Sad Desk Salad

by Jessica Grose

  The third message is also from Moira. “Alex, seriously, call me. It’s eleven. You know how to reach me.”

  The fourth message is Moira again, the brightness in her voice replaced by total annoyance. “Alex, if you would deign to return my phone call, I would tell you that you need to be camera-ready at six thirty tomorrow morning. That’s when the Today show is sending a car to pick you up. Be prepared to talk Rebecca West by seven fifteen. This is huge for Chick Habit. You’d better be ready.”

  Despite my exhaustion I have an immediate surge of conflicting reactions. The first is: Squeee! I’m going to be on the Today show! This is a lifelong dream of mine. As much as I roll my eyes at the dog-grooming tips and missing-white-woman news stories, I do have a sincere love for Natalie, Savannah, and the rest of the crew.

  My second thought is: The hate blogger is going to lose her mind when she sees me on TV. Is this going to hasten the release of whatever it is she has on me?

  Which brings me to my third and most distressing thought: When the Rebecca West story was just on our humble website, I could pretend it wasn’t that big a deal. If it’s on national television, it might actually ruin her life for real.

  All of these thoughts are roiling in my brain as the car pulls up to Jane’s apartment. She wakes up just as the car stops.

  “Hey,” I say, deciding not to bother her with the latest turn. Jane’s made it pretty clear that she’s had enough of my drama for the day.

  “Hi,” Jane says, rubbing her eyes and smearing her mascara.

  “I know I was a total pain in the ass today, and I’m sorry.”

  “S’okay. I love you, you know? I just want what’s best for you.”

  I nod. “Good night.” We hug and she gets out of the car.

  It is only after Jane leaves that it sinks in that Peter hasn’t called me tonight. Or if he has, he realized my phone was off and he didn’t leave a message. I can’t say I blame him, since I’ve been such a deadbeat about calling him back this week. But I’m scared about going home, because I don’t know how he’s going to react when I stumble home far past midnight, and not even for the first time this week. I also don’t know how to broach the subject of the Omnitown report. I know I might not like what I hear, but I need to find out what’s going on so we can move forward.

  The car pulls up to the curb outside my apartment. The driver tells me it’s going to be $22, which is when I realize how far away from home I really was. I hand him a ten and a twenty and tell him to keep the change. As anxious as I am about facing Peter, I’m here at the door and I have no place else to go. I open our squat door as quietly as I can, in case he’s still asleep, but I see him sitting up on the couch reading in a T-shirt and boxer briefs as soon as I step into the light. There’s a pillow and a blanket next to him. He puts down what appears to be the Omnitown report and looks at me.

  “You’re finally home.” There’s a mixture of relief and frustration in his voice, but his face is impassive. I can’t read it, which is rare; I can usually tell what Peter’s feeling from his expression. I decide to launch into extreme apology mode and hope that his blankness is just exhaustion.

  “I am. We really need to talk, I just—”

  “Shut up, Alex, seriously. Just shut up.” I freeze. Peter’s hardly ever spoken to me like this before. He doesn’t seem tired at all now.

  “But I just want to explain—”

  “I don’t want to hear your excuses right now. I’m so angry and confused that I don’t know what to say. We need to sit down and have a real talk about the way you’ve been acting these past few days but it’s three in the morning and as I’ve told you a million times already, this is a huge week for me at work.” His voice gets louder and louder throughout this speech until he’s shouting at me, nostrils flaring. This is the angriest I’ve ever seen him. I try to remember the last time he yelled at me like this, but I can’t. “Have you had a fucking lobotomy or something? What is wrong with you?”

  I am so shocked at being yelled at that instead of confronting him about Tyson Collins I start babbling. “I know, I just . . . Work’s been crazy and there’s all this . . . stuff going on. I just wanted . . .” I’m starting to cry, and I see Peter’s face harden.

  “You just nothing. You haven’t thought about me for a second in days and right now my priority is sleep, not listening to whatever it is you have to say.”

  “Okay,” I say, resigning myself to another day of not telling Peter about the Becky West fiasco, which is about to reach the next level, and another day of pretending I didn’t read what I read at the kitchen table this morning.

