Pretty in Ink Page 3

  I jot down, “No more Dr. H,” wondering how I’ll cancel this afternoon’s phone interview without rescheduling.

  “Listen, Jane, you’re a young, attractive, unattached girl. If you showed up at a dinner party full of our readers, you’d be the star of the show. The rest of them would be coupled up and likely bored to death of their partners, dying to hear your stories from the fun, exciting single life. They’d hang on your every word about your latest first-date catastrophe or the mind-blowing sex you had with the guy you met out at the bar last night. And believe me, I’ve been on both sides of the fence, so I know what I’m talking about.”

  I’m nodding furiously, as if I have a clue about what it’s like to have a wild one-night stand, and like it’s no big deal to chat about it with my new boss.

  “So how about this?” Mimi says. “What I’d like you to do is to start a blog on our Web site. We’ll call it something like ‘Sex and the Single Girl: Having Her Fun Before She Snags the Ring,’ and you can chronicle the highs and the lows of your dating life. OK?”

  “Jeez, well …”

  “All right, then. Good talk. We’ll get to the rest of your pages as we go along. Great to meet you, Ms. Jane Staub-Smith.” Mimi clicks her red pen, shakes my hand, and then calls Laura in to usher me out of her office.

  Back at my computer, I neglect my e-mail and instead load up a game of Tetris. I think of Marjorie Dawson, the woman I’ve invented to be the face of our eight million readers, the one I picture when I come up with story ideas and the one I write to. There Marjorie is returning from her dental hygienist gig to her home in the suburbs of Minneapolis, a bag of groceries tucked under each arm, a golden retriever lapping at her feet, and an eight-year-old son answering her greeting without peeling his eyes from the newest Pixar flick playing on the screen. I imagine Marjorie starting dinner, then taking a break to log on to HersMag.com, where she’s confronted with the latest post on “Sex and the Single Girl,” a recounting of my botched make-out with that awful chubby guy after I downed one too many margaritas last Friday night. I shudder at the thought.

  “Jane, are you trying to get yourself fired?” Leah appears in my cubicle and reaches across the keyboard to close out my Tetris game.

  “Hey, I was about to beat that level.” Leah’s I’m-disappointed-in-you look is the worst; nothing makes me feel guiltier. “So, Mimi wants me to start a blog.”

  “Oh, yuck.” Leah shares my disapproval of the oversharing epidemic that’s infected our culture; still, we’re careful to keep our reproach under wraps, for fear of becoming office pariahs. “Well, do you think you impressed her? Did she like your ideas?”

  “I honestly have no idea,” I say.

  Leah nods, betraying nothing, but I imagine she’s mourning the loss of her power. As executive editor, Leah was in charge by default during that strange, rudderless week post-Louisa and pre-Mimi, although we all understood that her authority had an expiration date.

  “Jane, we have a problem.” I can identify that high-pitched whine anywhere, and I feel myself breaking out in blotch: Sylvia Rogers, Hers’ research chief, marches up to my cube.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, not really up for a Sylvia confrontation after my dress-down with Mimi.

  “We have a red-alert situation.” To the research chief, a red-alert situation is a first draft that says an apple contains four not five grams of fiber. No doubt this attitude is a result of her past life as a fact-checker for the Los Angeles Times, where incorrect information could mean a source suing or a threat to national security. I respect Sylvia’s dedication, but it’s my opinion that a story about healthy snacks does not need to be treated like an investigative report on Guantánamo Bay.

  Sylvia points her talon-like finger to a stack of papers. “In this article, ‘Fit in Date Night—Fast!’ one woman alleges that her minigolf outing with her husband lasted forty minutes, but the gentleman who runs the golf course just told me it should take only thirty minutes to complete.” Oh, jeez, I think. Sylvia’s most frantic freak-outs are usually caused by he-said, she-said disputes.

  “This is from the woman’s quote, right?” I ask. Sylvia nods soberly—she’s bone thin, but somehow still has a double chin. “If she said it took forty minutes, let’s say it took forty minutes.”

  “But the man who knows the course best says it takes only thirty.”

