Girl Before a Mirror

by Liza Palmer

  The cab slows down. I could just wave him on and go back to the hotel. And then what? Spend the next ten months waiting? On pause? I pay the fare and step out in front of a beautiful sage-green building, the words MALLORY CONSULTING in white block print along the bottom of one of the huge windows that line the front. A shiny black door has a gold plaque and a bell you can ring to be let in.

  I immediately start walking down the street, looking in the boutiques and trying to lower my heart rate so I don’t pass out in front of Mallory Consulting. The image of me having a seizure in front of his office, probably becoming incontinent as my little perfect baguette rolls down the street, isn’t helping the situation.

  I’ve timed my arrival right around lunch so I’ll have a better shot at catching him stepping out for something to eat. Oh my God. What if he’s meeting someone? What if he’s having a torrid affair with his secretary or another consultant? What if he’s married? The scenarios rack up as I pace back and forth in front of Mallory Consulting. I walk past his building and down the block again. The sounds of New York all around me, honking cabs and blaring sirens in the distance. But this section of Wooster Street is quiet enough that I can hear the rustle of the trees above me and the rat-a-tat of the tires along the cobblestones. The fresh smells and the tinkling music waft from the boutiques and cafés that pepper the classic, idyllic New York lane. I turn around and walk down the street once more.

  Lincoln.

  He’s standing out in front of the building. Just standing there. Hands in his pockets. Head tilted. I recover from the shock of seeing him and can’t help but smile. He’s dressed more casually today—gray tweed pants and a gray cashmere sweater over a light blue oxford cloth shirt.

  He’s what’s been missing.

  I walk toward him, hitching my purse and the stupidest reusable bag in the entire world over my shoulder. My stomach immediately drops. I can’t read him. Furrowed brow with the hint of a smile—but the hands in the pockets is never a good sign.

  I stand right in front of him. I stop and start a thousand sentences. Everything I’d planned to say has left my head and now I’m just breathing heavily as I stand in front of Lincoln Mallory out in front of his office building. Wow, the bad ideaness of this whole thing really hits home. His face is—

  “I’m in New York on business,” I croak out. I clear my throat.

  “This doesn’t look like that little Italian restaurant in D.C. that you gave me explicit directions to,” Lincoln says. That voice. I’d forgotten what he sounded like.

  “No, well—”

  “No,” he says. He’s . . . annoyed. Oh, no. He’s annoyed.

  “Okayyyy, well, this was a terrible idea,” I say, walking to the curb in a fugue state and flinging my arm up in the air to hail a cab.

  “Anna,” he says, and dammit if Lincoln saying my name doesn’t just roll through my body like a tsunami. I turn around, my arm still in the air. Oh, that’s right, mister, I’m still hailing a cab. This is still happening. “My office is right there.” Lincoln finally pulls his hand out of his pocket long enough to point to the large window just above the shiny black entrance to his consulting firm. Or what others might call “a front-row seat to watch Anna Wyatt psychotically pace and mutter to herself.”

  “Oh?” I ask, shocked that I can form words or say anything through the absolute horror of what’s transpired here this afternoon.

  “Was it twenty times?” he asks, his hand going back and forth.

  “I’m starting to see why all those women hated you.” I turn around. “You can just say you’re not interested, you know,” I say, and I am back at the curb with my arm in the air.

  “Your arm is going to grow tired if you continue to insist on dramatically hailing cabs to punctuate your frustration,” he says, folding his arms across his chest.

  “How can you be so cavalier?”

  “I’m being cavalier?”

  “Haughty,” I say.

  “Do you plan on running through all the synonyms or—”

  “I’m just—” I say.

  “So the woman who told me to appear at her birthday dinner in exactly one year is now calling me cavalier?” His folded arms. The tensing jaw. Lincoln is pissed.

  “Yes,” I say, clearing my throat.

  “And this is where that folksy saying about pots and kettles comes in?”

  “It was romantic,” I say.

  “It was Machiavellian,” he says.

  “What?”

