“Laura, how did you imagine people at
Hers
would treat you?” I’m genuinely curious.
“I thought they’d see how hard I work and evaluate me based on my performance at my job. I thought they’d give me a chance.” She is so earnest and naïve, I almost feel bad for her.
“Laura, no one could care less whether or not you’re good at your job.”
And you’re not as good at it as you think
, I want to add. “No one cares whether you’re a talented writer or if you come up with brilliant ideas. The point is, you’re safe, and most people aren’t, and that makes them resent you. You have a power that they don’t have. Don’t you get it?”
“Well, it’s not like I asked for it.”
“Sure you did. You’re the first editorial assistant in the history of the publishing industry who doesn’t deign to debase herself at the fax machine or photocopier.” Laura came on board and flat-out refused to perform administrative duties (apparently Mimi had promised it to her in the interview—I guess you move up that high and you forget how much lowly crap is required to run an office). So now all the grunt work has fallen to the intern and the new freelancers, with my supervision, of course.
I’m worried I’ve gone too far, but Laura frowns, and I can see she truly believes she’s above such menial work. It may not even have occurred to her that she’s lucked out. “I just thought it would be different,” she says.
“Well, join the club.” I raise my beer.
Laura is twisting a lackluster lock of hair around her finger and worrying her eyebrows, which could use a serious threading. I examine her outfit: The shapeless shirt, buttoned up all the way to her neck, does nothing for her broad figure. And her posture is a disaster. She could be attractive if she tried. I fantasize about being Cher from
Clueless,
giving Laura the ultimate makeover.
“You know what, I’m going to buy you a real drink,” I say. “A martini.”
“Oh, no, I don’t drink hard liquor,” says Laura.
“Come on,” I say. “You don’t go out to drinks with coworkers, either, but here we are.” Jeez, I’m feeling tipsy from just one beer. I order the drink, and the bartender places it in front of Laura. She ventures a sip, and then a gulp, and then twists her face up into a grimace. “There you go,” I say.
“Are you going to eat those olives?” The voice is male, and I’m thinking, if that’s some guy’s idea of a pick-up line, God help Laura. But when I swivel around to get a look at him, I’m surprised to see he’s not so bad-looking.
Laura hands the guy her spear of olives, no questions asked, and he pops one in his mouth. “I’m Laura Maxwell. Pleased to meet you.” She reaches out her hand like she’s at a business meeting.
“Sebastian. How’s it going?” He shakes with his right hand and places his left one around Laura’s shoulder. He must have learned the move from a book, something like
Suave Pick-up Moves for Gentlemen
. “So, what do you beautiful ladies do?”
“We work for a magazine called
Hers,
” says Laura. “It’s directed at the thirty-something woman who wears many hats—career woman, wife, mother, friend—but who still wants to feel like she has the time and space to just be herself, with no label attached.”
“Wow.” Sebastian snickers. “You must be the number-one salesman. I mean, sales
woman.
You’ve got the pitch down pat.”
“Mimi—she’s the editor in chief—she says we should be representing and promoting the brand at all times,” says Laura.
“Well, it’s a good thing you ladies have carved out the time and space to just be yourselves tonight, right?” says Sebastian.
“It’s important to take some me time occasionally,” Laura says.
Now, I understand how Mimi convinced Laura to join her on the front lines and march gung ho into a war zone: She’s not used to being seduced, and can barely recognize it when it’s happening to her. And somewhere along the way someone forgot to teach her how to flirt. I sigh, considering whether I’m up for the job.
I realize I’m too exhausted. I predict three more minutes of her speaking like she’s on an interview and this Sebastian will move on. I overestimate by ninety seconds: Sebastian announces he has to take a piss, and he’s gone.
“He was nice,” Laura says. I nod and say nothing.
Laura starts fishing through her purse and quickly grows frantic, removing every object—wallet, phone, keys (attached to a Minnie Mouse keychain), a musty hardcover stamped with “New York Public Library,” cotton candy lip gloss, the same barrettes my four-year-old niece wears. She’s still searching. “Oh, I’m mortified,” she says.