  “If it would make you feel better, then we can say thirty. That’s fine by me.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t be accurate, since the woman made a point of saying it took forty minutes. Apparently the couple hired a babysitter for an hour and, taking into account travel time, she mentioned they didn’t have time left for lovemaking after the date.” I smile at Sylvia’s reference to sex. Our research chief is older than my mother. I sometimes imagine her sharing a bed with several cats, although in fact she has a rather dapper-looking husband.

  “Should we compromise, split the difference?” I ask. “How about we say thirty-five minutes?”

  “Then we’re being doubly inaccurate. No one said it took thirty-five minutes!” Sylvia emits a snort, as if my idea is ludicrous.

  “What exactly do you suggest we do, Sylvia?” I sense my composure begin to crack.

  “Can we eliminate the time reference altogether?”

  “The premise of the story is that parents have very little free time, so we’re sharing ideas for short date nights that they can actually squeeze in.”

  “I understand. But …”

  “Why don’t we say, ‘It took us forty minutes’ and then put something in parentheses like, ‘Some people can get through the course in half an hour’?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we should check with Mimi.”

  “I guess if you think that’s the only solution, but I know she has a crazy schedule today.” I’m trying to help Sylvia out. If Mimi is fed up with Dr. Sharon Hellerman’s quotes about marital harmony, then she certainly won’t have the patience for a nitpicky concern from our research chief. “What if we add the word ‘about’?” I suggest. “As in, ‘It took me about thirty minutes’?”

  “Hmm. I’m not thrilled with the idea, but it may work.”

  “Great.” There, I nailed it, striking that note of finality that’s the only way to shake Sylvia. She skulks away, off to harangue someone else about the facts.

  I hear Zoe, our web manager, cracking up from the next set of cubicles. “Now, I’d estimate that that conversation took about five minutes,” she says, masterly aping Sylvia’s voice, “but my high-tech, specially synchronized watch recorded an exact time of four minutes, thirty-two seconds. How might we rectify this discrepancy?” I giggle, and glance over my cubicle wall to Laura, thinking maybe I can draw the new girl in; collectively ridiculing a target is such an easy way to bond. But Mimi’s assistant won’t catch my eye. She’s staring at her screen, pretending she hasn’t heard a thing.

  I know I’m in denial that Jenny is gone when, for the second time in a week, I lean over my cubicle and say, “Listen to this,” primed to read my friend a letter from a prison inmate requesting more brunettes in the magazine. Laura looks up from the other side of the divide. “Oh,” I say, startled.

  Earlier, I’d begun reciting a press release for a contraption that measures the blood alcohol level of breast milk, “so Mommy can booze and feed baby.” I’m freshly disappointed each time I spot Laura in place of my old friend.

  I remember when Mimi told me about the girl who would become my new cubicle-mate, describing her as “our illustrious new team member, Laura Maxwell”; she hadn’t realized Jenny was still within earshot, packing up her stuff. That’s when Jenny dubbed her replacement, sight unseen, “Whore-a Maxwell.” I’m glad Jenny never had to see how said illustrious new team member has transformed her former cubicle—the walls now plastered with cheesy True Blood posters and photos of herself among gaggles of lame-looking girls clutching neon cocktails.

  Still, I know it’s smart to buddy up with the people you�
��re cooped up with all day. And the assistant to the editor in chief is a useful friend to have, privy to all the boss’s comings and goings, a key source of office information and gossip. So I will myself to make an effort. “Hey, Laura,” I say, leaning over the divider again. “Did you hear at the August cover shoot, Georgina Sparks scarfed down an entire plate of cookies and then made a beeline to the bathroom?” It’s been rumored the actress is bulimic.

  “Is that so?” Laura says, and then drops her eyes back to her screen. She’s clearly uninterested in my friendship.

  My phone rings, and when I answer, Jenny launches right in: “This morning’s Jerry was, hands down, the best episode ever. He had on pregnant moms and their pregnant teenage daughters, all competing to show off their sexiest dance moves, and each family’s winner got a full baby wardrobe and nursery. Totally genius! Who comes up with this stuff?”

  “Jenny,” I say. “Have you gotten dressed today?” It’s clear my former coworker is suffering a quiet breakdown, having morphed within two weeks from an ambitious go-getter to a sad, talk-show-addicted shut-in. Still, Jenny has listened to me moan and obsess over my ex, Jacob, for months, so I decide to give her another week’s grace period before I’ll start bugging her to get her act together.

