Girl Before a Mirror

by Liza Palmer

  “Cookie-cutter. That’s what I hate,” Sasha adds, trying to salvage the meeting.

  “Cookie-cutter. Formulaic is one of my personal favorites. Of course, when a man writes about love and relationships it’s worthy of a ticker tape parade or a Pulitzer,” Helen says, sipping her coffee. “But when we do it it’s unrealistic. Because I don’t know about you, but I know countless pretty—but don’t know it, of course—oversexed, yet virginal, college students who not only lust after their English professors but will get in line behind several other women for the honor of doing so.”

  “A miserable ending with unlikable characters doesn’t make you deep,” Sasha adds, edging closer to me. Nudging me to say something. Do something. My face feels hot. I know what I have to do.

  “Amen,” Helen says.

  “You want to truly understand a culture? Just record what they read when they think no one is looking,” Sasha says.

  “Oh, that’s good. I’m going to use that one,” Helen says, tapping the thought into her phone.

  “Thanks,” Sasha says. They both turn to me.

  The room falls silent.

  “I was wrong,” I say, flustered but not thrown.

  “Damn right you were,” Helen says.

  Silence.

  “So what happened?” Helen asks. A breath. And then the truth. Or at least whatever sliver of the truth I’m starting to understand.

  “For me, it was easier experiencing pleasure secondhand,” I say.

  “How do you mean?” Helen asks.

  “I wanted people to know I was reading the right books and listening to the right music . . . that I was up on what was being talked about by the right people. That brought me pleasure.” Silence. A beat. “That I was better than the unwashed masses.”

  “There it is,” Helen says.

  “Right. The fact that I intimidated people made me happy,” I say. Helen nods. “I was caught up in displaying my accomplishments because I’d come from such humble beginnings. It was like porn for me if I told you about some book and you’d never heard of it or even better, couldn’t get through it because it was too hard. Ahhhh. I get all hot and bothered just thinking about it.” Helen laughs.

  “I appreciate your candor, Ms. Wyatt,” Helen finally allows. The entire energy in the room is shifting. All I have to do is keep talking. Keep plumbing the depths. Keep telling the truth of the long-buried hidden shame of that Judy Blume book and being “found out.”

  “And it was safer. I didn’t actually enjoy most of those books. I certainly wasn’t undone by them. Except Jane Eyre. I could read that book every day until I die and never grow tired of it,” I say, swooning.

  “Oh, me too,” Helen says.

  “Love that book,” Sasha says.

  “So pleasure was always . . . at a distance.” I look up at Helen and she’s listening. Surprised. Her whole demeanor has changed. As she and Sasha splinter off into a side conversation, I can’t help but think about last night with Lincoln. How the pleasure I felt at times was almost painful, it was so desperate and overwhelming. Close. How I almost shut it down time after time because I was on the edge. I think about how I felt after I pitched the Just Be campaign to Preeti that first day. I didn’t want to get my hopes up. I didn’t want to get my heart broken by being told no.

  Feeling joy and happiness and pleasure secondhand meant the loss I’d inevitably feel when they were gone would be second-hand, as well. For me, it was about playing the odds or not playing the odds. Continuing to let Lincoln get as close as he did, allowing myself to tumble over the cliff happily with him time after time after time means I’ll feel the loss of him firsthand. I want to feel that freedom, but . . .

  I chose Patrick even knowing that—in Sasha’s words—he wasn’t The One. But he was the guy everyone wanted. And that brought me pleasure. With Patrick there was no edge. There were no cliffs. And that’s what got me off . . . because he certainly never did.

  I decided I wanted the car account because that’s what everyone else wanted. I was told it was important. It would legitimize me in a world of advanced degrees and dynasties. Have I made it, you’d ask? And all I’d have to do is trot out that car account and you wouldn’t even have to ask what college I went to or how many ladies products I’d slung in my day. But something is changing. I don’t want the car account anymore. I want Lumineux. I want Lumineux because it’s important to me. Whether everyone thinks so or not.

