheek and tucking themselves in to twin beds, Bert-and-Ernie style. Marriage expert, ha! Please don’t let me catch her name in the magazine again.”