  “Good,” he says. He plumps the pillow angrily, lies down on the couch, and turns over so his back is toward me.

  I go to the bathroom to clean off my makeup and put cold water on my hot, tearful face. Maybe Jane was right. Maybe losing my job would be good for me. Maybe I shouldn’t go on the Today show.

  Then I look up at my newly clean face and wonder, Will they provide a makeup artist on set?

  THURSDAY

  Chapter Ten

  My iPhone’s ring wakes me up. I don’t immediately see the phone, but the ringing is so close to my head, I realize that the cell must be somewhere in bed with me. My eyes are so dry from last night’s sedative-and-booze combo and a possibly perilous lack of sleep that I can only open them partway. I grope around for the phone and manage to pick it up and shove it against my ear.

  “Hello?” I croak out.

  “Where the fuck have you been, love?” Moira says. She’s the only person who can make the word “love” sound menacing.

  “M-my phone accidentally got turned off in my purse,” I stammer, pleased that I can come up with a plausible excuse before I’ve ingested coffee.

  “Did you get my messages?”

  “Yes.”

  “And will you be ready in thirty minutes when the car from Today arrives at your hovel?”

  I pause for a second and collect my head. My dithering of the previous night seems to have dissolved in the early morning sun. It’s suddenly completely clear to me that the only choice is to push forward. I’ve already sacrificed so much to this job that to give up now—and possibly lose it—seems ludicrous. Even though this isn’t the way I wanted to end up on the Today show (ideally, I’d be appearing because of a serious ten-thousand-word article I had written that made people change the way they thought about women in politics), I shouldn’t pass up this chance. I can deal with Peter later.

  “Yes,” I say, my voice steady with my new resolve.

  “Good.” Moira’s voice relaxes immediately. “Molly is doing your first post of the day but after you’ve been on the telly you need to go right back home and fill your quota.”

  “Of course,” I say, wondering how the hell I am going to get through another hungover day. This job is hard enough when I’ve had my eight hours and the strongest thing in my system from the night before is Sleepytime tea.

  “Right, then. Take a shower and put on something presentable. Remember: Colorful V-necks are best. Avoid patterns. They’ll do your makeup so go in with a bare face. Sit up straight, and speak clearly.”

  I remember now that Moira is a veteran of the morning talk show circuit from her days at the fusty lady mag. She was a celebrity correspondent and would comment on pressing famous-person issues like Reese Witherspoon’s new haircut and how quickly Jessica Alba lost her baby weight.

  “Got it,” I tell Moira, grateful for her practical advice. “See you back online in a few hours.”

  I hoist myself out of bed and notice immediately that Peter is not on the couch. In his place is a neatly folded blanket with a perfectly plumped pillow atop it. I’m more surprised that he folded the blanket than anything else; that he’s gone is not a shock. He occasionally leaves for work before six and he wants to avoid seeing me. I’m still angry and hurt when I think that he might be keeping pivotal job information from me, but I’m also feeling guilty about pushing him away.


  But now is not the time to indulge myself in feelings about my relationship. I need to be in Terminator mode.

  The shower refuses to heat up; the water doesn’t even reach its normal tepid heights. No matter. I hop in, lather up my shampoo without even minding the downright cold temperature, and clean my face with the fancy face-scrub I use for special occasions. I hop back out approximately three minutes later and rummage around in my closet until I locate the one dress that fits Moira’s qualifications: a cerulean wrap dress from Forever 21 that is miraculously clean. I throw on the dress with a pair of pointy-toed sling-backs that I only ever wear for job interviews.

  I hear the sound of a car pulling up to the curb and I glance at the clock. It’s 6:28. I go outside, my hair still dripping, to find a gleaming black Town Car sitting next to a bunch of trash out for garbage collection. I pick my way around an old air conditioner and get in.

  “Hi.”

  “Hey,” the driver says back to me. He’s wearing a pressed black suit and bears a striking resemblance to Steve Buscemi. Since I’ve made it to the car on time, I relax into the backseat, which is when my head starts pounding with caffeine withdrawal.

