Girl Before a Mirror

by Liza Palmer

  “I am reaching some dizzying heights over here, Anna. I’m panicking. I can’t feel my feet. I—”

  “Take your time. Breathe. I’m here and I won’t leave you,” I say.

  “I am seriously about to start crying right now,” Sasha says.

  “This means a lot to you. That’s a good thing. Let’s let your art do the talking for you,” I say, as we finally stand in front of the assistant. Sasha nods, clearly holding back tears.

  “Ms. Wyatt. Ms. Merchant. They’re ready for you,” the assistant says. Again with the they. I thank her and enter the conference room. The full-to-bursting conference room. They. The large windows frame the Manhattan skyline once again and it is breathtaking. A long, glossy wooden table stretches down the middle of the room and the entire room is completely walled in with floor-to-ceiling windows. The pitch of my career is going to take place in a glorified goldfish bowl with ten times the number of people I’d prepared for.

  “Ms. Wyatt, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. After we spoke yesterday, I did a little digging. I love what you did on the Tyler Sheeran clothing line. Making that little singer’s clothes actually palatable was herculean to say the least,” a woman at the far end of the table says.

  “Thank you,” I say, scanning the faces of the other executives in the room. I can actually feel Sasha buzzing from here.

  “I’m Preeti Dayal, senior vice president at Quincy Pharmaceuticals, and I’ll be spearheading the Lumineux campaign. Your phone pitch was intriguing, Ms. Wyatt. I wanted to see what my colleagues thought of it, if that’s okay with you.” I nod and smile (or at least that’s what I think I’m doing) as Preeti goes around the room introducing various executives. The introductions fade into that single moment of silence I’ve been waiting for my entire life. The moment before the moment. A deep breath.

  “What do women want,” I say. The men in the room restrain their eye rolls as Preeti leans forward. The next several minutes are a blur as I wind my way through the pitch. The nodding heads of the Lumineux executives. A shared laugh here and a funny anecdote there. Lumineux Shower Gel. Be the Heroine, Find Your Hero. Sasha’s artwork garners a real smile from Preeti and in an unguarded moment, another executive actually mutters, “Wow.”

  The Lumineux Shower Gel spokesman will be none other than the top winner of the Mr. RomanceCon pageant and Helen Brubaker, the woman who wrote Be the Heroine, Find Your Hero, will be doing a workshop at the conference. It’s the perfect opportunity. We find our hero and the workshop will be free market research, if not an opportunity to try to get Mrs. Brubaker on board with our campaign. After thirteen minutes and twenty-four seconds (I timed it last night), I conclude the pitch with “Lumineux Shower Gel. Just Be.”

  “My wife’s book club is reading that Be the Heroine book,” an executive says. Several of the other executives concur.

  “And the pageant for those guys? That’s a real thing?” another executive asks.

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “And that . . . Romance whatever . . .” he asks.

  “Con,” Preeti adds.

  “They’re okay with us inserting ourselves—” A giggle from one of the younger executives. “You know what I mean. Jesus, Ken.” Another stifled giggle from Ken, the guy most likely to chime in with “That’s what she said.”

  “Ms. Wyatt?” Preeti asks.

  “We have been in communication with Ginny Barton, the president of the League of Romance Novelists,” I say, trying to make a harried e-mail exchange in the wee hours of the morning sound way more substantial.

  “Sounds like they’re superheroes or something,” an executive says.

  “Well—”

  “Don’t even think it, Ken,” Preeti says. Everyone laughs. Ken flushes red and checks his phone.

  “The League is in charge of the Con. President Barton has been most helpful. She’s extremely excited about the prospect of aligning with Lumineux Shower Gel,” I say.

  “It sounds like you’ve covered all your bases, Ms. Wyatt,” the older executive says.

  “I have. Like President Barton, I am extremely excited about the prospect of aligning with Lumineux Shower Gel,” I say.

  “Well, thank you, Ms. Wyatt. Ms. Merchant. We will let you know,” Preeti says, smiling.