“What’s wrong?”
Laura leans in close so I can feel her hot breath in my ear. “Do you have a tampon I could borrow?” She laughs, then snorts. “Not borrow, ew! I mean
have
.”
“Oh, sure.” I grab one from my purse. I consider the date—August 13—and a dark thought flashes through my brain; I push it away.
Laura snatches up the tampon and shoves it into her pocket, then looks around suspiciously. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“No prob.”
“One time when I was at a party”—
Yeah, right,
I think unkindly—“I got my period and didn’t have tampons, so I just had to wad up toilet paper. I think you could tell through my pants. It was
sooo
embarrassing.” Again the laugh and the snort, then a hiccup.
“I bet,” I say.
“This is fun.” Laura swigs back the rest of her martini. She’s still laughing as she zigzags her way to the bathroom. I watch to make sure she doesn’t teeter over. I order us two more beers, thinking I could use another layer of fuzziness over my brain.
“Jane!” I turn my head in the direction of the shriek. It’s Jenny.
“Hi! What are you
doing
here?” I go in for a hug, then step back, realizing my friend is wearing a business suit and pumps. “And why are you dressed like you’re ready to take over the world?”
“Don’t I look fabulous?” She does a spin. “It’s because I’m gainfully employed again.”
“When did this happen? Please tell me you miraculously scored a gig at the
New York Times
.” I’ve secretly been wishing Jenny would land an awesome job so she could come back and throw it in Mimi’s face.
“Sadly not. The truth is, I’ve caved and gone over to the dark side. I started last week.”
“No wonder you’ve been ignoring my calls.”
“I’ve been meaning to call you back. I promise.”
“So don’t tell me,” I say. “You’re doing P.R.?”
Jenny nods. “It’s horrible, I know. I’m repping diapers and cough suppressants.”
“No!”
“Even more horrible is that I don’t really hate it. They hired me as an account manager, and if I can land this deal on antiseptic wipes within the next month, I’ll be promoted to senior account manager. Can you believe that? Three months after getting fired as an assistant, I’ll have ‘senior’ in my title! I have a corporate card and my own office and I get to dress up in these incredible skirt suits for client meetings.”
“And let me guess, you’ve doubled your salary?” Jenny looks down, guilty. “Well, I think you’ll be covering our bill this evening, Moneybags.”
I sense someone’s stare and glance up. Laura is lurking. “Oh, hey. Jenny, this is Laura. Laura, Jenny, your predecessor.”
“Hi,” says Jenny. “It’s nice to finally meet you. How’s my old post going?”
Laura looks back and forth from Jenny to me. Her eyes well up with tears. “Do you think I’m some kind of idiot?” she says, speech slurred.
“Laura, she just showed up, I swear,” I say, holding out a beer to her. “Here, I got this for you.”
“It’s true, I did,” Jenny says. “I had no idea you’d be here.” She means Laura and me both, but it sounds like she’s singling out just Laura.
“Whatever,” says Laura, ignoring my drink offering. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you, asking me to go out like we’re friends or something. You probably drugged that drink, just to make fun of me.”
“Oh, come on,” I say, feeling weirdly to blame for the chance encounter. Laura grabs her bag and storms out. “Laura, wait,” I call, but she doesn’t turn back.
“Just let her go. I can’t believe you, hanging out with Whore-a,” says Jenny, slapping at me with her clutch. “What a traitor!”
“Hey, I still have to work there. Might as well try to befriend the enemy. And as it turns out, your replacement is probably not the whore you imagine her to be. She’s got zero game, I’ve recently discovered.” I immediately feel bad and resolve to stop blurting out things that make me ashamed five seconds later.
“Oh, whatever. So guess what? I had lunch with Louisa last week.”
“No way! How is she?” I ask.
“Really, who knows? We used to be straight with each other, but this time we were painfully polite until the third glass of wine. Only then did she mention she’s interviewing for the executive editor spot at
Suburban Home
.”
“Yuck,” I say. “That magazine runs the same tacky Christmas cover every single year. That crackling fireplace and the gingham stockings.”