  “How’s Whore-a?” Jenny asks, ignoring my question. I don’t condone this mean moniker, and Jenny knows it. “How’s Mimi? And everyone else?”

  “Oh, you know, humming along.” As time goes by, I’m finding it more difficult to explain the nuances of the office to someone who isn’t with us in the trenches day in and day out. I miss Jenny as Coworker. I miss our elevator game of guessing which floor each person would get off on; it’s a company-wide joke that everyone in the building dresses like the readership of their respective publications, and Jenny and I had a near 90 percent track record of accurately IDING them. On Jenny’s last descent—both of us weighed down with her boxes—we nailed it: At the cafeteria level two people stepped on, a man who looked as if he’d just returned from a fishing trip and a woman who appeared to be a grown-up version of the high school queen bee; just as we predicted, the rugged guy exited at Floor 8, Man Outdoors, and the adult teenybopper got off at 6, Teen Fashionista. Jenny giggled before returning to somber. I tried to cheer her up by pointing out that she’d probably be earning more on unemployment than she’d made at Hers.

  “You think?”

  “Yep. That’s the sad truth about the pathetic assistant salary at Schmidt & Delancey.”

  “Ugh, I never thought I’d have to apply for unemployment,” she said.

  “Are you serious?” I replied. “You know we’ve been in a recession going on four years now. I worry about getting fired approximately fifteen times a day, and that’s not just since Louisa got the ax. You do realize the unemployment rate is at like 80 percent.” There, I thought; I succeeded in making Jenny laugh. Then I watched my friend watch the floor numbers drop on the elevator’s digital screen, imagining what was running through her head: the last time I’ll pass 3, the last time I’ll pass 2. “You shouldn’t feel too bad,” I said. “Every editor in chief gets fired eventually, and then half the staff gets canned, too.”

  “Well, good luck to you, I guess,” Jenny said. The elevator opened to the lobby, my coworker stepped off, we waved good-bye, and then—poof!—she became an ex-coworker and I began ascending to a world that was no longer hers.

  “Yoo-hoo, Jane, are you there?” Jenny’s voice through the phone receiver snaps me back to the present. I realize Laura is shooting me a dirty look.

  “Jenny, I’ve got to go.” I slam the phone into its receiver. I’m terrified Laura is keeping a log of my use of office time and reporting back to Mimi. Several times a day I watch the two of them with their heads together, whispering. I’d kill for a wiretap.

  Mimi walks by: “I’m looking forward to your ideas in the marriage and sex brainstorm this afternoon,” she says, and I nod cluelessly. When she’s gone, I turn to Laura: “What’s she talking about?”

  “Didn’t I add the meeting to your Outlook calendar?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Oh, I’m still getting used to the company’s scheduling system,” she says without apology, and it takes all my energy to mask my private panic with a sweet smile.

  Mimi reaches for a banana from the pile on the conference room table, peels it suggestively, and cackles. “Let’s start brainstorming, shall we?” Zoe, our Web manager, is the only other person to take a banana, and the rest of us stare. “What?” she whispers. “I’m hungry.”

  Laura’s hand shoots up. “How about we get women to share the details of their best orgasms,” she says. I notice her notepad is chock-full of scribblings; everyone else’s is blank. With Louisa, we all typed up our pitches and routed memos to her, which she then marked up with careful notes and returned to us—our ideas rejected or approved. Apparently Mimi’s system is to gather together all the editors in a competitive free-for-all in order to pitch ideas for my section of the magazine. Perhaps it’s an informal group interview to identify my replacement.

  “Great thinking, Laura,” says Mimi. “Jane, will you round up some of your friends’ accounts of their best orgasms and we’ll see what we get?” Before I can react, we’ve moved on. Zoe pssts from across the table and mouths that she can contribute a great anecdote. I feel the blood rush to my cheeks. Sure, I’ve had countless conversations with researchers about the science of sexuality, positions that bring women the most pleasure, and tips for surviving a dry spell, but these are my coworkers—and my boss—and I feel humiliated for all of us. Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, I’ve recorded in my notebook, “Ask friends about orgasms,” “Road-test G-spot vibrators,” “Go on date wearing stripper heels,” and “Attend swinger party.” This can’t be real, I think, but then again, I figure as long as I’m pegged as the guinea pig for these ridiculous stories, I won’t be fired.