  “Thank you for this opportunity. It’s been our pleasure,” I say, gathering my things. The assistant opens the glass door and we are led out of the conference room. We walk down the long hallway, out into the waiting room, and straight out to the elevators. Sasha and I don’t say anything as the elevator speeds down. The doors open and we both silently walk out into the ornate Quincy Pharmaceuticals lobby.

  “I can’t—”

  I interrupt, “Not here.” Sasha nods and I notice her eyes are rimmed with red. “We did great. Breathe.” Sasha nods again, but with the pitch finally behind her she begins to fall apart at a more and more rapid rate. I hail a cab and we are whisked away to Penn Station. We’re back on the Metroliner in no time. We find our seats, and it is then and only then that I tell her the truth about the pitch. To say the look on her face is terrified and/or horrified would be an understatement.

  “So, they weren’t looking for an ad agency?” she finally gasps.

  “No.”

  “And we just . . .”

  “Yep.”

  “There is no way . . . I am so glad . . . you were so right not to tell me that,” Sasha says.

  “I figured,” I say.

  “I didn’t know you could do stuff like that,” she says.

  “Well . . .” I trail off.

  We walk back through the pitch and relive every moment. Every word and every reaction. We dissect everything. We order many cocktails and I roll through the junk food I bought in the snack car after forgetting to stop for lunch. Sasha is beginning to calm down as we fall silent for the last hour of the train trip.

  The client liked the pitch. I could feel it in the room. I know I nailed it. I know that we deserve that account. And now? I’ve just got to wait to hear if Lumineux Shower Gel agrees with me.

  We get back to Holloway/Greene and I stop by Audrey’s office to debrief her.

  “Sounds like you guys really went for it,” Audrey says. I don’t know what that means. Is that good . . . is that . . .

  “It was a good day,” I say.

  “But they didn’t buy it in the room, so . . .”

  “They didn’t not buy it in the room, either.”

  “Oh, absolutely. We do so appreciate the attention you give to even the smallest of accounts,” Audrey says.

  “Well, thank you for your part in it,” I say.

  “Oh, it was nothing. I’m always looking for opportunities to support and encourage women in this business,” she says, her hands in the prayer gesture and her cinnamon-roll air in full effect. “I’ll be sure to keep Dad in the loop on this.”

  “Well, I’ll let you know when I hear something.” I turn toward the door before I have to say thank you again.

  “Hey, how did Sasha do?” Audrey asks.

  “She did great. Her artwork is really something,” I say.

  “So you’re not threatened by her?”

  “Why would I be threatened by her?”

  “She’s twenty-five, beautiful—”

  “Oh, no—she’s brilliant,” I say, not wanting to blurt out no, those are the reasons your half brother tried to get in her pants (and failed), but I’ll be sure to pass along your “support and encourage women” speech. “She just needed a break. Chuck was right in hiring her.”

  “So, you’re not—”

  “Not at all,” I say.

  “Hm.”

  “Thank you again and I’ll let you know when I hear something,” I say, letting myself out. As I’m walking toward my office, I let the energy of the last several days begin to build. I make myself a cup of tea and walk into my office and close the door behind me. I want this. This account should be mine.

  I scroll through my phon
e, anything to get my mind off The Waiting, and see several texts from Ferdie. I dial his number and wait as it rings.

  “How’d it go?” he asks.

  “It went really well,” I say, sipping my tea.

  “And did they go for it?”

  “They said they’d let us know.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I know.”

  “So, I have a thing tonight that I want you to come to,” Ferdie says.

  “You have a thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You going to tell me any more than that?”

  “I’m sending you the address.”

  “It’s not The Naughty Kitty, is it?”

  “No, definitely not. It’s a rink.”

  “You skating again?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You okay?”

  “Just come. We’ll be there until eight, I think,” he says.