“Yeah, and that dinky little menorah on the mantel, as if that makes any sense. Although, if Louisa gets the job, I’ll have an in for all the products I’m repping.”
“Jeez, you really have gone over to the dark side,” I say.
“At least I escaped that hellhole. No offense.”
“None taken,” I say, thinking how little I envy her.
“Oh, and gossip!” Jenny claps her hands. “I went out on a date with my new coworker last night. He’s dreamy.”
“No wonder you look so good,” I say, now slightly jealous. “You’re working with hot guys.” The only straight guy I’ve ever worked alongside was Mark, who was too broody and creepy to even count.
“Finish both those beers and I’ll buy you another,” Jenny says.
“You know what, I actually don’t feel so well. Come with me to the bathroom?” I lock myself in a stall and lean over the toilet, willing my fitful stomach to empty itself.
After a few minutes, Jenny knocks on the door. “Are you OK in there?”
“Jenny, I have to tell you something.”
“Is this about Jacob? Is he dating someone new?”
“What do you mean,
is he?!
Did you hear something?” I feel so frantic, my fingers are shaking.
“No, no, sorry. Stop freaking out! I don’t know anything. What were you going to say?”
“My period is usually so reliable I can bet on a ten-minute window when it’ll arrive.”
“Well, whoop-de-do for you. So?”
“I’m ten days late.”
“But . . . but how? You’re on the Pill, right?”
I shake my head, though I know Jenny can’t see me. “When Jacob and I broke up, I couldn’t imagine ever being with another guy.”
“Seriously? Oh, Jane. But anyway,
were
you with another guy?”
I flash on the phone calls, and waking up next to a boy whose name I still don’t even know. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m sure you’re fine, that it’s just a fluke.” Jenny is a terrible liar; she’s raised her voice about an octave. “You stay right here, OK? I’m gonna run over to Duane Reade and buy you a test.”
Waiting for Jenny, I can hear a crowd forming outside the bathroom. A gruff voice yells out, “Did you drown in there? Need a prince in shining armor to come rescue you?” I stay put, silent except for deep breathing, my head between my knees. Jenny returns after five minutes and slips me a small package under the stall. I read the instructions and take some comfort in being able to follow the simple steps: Hold the stick between your legs and let go. The trickle of pee seems to originate from somewhere other than my body. I shut my eyes tight.
“I can’t look,” I say, “You do it.” I pass the damp stick back under the stall to my friend. When I finally shore up the courage to emerge, the expression on Jenny’s face brands itself in my memory: her eyes like saucers, her mouth the smallest O.
Meandering home, I’m shocked I can remember the way. Jenny tried to put me in a cab, but I insisted on walking. She asked to walk with me, but I said I wanted to be alone. I duck into a deli and buy two Snickers. I tell myself I’ll give the second one to Laura as a sort of peace offering in the morning, but it takes only two blocks for me to devour one bar and then tear open the second.
What am I going to do? I’ll have to start eating healthy, I think, mouth full of nougat and peanuts. Nuts have protein, right? I’ll have to save up money, and buy a crib, and get maternity clothes. Or not, I guess.
Oh, my God,
I think, remembering when Victoria went on about Jonny Depp and how the biggest moral failing was having kids out of wedlock.
Didn’t Mimi nod in agreement?
I’m going to get fired, I’m sure of it. And fat. I’m going to get very, very fat. Or not . . . I suppose it’s up to me. Even if I don’t get bloated with baby, the pressure inside me feels like enough to fill my body and blow it up to burst. I break down and call Jenny. Within two minutes she’s by my side. She practically carries me home, up my stairs, and into my apartment, and then tucks me into bed and sings to me maybe all night long.
15
Abby Rollins, Managing Editor
I
’m in the middle of my morning file organizing ritual when Jane appears in my office, looking tense. Oh, dear, it’s only nine-thirty. Usually the problems don’t start until at least eleven, when everyone’s fully caffeinated and can muster up enough energy for anger or conflict. I brace myself.