  “I wanted the messy conversation. I may not have been ready or . . . may not . . . no, I definitely wouldn’t have said the right things, but I wanted to try.”

  “Don’t you even try to rewrite history and portray yourself as the one who didn’t explicitly say it had to stay temporary and you didn’t want me—”

  “No, I know. I know.”

  “This wasn’t all me.”

  “I know.”

  “I was desperate. I had to come up with something, because the thought of not seeing you again . . .”

  “This has nothing to do with me.”

  “It has everything to do with you!”

  “No. It’s your birthday dinner. It’s your candle. It’s your timeline. It was even your bravery that you commended yourself for in the end,” he says.

  “But—” Lincoln steps closer. It’s then that he sees the baguette. He just shakes his head.

  “I was a coward. I know that now; hell, I knew that the minute I said it,” he says. He unfolds his arms and stands over me. So close. “But all this?” He motions to the adorable bag and all of its adorable contents. “Why didn’t you just call me?”

  “Why didn’t you just call me?”

  “I wanted to. So many times.”

  “Me too.”

  “I don’t know how to do this,” he says, unable to look at me. I hear him take a deep breath. I step closer. He reaches out and I want to tell him to stop. Don’t make me remember what it’s like when you touch me. Let me have the sweet oblivion of forgetti—He runs his hand down the length of my arm and takes my hand. I curl my fingers around his and the ache of it eclipses the horror of the last ten minutes. He wraps his other arm around my waist and pulls me into him. And I breathe him in—that oaky, outside smell of his. My arms remain at my sides, that stupid tote bag thunking and banging into my back. I push Lincoln back and throw the tote bag into the gutter of the perfect little cobblestoned street. I set my purse down between my feet. I look up at him. Finally. Those dark blue eyes. He’s hurt. I lift my hand hesitantly as if I’m reaching out to pet a stranger’s dog. Is it friendly? Will it bite? All these questions are also relevant in the scenario currently playing out on Wooster Street.

  His mouth is a hard line as he watches me. I bring my hand up to the side of his face, the stubble tickling the palm of my hand. And as he always has, he closes his eyes and leans into my touch. And finally—a deep breath. His eyes open for the briefest of moments and before I know it, his mouth is fast on mine. The world blurs around us and when we finally part I don’t know what to say. Do I tell him about how I’m trying to let go? Would that be anti–letting go? He straightens the collar of my blouse, patting it into place.

  “I have to go. My lunch is rolling down the street,” I say. Lincoln laughs.

  “What do we do now?” he asks. And another kiss. I wrap my arms around him, his smooth leather belt just under my fingertips.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think I’m ready.” I look at the reusable bag in the gutter. “Clearly.” Lincoln laughs. “But I meant what I said: loving you is one of the bravest things I’ve ever done.”

  “Before it was the bravest thing you’d ever done.” I smile. And think of Ferdie.

  “Things have changed,” I say. Lincoln throws his head back and laughs. And then a smile. A beaming, proud smile that even I can recognize.

  “Well, you’re my person. I’ll wait.” He kisses me. “I’ll be here when you’re ready for messy,” Lincoln sa
ys, my face in his hands. I kiss him and he holds me close . . . close . . . closer.

  “I know,” I say.

  He takes my hand and we walk to the curb. He puts his arm in the air as a cab rumbles down the cobblestone street. It pulls over. He opens the door for me and pulls me in for one last kiss.

  “Do hurry back, my love,” he says. I run my hand down the front of his sweater, over the scars and the heart and the body and the man that I love. I nod. Unable to say a word, I get into the cab and he shuts the door behind me. The cabbie turns around and asks where to. I don’t want to tell him. If I tell him he’ll pull away from this curb.

  “Where to?” the cabbie repeats. I mutter the name of my hotel and the cabbie situates himself behind the wheel. I stare out at Lincoln and his eyes are fixed on mine. He smiles as we pull away from the curb. Lincoln remains just where he is, watching me drive away.

  The television in the cab blares.