  “OK, I always find the best source of inspiration is my own relationships,” Mimi says. “Every position I tried with Steven, my first ex, ended up on the pages of whatever publication I was working for at the time. We got to where we were inventing contortions just so I had new material for the magazine. Ha! So who’s got something to share—what’s going on in your bedrooms? Give us the dirt.”

  I can sense Zoe on the edge of her seat. Too Much Information is practically her motto, and this is her big chance. “Well, my husband really likes to picture us having a threesome,” she says. Here we go, I think. During the workday Zoe seems to possess a radar for when people are at their busiest and then she plants herself beside their desks to accost them with long stories in which she’s always the hero and everyone else is to blame. I’ve actually already heard this threesome story, and I wonder which details she’ll alter this go-around.

  “So last week, when Graham and I were going at it, and he was narrating his fantasy, I figured, ‘What the hell?’ I’d tell him about the real threesome I had back in college.” (Rumor is, Zoe attended community college, didn’t even finish, and landed her first job at Schmidt & Delancey through some hotshot cousin in Human Resources.) “So I start describing what happened—all of us leaving a party together and heading back to my dorm. Thing is, it was me and two guys. Well, I figure out pretty fast that Graham likes picturing us with another woman, but just me and two men? OMG, forget it. He goes, um, slack, and then just flops over and falls asleep, snoring like a sailor. Sex fail! We haven’t done it since—a full two weeks ago! FML! It’s sexual jealousy, and of people I was with before I even met Graham. It’s totally cray-cray.”

  “Very juicy,” says Mimi. “It could be an interesting angle. Jane, why don’t you look into that?” Look into what, exactly?

  “We should definitely do a piece on reclaiming your sex life after baby,” says Leah. “My girls are over a year old, and I still don’t understand how mothers can muster up the time or energy to get it on. It’s pathetic.”

  “Wow,” says Mimi, nodding in
agreement that it is indeed pathetic. “That’s certainly a story there. How about you, Abby? You’re married, right?”

  Abby, our managing editor, is married—to a woman, and I’m not sure if Mimi knows this and is deliberately trying to stir up something or if she’s oblivious. I’ve never heard Abby utter the word “sex,” let alone share with a group personal tales from her bedroom; now she does her best impression of Violet Beauregarde, her cheeks swelling up and coloring a deep crimson. The managing editor is most comfortable talking about workflow and time sheets and budget issues. As a joke, whenever public relations companies send me ridiculous contraptions—edible underwear and mojito-flavored lube—I give them to Abby; she always camps out under her desk in protest until I remove the offensive object from her workspace.

  “Well,” Abby says, “so many of my friends have young kids, and they describe how difficult it is to be romantic, even when their kids are years older than Leah’s triplets.”

  “Oh, great,” says Leah.

  “The thing is,” Abby continues, “they can’t seem to get the kids to stay in their own beds at night. I have friends whose seven-and eight-year-olds still sleep with them. Some believe it’s natural to cosleep, but for others it’s because they can’t get the darn kids out of their room. It’s like this dirty little secret of parenting. That could be an interesting story.” Leave it to Abby to keep it classy in a sex brainstorm meeting.

  “Brilliant,” says Mimi. “Let’s assign that immediately. And find out if any celebrities are doing it, too. OK, who else?”

  I force myself to speak up. “Well, I have this friend—”

  “Oh, please, Jane,” says Zoe. “We’re all pals here, you can let loose and open up.” She rolls her neck and shoulders, and I wonder how she managed to acquire the self-confidence of Superwoman.

  “Really, it’s my friend. She recently got diagnosed with HPV and is now freaking out about who gave it to her and how she can avoid passing it on. Let’s get a roundup of women to talk about their experiences with what I think is the most common STD, and we’ll have a doctor weigh in and clear up any misinformation, like is it really as harmless as people think it is?” Probably everyone knows I’m rehashing a recent plotline from Girls. This group brainstorm format makes me nervous, and I fear if I bring up one of the many real issues that actually arose in my relationship with Jacob, my eyes will well up.