“Johanna has a concern,” Jane announces in that wobbly voice that’s her signal to me of trouble pending. She holds out her arm to present our new entertainment director, as in,
Here’s the trouble.
“Good morning, Johanna.” She hasn’t even put down her purse. What could possibly have gone wrong within her first ten minutes of employment—a broken elevator? “I’m Abby. Welcome to
Hers.
”
“Yes, hello. I’m wondering when my office will be set,” she says, her thick British accent competing for shock value with the words spoken in the accent.
“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but there’s been a lot of shifting around lately.”
“Right, the mass exodus of the former staff. I’ve been told.”
“OK, then you may also know that you will be our first New York–based entertainment director. Your predecessor worked out of Los Angeles, so there isn’t an office in this space allocated for your position. We were able to arrange one of the largest cubicles for you. Did you notice the nice view of the park?” Johanna fixes me with a withering look. “It’s the only spot we have for now.” Still she waits. I cave: “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Lovely, thank you,” she says. That’s my job description, seeing what I can do. Whatever the problem, here I am to solve it. My wife claims I let people take advantage of me; she’s always encouraging me to be more assertive. But I’m good at putting out fires and maintaining office harmony, and I relish the role. When everyone is getting along, all feels right with the world.
I shouldn’t have mentioned the cubicle’s view as a selling point to Johanna; everyone’s seen grass and trees. I should’ve instead pointed out the etched chrome nameplate on the cubicle’s edge. We all used to have cheap cardboard placards displaying our names and ranks in the pecking order, and I admit I was skeptical when Mimi unloaded this large new expense into our budget. But since the new nameplates went up, I’ve seen several staffers marvel at them, running their fingers along the slick surface and awestruck by their own stately looking name. It’s an illusion, of course, that the professional carving of a name indicates any kind of permanence for that employee. Still, I believe it’s been worth it for staff morale.
“So when’s the official pop-around? When do I get to go meet and greet?” Johanna asks.
“Excuse me?”
“I’d fancy some introductions with my coworkers so they’re not all wondering why this bonkers British woman has invaded their office. I’ve already been here fifteen minutes and no one has bothered to show me around. Where is my mailbox? Where is the coffeemaker? Where is the loo?”
“All right, I suppose a tour is in order.” I smile, reminding myself that I will soon discover Johanna’s many strengths and talents and will therefore be able to help integrate her into the team. For now, patience is a virtue.
I used to be entrenched in the hiring process, screening every résumé and greeting every potential candidate for a warm-up interview, or as Louisa called it, a character test. I never insisted upon or vetoed a particular choice; nearly every applicant possessed some trait I believed would be an asset to
Hers.
But I did find quieter ways to exert my influence, employing a gesture or a choice word to express my opinion, careful not to step on anyone’s toes or ego. Of course now I have nothing to do with the firings or hirings. When Louisa’s fate was handed down, I made a point of assuring her of my noninvolvement. “You think I’d actually believe you were behind this?” she responded, laughing. “You couldn’t fire a killer shark.” These days I simply get a call from Suzie in Human Resources about the new hire or the upcoming exit interview; she either assumes I’m already in the loop or offers up the small kindness of acting as if I am. So it was with Johanna.
“This is Jane, our associate editor,” I say to Johanna. “She knows everything there is know about this office, so ask her anything.”
“Pleasure,” says Jane.
“So are you one of the newbies, too, or a holdover?”
“My three-year anniversary at
Hers
is next week. If you’re wondering what to get me for a gift, I love chocolate.” Jane winks.
“You think you’ll survive till then?” Johanna asks. Jane’s eyes grow wide. “Oh, I’m just joshing you, keep your pecker up. I’m Johanna.”
Lynn’s office looks like a dance club; a disco ball is affixed to the ceiling, spinning to the bass-heavy beat. I wonder if she charged it to
Hers
’ account. “I like to embrace the mood of the story I’m working on,” she says by way of introduction. “This fashion spread is seventies-style disco boots and miniskirts, which calls for a Studio 54 revival. You dig?”