  I pick my fingernails.

  . . .

  A honk.

  The cabbie talks on the phone.

  I roll down my window.

  Close my eyes.

  Lean my head against the door.

  Wind.

  Wring my purse straps.

  The leather creaks.

  Creaks.

  “This is it,” the cabbie says.

  Focus.

  What?

  What’s happening with time?

  The TV blares.

  “We’re here,” he says.

  The doorman of my hotel opens my door and I give the cabbie money. Through the lobby. Push the button. In the elevator with all the mirrors. Where’s my key card? Key card. Down the hallway and slide key card. Green light. Drop my purse. Pull down the duvet, turn off the lights, and crawl under the covers.

  And cry.

  The next morning, Sasha sits down across from me on the Metroliner with two cups of tea and a muffin. I thank her and manage a smile.

  “I’m so sorry,” Sasha says.

  “I’m not,” I say, blowing on my tea.

  Silence.

  “You’re too quiet,” she says.

  “I wasn’t ready. So busy trying to find the wrong man . . .” I can’t even finish the sentence. Hoisted by my own petard.

  “But you don’t have to be totally ready for these things,” she says.

  “No, I know. I learned all this stuff, but when I was put to the test I defaulted right back to my old ways. Kept trying to control everything. I’m not ready to step in the ring.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “I was so set on creating this perfect environment where no one would get hurt and . . . well, not no one. Me. Where I wouldn’t get hurt. I knew if he walked through that door into that Italian restaurant—which I am never setting foot in again, thankyouverymuch—that he would be ready to love me in such a way that I wouldn’t . . . oh my God.” Crumbs shoot out of my mouth as I continue to speak with my mouth full. “It’s Machiavellian. Machiavellian.”

  “I thought it was romantic,” Sasha says.

  “What am I going to do?”

  “He said he wanted messy, so . . .”

  “I don’t know how to do messy.”

  “I think he just wants you to be—”

  “If you say raw or authentic right now I am going to throw this muffin at you,” I say.

  “Real. I think he just wants you to be real.”

  “Do you think he wants me to Just Be?” I ask with a smile. And she laughs.

  “I was totally going to say that,” Sasha says, still laughing.

  “We’ve been doing this damn campaign for weeks and I have no idea what it actually means,” I say.

  “Well, it’s whatever . . . what is it you were saying? It’s whatever feels totally wrong and uncomfortable,” she says.

  “Why can’t I drop the act? Why couldn’t I just let it go?”

  “Because sometimes the act is all we’ve got, you know?”

  “Oh, I know,” I say. A beat. The landscape speeds by outside the train’s window. “Why didn’t I just . . . why wasn’t . . . oh my God. It’s changing the lightbulb in the pooey bathroom all over again,” I say.

  “It’s the what?”

  “Remember?” I ask, not wanting to open old wounds.

  “Oh no . . . right. The lightbulb story.”

  “I need to be able to let him change the lightbulb,” I say, my head falling into my hands at the mere thought of such horrific things.

  “You’re not going to g—”

  “No. Oh God no. It’s a metaphor. Can you imagine? Me swanning into Mallory Consulting and just . . . yes, hello. Lincoln? I’m here to use your bathroom,” I say, hysterically laughing.

  Sasha is wheezing laughing.

  “Smell it! Love me!” I laugh.

  “Oh my God.” Sasha laughs. “I . . . I can’t breathe.” It feels so good to laugh. She pounds the little table between us and snorts, whipping her head back and cackling some more.

  21

  The Just Be campaign is a phenomenon.

  It’s not only put Lumineux Shower Gel onto shopping lists and into grocery carts around the nation, but the campaign itself has gone viral. And not just within the ad world. Women are posting it to their social media profiles and the tagline has become a call to arms. It’s made people ask questions about their own lives in a way that transcends advertising or shower gel. It’s become a movement.