  “Okay. I’ll be there.” We say our good-byes. I can’t worry about Ferdie right now. I’ve been doing that for the past few years and all the years before that. Ferdinand Wyatt: the King of the Bad Decision. I was so thankful when he found hockey, because it kept him on the straight and narrow or whatever the hockey version of straight and narrow is. He could fight and act out and it was all part of the sport. But when he got injured all bets were off and he was right back to the drugs, the booze, and the terrible women, trying to find part-time work bartending and crashing on people’s couches if he came home at all. If he’s back at a rink, this is good news.

  I find myself just sitting at my desk. Running through the pitch. Thinking about Audrey’s reaction. All these accounts—when we’re waiting to hear—always feel like a puppy you don’t know if you get to take home yet. You’re at the pound and your parents are giving you that look like mayyyyybe, so you keep your heart walled up just enough so you’re not laid completely bare when the answer turns out to be no. I’d love to work on the Lumineux account. Preeti Dayal seems really great, which just complicates matters. And most of all? The campaign feels . . . important. Which is weird for me. A first. The idea that I could be a part of something significant and make up for some of the less-than-noble campaigns I’ve done earlier in my career is more than a little appealing. Less-than-noble campaigns that, while not at the root of why girls like Sasha think so poorly of themselves, certainly don’t help. Lumineux is different. It feels like it’s the manifestation of my Time-Out.

  “It’s the butterfly,” I say aloud to myself in a particularly dramatic moment after I’ve built an entire narrative about how the last year was about cocooning and . . . well, you get the idea. Michael’s Rocky analogy was way better, although I’ll never tell him that.

  Time passes.

  Time slows down.

  Time stops.

  It’s 6:47 P.M. when Audrey leans against my now open office door, not that I’m staring at the clock or anything.

  “So sorry. Lumineux called a few hours ago,” she says. I see Sasha appear just behind her, seemingly from nowhere. “Good Lord . . .” Audrey trails off.

  “Sasha,” she prompts.

  “Uh-huh. You scared me.” Sasha apologizes and sneaks past her, settling into one of the client chairs in my office.

  “And?” I ask.

  “They want to see the campaign you pitched through to fruition and then they’ll decide. We’ll go back in next Monday with everything we’ve got,” Audrey says.

  “So, it’s a maybe,” I say.

  “But this is good, right?” Sasha asks, looking from Audrey to me, then back to Audrey. Who doesn’t even look at her.

  “It’s definitely better than a full pass,” I say. Sasha looks back over at me. I struggle out a smile for her and she nods, almost agreeing with herself that this is good news.

  “Definitely,” Sasha says.

  “We’ll send the two of you down to that RomanceCon thing. They’re sending Preeti, Pretty Somebody, as well,” Audrey says.

  “Preeti Dayal; she’s in charge of the campaign,” Sasha says. I shoot her a look. The less information Audrey has the better, young Jedi.

  “Oh, really? Well, that’s a good sign,” Audrey says.

  “You’ll judge the pageant and see if you can get as close to this Brubaker woman as you can. If she signs off on the campaign? It’s a lock for us,” Audrey says.

  “Judge the pageant?” Sasha asks.

  “It’s basically casting, so yeah. I’m sure Ginny Barton will be amenable,” I say, hoping beyond hope that that’s actually true. Sasha nods.

  “The business office has your travel arrangements,” Audrey says, checking her phone. I nod. Audrey waits.

  “Thank you so much,” I say.

  “Dad was really interested in this when I spoke to him earlier,” Audrey says.

  “That’s nice to hear,” I say.

  “I didn’t know that Lumineux was connected with Quincy Pharmaceuticals,” she says.

  “Is it?” I ask.

  “Hm,” Audrey says. She taps the side of my doorjamb a couple of times and heads back down the hall. Ugh.

  “Close the door,” I say to Sasha.

  “I hate that she always forgets my name,” Sasha says.

  “Oh, she remembers your name,” I say.

  “What? Well, why—”

  “It makes you feel forgettable. It’s a power move,” I say absently.

  “That’s terrible,” she says.

  “It is, isn’t it,” I say.

  “What are you . . . shouldn’t we be happy? This is good news, right?” Sasha asks.

  “I don’t trust her.”

  “Who . . . Audrey?”