I wait for a cutting remark from Johanna, but instead she starts undulating her limbs to the beat. Lynn gets up, and the two bump their hips against each other. Lynn reaches out to draw me in, but I resist. I only dance when there are specific moves to follow, like at the ballroom dancing events Julia and I attend. Plus, I’d prefer not to be caught gyrating between two women in the office.
We move on to Drew’s desk. “A shutterbug, eh, mate?” Johanna says, handling Drew’s Leica.
Drew nods warily, not masking her judgment of Johanna’s outfit. I admit it’s a bit over the top to wear a fur vest and leopard-print leggings on one’s first day, especially when it’s eighty-five degrees outside.
“Drew recently produced a photo shoot of kids’ most inventive Halloween costumes,” I say. “She staged it so the kids were standing in door frames, so it’ll look like they’re showing up at the reader’s house to ask for candy. Drew always finds offbeat ways to bring our stories to life visually. She has a real eye.”
Johanna shakes her hand. “Horrid, children are, right?”
“Um, I guess.” Drew’s whole cubicle is plastered with photos of her young nephews. I shoo Johanna away. As awkward as this introductory walkabout is becoming, part of me admires Johanna’s candor. I can’t count the number of times I’ve stood around staffers’ desks oohing and aahing at their latest crop of baby photos, all the while feeling bored and impatient, plus frustrated with my inability to invent an excuse to walk away.
To Laura, Johanna says, “You know, you’d look absolutely smashing as a blonde.” After meeting Ed, she insists on delivering his stack of mail—grabs it right out of his hand—as a test to see if she remembers everyone she just met. Zoe isn’t at her desk, which surprises me not at all; she usually rolls in around ten-thirty with an excuse about stalled subways or a story about some work-related event. When I bring Johanna up to the test kitchen to meet Debbie, she remarks, “Pardon me, but food is so passé.
Hers
should hop on the liquid diet bandwagon. It’s all the rage.”
“Is it really?” Debbie asks, popping a butter cookie into her mouth and then offering me one. I shake my head, fearful of what Johanna might say were I to accept.
We pass by Leah’s empty desk, and I explain her telecommuting situation. “Not very clever, is it?” says Johanna. “Very little face time with the big boss.” I shrug.
Next up is Victoria. “So there’s two of you executive editors, then?” Johanna asks. “But I see you’ve got the office, so it must be the other one who’s in hot water.” She’s a fast study, I’ll give her that.
Victoria titters nervously. “Nice to meet you.”
“How long have you been on staff?”
“Just over two months. Don’t worry, you’ll learn the ropes pretty fast.”
“So, this is a big, new job for you? Lots of pressure, I gather. I think you’ll do OK.” Johanna faces me. “Let’s go see Mimi.”
“She’s at a meeting with Corporate,” says Victoria.
“Are you her secretary, too? I’ll take my tea with two lumps of sugars, hardy har har.” Oh boy. To me, she asks, “Actually, who will be my assistant?”
“We’re a small staff, so you’ll be running your own one-woman department. I’m sure if you need help with something, Laura would be happy to pitch in. But we don’t ask our assistants to fetch us coffee. Or tea.”
I keep an eye on Johanna all afternoon. She’ll sink or swim soon enough, although it’s unfortunate I have to figure a whopping five thousand dollars into this month’s budget for what we shelled out to move her overseas.
The phone rings. I assume Julia, but it’s Leah’s voice: “Did you hear the news?” Just like my wife, Leah also avoids pleasantries at the start of phone calls.
“No, what?” I’m hoping Leah will say she’s found another job.
“Louisa’s been appointed the new head copywriter for Bloomie’s catalogs.”
“Really? That’s great!”
“Are you kidding? It’s a
catalog,
Abby! She’ll be writing about the way a certain scarf hangs across the shoulders or the flipping durability of a leather shoe.”
“Louisa loves Bloomingdale’s,” I say. “She’ll be perfect for it. It’s a good gig for her. She’ll get some more fashion experience before moving on to the next big thing.” Louisa was always able to sell me on anything, which is probably why the fashion spreads under her reign tended to feature the same bland black and gray wardrobe each month. During the run-throughs, Louisa made the clothes sound glamorous and chic—you couldn’t argue.