  “Ms. Wyatt?” Helen asks as I realize I’ve fallen into quite the reverie.

  “I used to go on these road trips by myself and make these elaborate playlists and I’d sneak these songs on there that I’d argue were for fun, you know? They were on my ‘workout mix,’ if you know what I mean.” Helen and Sasha both nod, laughing. “But then that’d be the song that I’d turn up the loudest. It was the song that made me the happiest out on that open road. But I’d only allow myself one of them, even with no one else around. Who does that?”

  “Women do, honey,” Helen says. “We tell ourselves it’s because it makes it more special, but that’s not it at all.”

  “At all,” I repeat.

  “What do you think would happen if you made a whole playlist—is that what you call it? A playlist?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “A whole playlist of every song that—” Helen searches for the word.

  “That’s a guilty pleasure?” I offer.

  “See, now why does pleasure have to be guilty?” Helen asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, honestly dumbstruck by her question.

  “I don’t think that it does, Ms. Wyatt. What would happen if you made an entire playlist with just songs that made you move and dance and smile?”

  “My fear?”

  “Yes.”

  “That I’d get stupid,” I say honestly.

  “No way,” Helen says.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “There’s no way. It’s not about that at all,” she says.

  I’m quiet. Helen and Sasha wait.

  “That people wouldn’t like me,” I say finally.

  “That they wouldn’t take you seriously, you mean.”

  “Right. That I wouldn’t matter. I’ve tried to play one of these songs to certain groups of people—”

  “Friends of yours?” Helen asks.

  “In a sense. I got flak for it. My stock goes down, if you will,” I say. “Well, went down. I’ve been cleaning house of a lot of friends as of late.”

  “Sounds like they weren’t really friends to begin with,” Helen says.

  “I agree, but sadly it doesn’t mean that those voices aren’t still pinging around in my head,” I say, thinking about how I haven’t even told Allison and Michael about what happened with Lincoln yet.

  “I spent far too long trying to be perfect and I hardly recognized myself,” Helen says.

  “I think what your book is really about—for me, anyway—is that it’s okay to show people all of you. Not only okay—but empowering. The root of where our story is. Our real story, anyway. The imperfect, the intense, what you think is ugly is actually what will set you free. What makes you the hero people will root for. You’ve given permission to women—all women—to be . . . human.”

  “Thank you,” Helen says.

  “Broken people make the best heroes,” I say.

  “They do indeed,” Helen says.

  “The Just Be campaign will celebrate that. Real women in real situations without the noose of the impossible standards advertising usually strangles women with. The perfect house, the joy of cleanliness, the well-behaved kids, all the while keeping impossibly thin, of course,” I say. Sasha passes over some of her beautiful artwork.

  “Wow,” Helen says. “May I?” I hand her the stack of Sasha’s sketches. She’s done even more since the pitch, using the inspiration of the women at Helen’s workshop. “These are beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” Sasha says, unable to hide her absolute delight in the compliment.r />
  “And how do romance novels fit into all of this?” Helen hands back the sketches. “Thank you for these. You have real talent.”

  “Thank you,” Sasha says again. I can’t help but smile. She is almost bursting.

  “If you look at Sasha’s drawings, they are an homage to the romance novel tropes . . . with a twist. We’re here for Mr. RomanceCon and I think that will add a bit of humor to the campaign, which it needs.”

  “I agree,” Helen says.

  “But it’s the sweeping epicness that romance novels capture that we want to infuse into the Just Be campaign. The shower is an oddly sacred place for women. It’s usually one of the only places we get any peace and quiet. And so are romance novels. They are an escape. And not in a bad way. In the best way possible.” I think of Preeti’s mom and find myself getting oddly emotional. “It’s hard being a woman. Especially being everyone else’s idea of what a woman should be. What we want is to make it okay to just be you. All of you. And to know that that’s not only good enough; it’s downright heroic.”