  “Can you pull up here?” I ask him when I see a bodega.

  “Sure.”

  “I’m just going to get some coffee, do you want some?”

  “That would be really nice, thanks,” he says.

  “I’m Alex,” I tell him, extending my hand.

  “Tim,” he says, shaking it firmly.

  I walk in and am momentarily soothed by the quiet hum of the morning show. They announce the weather (it’s going to be a hot one today!) and then segue into playing some bouncy Taylor Swift song. I pour two large coffees, one for myself and one for the driver, and liberally dump milk and sugar into both.

  I get back into the car and hand Tim his coffee. As the caffeine starts to hit my system I am struck by an inescapable sadness. I’m living my dream—how many mornings while watching the Today show have I fantasized about gabbing with Kathie Lee?—and yet no one knows: Peter’s barely speaking to me; I haven’t talked to my mom since Monday; and Jane has no idea I’m about to be on TV.

  I look down at my phone to push off the gloom and see that our daily traffic report from yesterday has come in. The Rebecca West post has two million page views, making it the most popular post in Chick Habit history by a multiple of three. I tell myself that this video is officially real news and that the Today show would run a segment on it whether or not I agreed to participate. I tell myself that if I didn’t publish the video, Molly sure would have, so what’s the harm? I’m just doing my job—and doing it well.

  Traffic is moving briskly this early in the morning, and at the base of Manhattan Tim tries to make some light conversation. “So what are you going on the show for?” he asks, craning his neck back to look at me at a stop light on the West Side Highway.

  I consider making up something more respectable, for instance: “I run a booming macaron bakery called Bakerista and am going on to do a cooking demonstration with Al Roker.” But instead, I go with some version of the truth. “I write for a website and yesterday I posted a piece with a video of a pseudo-famous person doing drugs and taking her shirt off.”

  Tim’s eager, wizened face scrunches up. “Oh,” he says, then turns back around. He’s pretty quiet for the rest of the trip to midtown, but as we pull up to the studio, with its enormous wraparound window replete with tourists standing behind the barricades outside, he wishes me good luck with a genuine smile.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t better company this morning,” I say.

  “You’ll be great!” he says, and for a second I believe him.

  It’s 6:50 A.M. when I check in with a security guard and am promptly ushered into a dingy, windowless room where a motherly woman named Barb immediately comes at me with a tincture of foundation in her meaty hand. She tells me, almost under her breath, “Christ, hon, it’s going to take our industrial-strength concealer to fix that mess under your eyes.”

  I’m strangely grateful for her honesty and smile up at her as she dabs something thick on my sleepless circles. “Thanks. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “It shows. But don’t you worry, we’ll fix you right up.”

  I close my eyes, relaxing into the feeling of Barb’s fingers on my face. A few minutes later a hairstylist who doesn’t introduce herself gets to work on my still-damp, stringy hair.

  With a genuine hair-and-makeup team working to cover my bad decisions of the last few nights, I start to get genuinely excited about this appearance. Tyson Collins—or executive X from Omnitown—might see the spot and realize how indispensable I am. Rebecca West’s feelings aren’t really my problem, are they? It’s not my fault that her family is so fame-whorey.

  I’m almost fully relaxed when the whine of the hair dryer goes silent and Barb snaps me out of my calm with a cheery, “Okay, hon, you’re all set!” I open my eyes and barely recognize the reflection in the mirror. I certainly look less tired, but I don’t quite look like myself, either: It’s like I’m wearing the Kabuki mask of a third-tier starlet. At least those under-eye bags have disappeared.

  I’m shuttled off to wait in the greenroom, a similarly shabby little place with threadbare furniture and an anemic-looking fruit basket. I’m momentarily let down: I thought the digs would be swankier than this, and the snacks more delicious. But I don’t have time to consider this because I’m immediately met by a harried producer, Tammy, who is wearing a headset and a determined look in her green eyes. “Okay, so you’re the one who posted the Becky West coke tape, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” I try to sound as confident as possible. I’ve watched enough morning TV to know that showing self-doubt is televisual death.