  I’m sitting on the Metro going to work and I see a woman take out her phone and snap a selfie in front of one of the Just Be placards. She’s pointing at her hair—an amazing pixie cut, newly shorn. She looks happy. Proud. Excited. She did it. She finally cut her hair the way she’s always wanted. I’m beaming at her as she looks at the picture and smiles. She’s happy.

  And this is not the first time I’ve seen something like this. Two women standing under a Just Be billboard with tickets to a Broadway show. A pack of teenage girls off on a great adventure caught taking a picture in front of a Just Be bus-shelter ad. But my favorite of all these beautiful vignettes was when I was behind a woman in line at my local coffee shop. She was on the phone talking with her friend and from what I gleaned, she was unhappy with her job. The usual stuff. But then she said she’d seen these pottery classes at this little studio by where her daughter goes to school. She’d always wanted to learn. I smiled, trying not to act like I was eavesdropping. And then she said, “I mean, Just Be, right?” And it took everything I had not to lunge into her for a hug right there.

  It’s become the subject of morning talk shows, and Lumineux has even come out with T-shirts—all done in that same simple, modern font with the words Just Be on them. It’s been described as the antidote to all the airbrushed models in string bikinis eating cheeseburgers in front of luxury cars that women are bombarded with daily. Lumineux isn’t about shaming women; it’s following Helen Brubaker’s lead and actually respecting them. Lumineux stands alone in its message among the long-legged models stepping off yachts and happy perfect homemakers dancing with their mops as their children carelessly track mud through their home.

  Lumineux is our crowning glory, and Sasha and I are riding high in the days and weeks after the campaign explodes. There is no downside; even Audrey being on our “team” can’t dampen our spirits. Charlton had to admit that Lumineux is an unadulterated success—women’s product or not. He even put Lumineux on the website. Which means we are now officially “important.”

  Michael and I went down to Virginia to watch Ferdie get his sixty-day chip last week, and it was just as emotional and hopeful and wrenching as the last meeting. Watching Ferdie come back to life is nothing short of miraculous. We told Ferdie we were putting the Shakespeare book club on hold until he could rejoin us. He thanked us and then joked that he thought he was going to get out of reading Hamlet.

  A knock on my office door. Sasha.

  “So what is it you’re going to be again?” she asks, settling into one of the client chairs in my
office. Every year Holloway/Greene has a huge Halloween party instead of a holiday party. Of course, I think it’s because Charlton would rather see his female staff in their slutty Halloween finest rather than bundled up in their holiday best, but that’s just me being cynical. Ish.

  “It’s a surprise,” I say.

  “Okay, then I’m not telling you mine, either,” Sasha says.

  “But you’re dying to tell me yours,” I say.

  “Totally,” she says.

  “Did you see that whole thing The View did on Just Be?” I ask, turning my computer around for her to see.

  “Yeah, it was good, right?”

  “Really good,” I say, turning the computer back around.

  “Oh, good, you’re both here.” Chuck ambles into my office, plopping down in the other client chair. Sasha situates herself farther away from him. He doesn’t notice. “So, you both are coming to the party tonight, right?”

  “Of course,” I say. Chuck looks at Sasha and she nods yes.

  “Good,” he says, slapping his legs before standing. “Good.” He walks out of the office without another word. Sasha and I stare at each other.

  “Do you think—”

  “It’s got to be Quincy, right?” I ask.

  “Clios haven’t been announced . . . and even then Lumineux can’t be nominated in this go-round anyway,” Sasha says.

  “Right,” I say.

  “It’s gotta be Quincy,” Sasha says.

  “I don’t want to get my hopes up, you know? But Audrey—”

  “I know. I don’t know,” Sasha says. A smile. A squeal. She stands and rushes back behind my desk, holding her arms out. “We’re hugging now. Come on!” I stand up and we hug. Of course, I’m still wary, but I let the moment whisk me away, even as Sasha starts hopping up and down—while still hugging me—to the words “Quin-CY! Quin-CY! Quin-CY!”

  We finally break apart and she chants her way out of the office. Sasha twirls around in the doorway and struts to her office, hiding two middle fingers behind her back.