  “Well hot damn, Ms. Wyatt, you are good at your job. I’m about to run out right now and buy stock in whatever it is you’re selling,” Helen says, leaning back in her chair. “I had every intention of shutting this meeting down after I gave you the business for calling romance novels crap.”

  “I know.”

  “I had my speech all set up and now . . . here we are.” I wait. “But I still don’t see how I can help,” Helen says.

  “You’ve started this revolution, Mrs. Brubaker. We just want to be a part of it,” I say. Lincoln’s words weave themselves into the tight tapestry in my mind. His words. My words. “We just want your stamp of approval.”

  “My endorsement, you mean,” Helen says, back in businesswoman mode. “Oh, well now I just feel—”

  I cut in, “No. What I want is something much more valuable.”

  “Oh?”

  “I want your counsel.”

  “My counsel?”

  “Mrs. Brubaker—”

  “Helen, please. Jesus.”

  “Helen, what I’m . . . what we’re looking for is a mentor.” Helen sits back in her chair again.

  “Hm. I have to be straight with you, kiddo, I did not see that coming.”

  “Me either,” I say, laughing. Sasha nervously laughs, inching closer to me on the couch.

  Helen is quiet. Nodding. Her eyes flick between Sasha and me, Sasha’s sketches and my entire Just Be proposal laid out before her. She takes a sip of her coffee.

  “I need to think about your proposition, Ms. Wyatt.”

  “Anna. Please,” I say.

  “Anna. Your talent—both of your talent—is undeniable. If Lumineux doesn’t go with this campaign they’re moronic. I’m confident they’ll choose you, in the end. But, you’re right, what you’re asking for is far more valuable than my endorsement—it’s my time and energy you want. And I’m old enough to know that those are the most valuable commodities in the marketplace.”

  “I know,” I say. Helen sets her coffee down on the table and stands. We gather our things and stand, following her lead.

  “This isn’t a no. I’ll give you an answer before the conference is over on Sunday.” Helen extends her hand to me and I take it. “You’re an impressive woman, Ms. Wyatt.”

  “Thank you. And so are you,” I say.

  “Oh, I know. After far too many years, I’m finally quite in touch with just how impressive I am,” Helen says, giving me a quick wink, and I can’t help but smile.

  “Ms. Merchant,” Helen says, now extending her hand to Sasha. Sasha lunges in to take it with a wide smile. “What a talent.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Brubaker,” Sasha says, her voice bubbling over with excitement.

  Helen walks over to the door and opens it up. The din of the outer rooms of her suite hits us immediately. Team Brubaker bustles around the room on phones and computers. They all look up as we appear. The women who are here to run their pitches by Helen stand as soon as she enters the room. They look terrified. One looks like she’s about to cry. I know the feeling.

  Sasha and I thank Helen again and are quickly spirited out of the hotel room.

  “Ummm,” Sasha finally says.

  “I know,” I say.

  “Where did all that come from?” Sasha asks as we walk toward the elevators.

  “I was losing her,” I say, still in a haze. “I had to do something.” We push the call button and wait. I pull my cell phone from my purse and scroll through various work e-mails, acting like I’m not looking for some communication from Lincoln.

  “Well, it worked . . . kinda. What’s with the mentor stuff?” she asks, as the elevator dings open and we step inside.

  “There’s nothing she can do for us when it comes to the campaign. Her endorsement would pull focus from what we’re trying to do, which is to establish Lumineux along with Be the Heroine, not in the shadow of it. So, having her connected to the campaign would actually do it a disservice,” I say.

  “Oh . . .”

  “I know. I just got that this morning,” I say. “It was really bothering me. I couldn’t figure out how she’d fit in and then it dawned on me. She doesn’t.” The elevator dings open and we start walking through the packed lobby toward the valet.

  “And the mentor thing?”

  “It was worth a shot,” I say, digging out the valet ticket from my purse. “I’m kind of in love with her.”

  “Right?” Sasha slumps down on the bench just outside the hotel as we wait for our rental. “I didn’t know any of that stuff,” she says.