  “Savannah’s going to be interviewing you. Usually I have more time to prep our guests but our producer couldn’t reach you last night.” Tammy’s voice is accusing and I start to get anxious.

  “Sorry. I had turned my phone off.”

  “Too late now. I’ve written down some topics on these.” Tammy hands me a stack of multicolored index cards. “I can’t guarantee where Savannah’s going to go with this one, but you’ll at least have some idea about what we’re going to discuss.”

  “Thanks,” I say, trying to sound calm. But the makeup chair relaxation has worn off. A flubbed appearance on national television could make me my own video meme—if I say something embarrassing or indefensible it could whip around the Internet all day. Maybe not with the velocity of an angelic blonde doing blow and taking off her top, but still.

  “We weren’t able to locate Becky West,” Tammy adds. “We asked her to come on the show, but she didn’t respond to any of our inquiries.”

  “Huh,” I say. That seems odd. Why wouldn’t she want to set the story straight? Wouldn’t Darleen at least want to reprise her role as aggrieved party on the Today show couch?

  Before I can ask Tammy any of these questions, she’s hustled off down a dim corridor. I shuffle through the cards, and this interview seems soft enough: Savannah wants to talk about the habits of college girls today, privacy online, and Darleen West’s divisiveness, in particular the Chick Habit campaign against her. I am just beginning to fully process these lines of conversation when Tammy bursts back into the greenroom. “You ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be!” I say brightly. As an avid student of the Today show I know that perkiness can cover a multitude of sins.

  I follow Tammy’s hunched shoulders down a labyrinthine hallway and out onto the Today show set. Unlike the lumpy back rooms, the actual set is crisp and bright, and the sun is streaming in on this perfect July day. As I walk past the big window onto Rockefeller Plaza, I look out at the beaming faces in the crowd. One squat woman is holding up a sign that says HAPPY 40TH ANNIVERSARY, MORTY! and I am briefly but sincerely touched. I wonder if this studio is so steeped in earnestness that it is rubbing off on me, like some sort of anti-snark solu
tion.

  Tammy brings me to a low, comfortably plush beige couch. There’s a matching beige chair next to me, and I know that is where Savannah will sit. But when Tammy returns it’s not with attractive Savannah but with a woman I don’t recognize. She’s wearing a boxy bright red suit and sensible, two-inch black heels. Her dyed auburn hair is higher than her heels and appears to have about a can of hairspray locked into it.

  “Howdy,” the stranger says. “I’m Internet safety expert Joellen Maxwell.”

  I’ve never heard someone introduce herself by citing her expertise before. I spit out, “Hi. I’m Chick Habit associate editor Alex Lyons.”

  “Oh, I know who you are, sugar. They briefed me on you last night.”

  Damn it. I really should have been answering my phone. “I didn’t know someone else was going to be on with me,” I say, trying to hide my surprise. “It will be nice to have a discussion partner!”

  “It sure will!” Joellen affirms this as she settles to the right of me on the couch, neatly crossing her hose-covered legs.

  Before I can ask my pert partner some leading questions to figure out how exactly she’ll stand in what I assume is opposition to me, Savannah Guthrie appears on set and walks determinedly toward the cushy chair next to me.

  Whenever people meet celebrities in real life, their first comment is usually, “They’re so much smaller in person!” This holds true for Savannah, who is impossibly petite and put-together. She’s wearing a magenta sleeveless shell and a slim-fitting light gray pencil skirt. Her glossy shoulder-length hair shines in the studio lights as she gracefully sits down and angles herself toward us. I’m just able to register that someone is saying, “And we’re live in five, four, three, two . . . ,” and then Savannah is speaking.

  “It’s seven thirty, and we’re starting this half hour with the story of a celebrity child exposed. Rebecca West is the successful daughter of ‘Genius Mom’ Darleen West. A video of Becky partaking in an illicit substance has become an Internet sensation since it was posted yesterday at one. For more on this story, we go to NBC’s Jeff Rossen in the Wests’ hometown of Omaha, Nebraska.”