  “The whole ‘we’ thing and ‘us’ and that last little bit about her dad being into this campaign?” I say.

  “Him being interested isn’t a good thing?”

  “It is if she gave us credit for it, which I will bet my entire year’s salary that she did not,” I say.

  “Why would she do that?” Sasha asks.

  “Why?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why would Audrey take credit for an account that could land this agency one of the largest corporations in the world on the eve of her creepy, sexual harassing little half-brother getting control of the company?”

  “Oh . . . now I get it.”

  “Bloody Mary indeed.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “So what do we do?” Sasha asks.

  “We go to RomanceCon and we make ourselves indispensable to the client.”

  “Make sure they won’t forget our names,” Sasha says.

  “Exactly. So that in the end, it won’t matter what Audrey or Charlton want. It’s what Preeti Dayal and Lumineux wants. And we have less than a week in Phoenix to make Preeti Dayal want no one but us,” I say, thankful that in calming Sasha down I’m also calming myself. Having to be positive for her has kept me from spiraling. That and the pure panic and exhaustion of the last thirty-six hours. Fingers crossed I don’t have a moment’s peace in the coming days.

  “Okay. This is good. We can do this,” Sasha says, standing and gathering her things.

  “Definitely. Definitely. What are you up to tonight?” I ask.

  “I’ve got a date,” Sasha says, standing.

  “Nice. Don’t stay out too late. We have a plane to catch first thing,” I say, swinging my workbag over my shoulder.

  “Yep,” Sasha says.

  “See you tomorrow morning?” I begin walking down the hallway.

  “Anna?” I turn around. Sasha continues, “Thanks for today. You were . . . thanks for being nice . . . nice to me.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say. A smile. An exhausted, starving, why-did-I-agree-to-go-to-an-ice-rink-tonight-of-all-nights smile.

  The cold of the rink feels good. I buy a hot dog at the concession stand along with a soda and some peanut M&M’s. I eat the hot dog while I’m waiting for some kid to put relish on his dog and then I go back to buy another one.
I’m beyond starving.

  I walk toward the bleachers and my entire life with Ferdie comes rushing back. How many hours, days, and lifetimes have I spent in the bleachers of some hockey rink? I settle in and bite into my (second) hot dog, putting my soda and M&M’s just next to me on the bleachers. I’m glad to be here and not spinning at home in a haze of to-do lists and travel arrangements.

  A gaggle of tiny boys in giant hockey pads moves across the ice in a chaotic, swirling eddy of cracking hockey sticks and shouts for them to slow down and listen. It’s a game of epic proportions between the teeny-tiny red team and the teeny-tiny blue team. Despite their attempts at being rough and scary, they are beyond adorable. I scan the bleachers for Ferdie, thinking he’s up next in some kind of ornery adult league they’ve got going on here. My eyes are drawn back to the ice as a ref has to pull one teeny-tiny red player off a teeny-tiny blue player like they’re overexcited puppies in a box.

  Ferdie.

  I lean forward, almost choking on my hot dog. Ferdie’s faux-hawked curls creep out from under his helmet as he holds the teeny-tiny red player under one arm with ease, trying not to laugh at the windmilling arms of the teeny-tiny blue player who is after them both. The black-and-white-striped long-sleeved shirt hides most of Ferdie’s tattoos from the boys who would definitely think they were way too cool.

  “You don’t think it’s stupid?” Ferdie asks after the game is over.

  “Stupid? No way. I think it’s amazing.” We walk to the Metro, his giant hockey bag swung over his shoulder.

  “The pay is nothing, but these other refs are telling me you can really make a lot of money doing this.”

  “I think it’s great,” I say, looking up at him. “You look happy.”

  “Happy.” He lights up a cigarette.

  “Now if you could just stop smoking,” I say.

  “But smoking makes me happy,” he says with a wink, flicking his lighter off and sliding it into his pocket. We are quiet as we walk. “I haven’t been happy for a long time.”

  “I know.”

  “Feels scary,” he says, not looking at me.

  “Absolutely terrifying,” I say, unable to look at him, either.