  “I’ve been thinking about all that this past year. Didn’t quite expect that I’d have to unload it in a business meeting at seven o’clock in the morning, but . . .” I trail off, sitting down next to her on the bench.

  “Ryder texted me late last night,” Sasha says.

  “Of course he did. I doubt he’s experienced much rejection.”

  “I didn’t text back,” she says.

  “Wow, that’s huge.”

  “I know, right? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love that he texted. I love that I got to finally be the one that let a late-night text just hang there. God . . . I’ve been on the other end so many—too many—times,” Sasha says. The valet brings our car around and we climb in, thankful that the air-conditioning is already on full blast.

  “You should really be proud of yourself,” I say, speeding toward the Biltmore and my bed and maybe some sleep and a much-needed shower.

  “I thought of that book. And what Helen said in her workshop. And maybe it’s about being here or whatever? But it was just so clearly the right thing to do. Even though . . . man it would have been fun,” Sasha says. I clear my throat. Why am I embarrassed that Sasha knows perfectly well what Lincoln and I got up to last night? “That was your cue.” I look over at her as we slow down at a red light. She’s smiling. “And if you say you don’t kiss and tell I swear . . .” Sasha balls up her little fist and raises it as high as one can in this tiny car. My face flushes bright red just thinking about last night.

  “I don’t know what to think,” I manage, unsure as to why these ten-minute drives to and from the conference hotel have become an unofficial confessional for Sasha and me.

  “You don’t know what to think? About what?”

  “There’s the me back in D.C. and then there’s whoever this Phoenix person is . . . where you know more about me than friends I’ve known for decades and I think I’m falling in love with a British gentleman I’ve just met and I’m unloading my feelings—like deep things that it’s taken months in therapy to excavate—in some suite in front of Helen Effing Brubaker while eating a mini-muffin and with no underpants on, for crissakes,” I say, pounding on the steering wheel. Sasha is about to say something, but I continue. “I feel outside of myself and I know that it’s good and I know that my therapist will call this some kind of breakthrough, but right now it just feels like I’m coming apart at the seams.
”

  “You’re falling in love with Lincoln?” Sasha downright swoons.

  “That’s . . . of course that’s all you took from that,” I say, turning into the Biltmore’s long driveway.

  “That and you’re not wearing any underpants.”

  “I just feel like I’m coming undone and . . . I’m scared,” I say, slowing down behind a white Bentley at the valet of the Biltmore.

  “I get that,” Sasha says.

  “I know you do,” I say, trying to offer her a consoling smile. The valet opens my door and Sasha and I trudge into the lobby once more. We fall into a contented silence as we ride the elevator up to our rooms. Sasha looks over at me nervously a few times as we walk down the long hallway, and I act like I don’t notice. She slides her key into her door and turns around, about to say something. “I’m so proud of you for the Ryder thing,” I say. “That’s really huge.”

  “Thanks,” she says. A beat. She wants to say something more, but then just smiles. I open my hotel room door and can barely form a thought, I’m so exhausted.

  “Lunch?”

  “Sure. I’ll knock at around one?” Sasha asks.

  “Sounds good,” I say.

  “Then the meet-and-greet thing?” Sasha asks.

  “Oh, that’s right. Yes. Okay,” I say.

  “The title of Mr. RomanceCon depends on our getting to know these men, Anna,” Sasha says, trying to lighten the mood.

  “I’m sure it does,” I say with a wave. Sasha smiles and my door closes behind me. I begin to shed—purses, workbags, clothes, high heels. I turn on the shower and once it’s hot enough, blissfully climb inside. There is something magical about a hotel shower. Maybe it’s the water pressure or the promise of not having to clean up after yourself, but I can’t remember my shower ever feeling this good.

  My mind is blank as I let the hot water pour over me. I am far too exhausted to unpack all the goings-on since I arrived in Phoenix not even forty-eight hours ago. And it’s not last night with Lincoln or my emotional download with Helen or my nervous breakdown in the rental confessional with Sasha or even the Lumineux campaign itself.