“God, if the brilliant Louisa is stuck at a catalog, what am
I
going to be doing in a few months? Reporting for SkyMall, probably. The latest power juicers and foot massagers. Oversized popcorn tins for every occasion.”
“Oh, Leah, quit being so dramatic.”
“Also,” she says, “Mimi asked me to write the table of contents for November. The freaking table of contents! Isn’t that Jane’s job?” My stomach flips. I offhandedly mentioned to Mimi that Jane was overloaded and maybe we could shift some of her duties around. I meant to Laura.
“Well, at least you can write it in your sleep, or while you’re playing with three babies.”
“Screw you.”
“Nice, Leah. I’ll talk to you later.”
The train emerges from the underground tunnel and flies up into the fading daylight to cross the Manhattan Bridge. I know I should spend my commute working, but it’s my small rebellion that I instead peer out the window and lose myself in the surroundings: the sunset reflected against the river and the backdrop of gleaming buildings. Every ride, I’m amazed and humbled by the sight of the city I live in. The journeys across the river are distinct daily markers—leaving home for work, or leaving work to head back home—moving from one of my worlds to the other. My commute is the ultimate comfort.
At home in the front hall, I step over Julia’s lab coat, dress, and sandals. This random tossing of garments drives me nuts, but it does mean she’s showering, so at least she won’t smell like a day’s worth of animal fur.
“Hi, love,” I yell out. I can hear her singing Billy Joel over the spray of water.
I dial Louisa and get her voice mail. “Congrats on the new gig—”
A click indicates she’s picked up. “Hello?”
“Oh, hi. I was midmessage.”
“I know, I screened the call. I wanted to find out if you’d sound fake happy or genuinely happy for me.”
“Louisa, you’re ridiculous.”
“I’m paranoid, so sue me. But I’ll tell you the truth, I’m a tad bit excited.”
“You should be.”
“All the free clothes I want, and for the whole family, too. Very little stress, it sounds like. Regular hours, that’s the clincher. Can you imagine? Leaving your desk at five on the dot each day.”
“I think it sounds perfect for you.”
“Though my manager is twenty-eight. That kind of makes me want to shoot myself.”
“Maybe she can babysit.”
“True. I’m going to figure out how I can add some substance into the catalogs. I’ll describe a trench coat as just the right piece of outerwear to don at your feminist revival march. Warm and sturdy, a smart shape for the thinking woman.”
“Pair it with the perfect ‘take back the night’ leather pumps.”
“Try on a skirt so hot your man will insist on handling dinner
and
the dishes.”
“Well . . .” I say.
“You’re right, that one needs work. This whole business will probably bore me to death in about three days. But hey, you gotta keep on keeping on. So . . .”
“You want to know how life is back at the ranch?”
“Yes, I seem to remember I’ve planted you there as my personal spy.”
“Ah, so you’re paying me, then?”
“The check’s in the mail. Come on, any good gossip?”
“Here’s something,” I say. “The intern fetches us Starbucks now.”
“Not very titillating, but I’ll take it. Expensed to
Hers,
I presume?”
“Yep. Oh, and Leah’s writing the TOC.”
“Poor girl. Well, I’ve got some dirt for you. I was out to dinner last night and saw your new British tart of an entertainment director having drinks with one Helena Hope.”
“First of all, how do you know about our new entertainment director?”
“I read the
Post
just like everyone else.”
“Oh, right.” I’m always amazed how quickly those reporters dig up all the industry gossip. “So Helena Hope, is she that terrible country-western singer?”
“The one and only. Famous for those eight-minute ballads about heartbreak and blushing virgins. She’s got that one song they seem to have on repeat on every radio station these days. It’s sickening, really. And what’s worse is that I’ve actually had time to listen to the radio these days.”
“What’s she doing north of the Mason-Dixon line?”
“You tell me.” Three months ago, Louisa would have been a bundle of nerves to happen upon a coupling like that at a restaurant. Now she just sounds tickled.