This has to be a trick question. Must approach with caution. Three minutes left.
“Uh… well… I guess I don’t like that there’s not a lot of variety. It’s not exactly…”
“Challenging? Stimulating? Filled with ways to tap into your suppressed passion and creativity?” Well, she hit that nail right on the head.
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“So if you could have any career in the world, what would it be?”
I don’t know what the hell this woman is looking for, and I’m terrified that any answer will be wrong, so after a few moments of panic, I feel myself defaulting to what I always do best: stuttering and stammering incoherently.
“Political journalist? Chemical engineer. No, too serious. Restaurant critic. Yes. Yummy. No, wait. Too frivolous. Sex therapist. Ha! That was a joke. Okay, what about marine biologist? X-ray technician. Paralegal.” (Pause.) “No, you’re looking for something creative.” (Another pause.) “Oh, hell, I don’t know. Does shoe shopping before a fabulous night on the town count as a job aspiration?”
She watches me carefully, then gets up and goes toward the door. Shit. I blew it. I wonder if Armani will notice that I’ve already worn the suit when I try to return it.
But instead of booting my ass back into obscurity, Liz Gordon shuts the door and sits back down.
“Funny you should mention that.”
She picks up the phone. “Patricia, have them pull the car around to the front.”
Tick. Tick.
“Tell me, Lindsey. What was the last restaurant you’ve been to?”
“The last restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“Uh…” I honestly cannot remember that far back. But then it hits me – lunch earlier today. “I had lunch at Kittichai.” Kittichai is a chic new bistro that requires reservations a month in advance. I don’t know how Danielle got us in.
“Really?” Liz looks surprised. “I know top-level executives who have a hard time getting a table there. Impressive, Lindsey. What’s the last iPhone app you bought?”
Why is she asking me these things? I only have one minute left to convince her to pass me on. I begin to panic.
“Liz, I’d like to ask…well, it sounds like you’re getting ready to go somewhere and it’s just that… I’m not sure what any of this has to do with media buying.”
She tosses back her head and laughs. “It doesn’t, darling. I’m only trying to assess how cool you are.”
Isn’t that like asking someone their religion? Or their sexual preference? Or how well they like their steak cooked? What the hell does any of that have to do with job performance?
“Yes, but…” I stammer. I’m dead anyway. I might as well get some dirt on this place to pass on to Danielle’s pedicurist. “Isn’t that line of inquiry a bit…” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Politically incorrect?”
She laughs again. “Forget it, honey. You didn’t get the job. So who cares? Why so threatened by a little small talk? Tell me, when was the last time you were in the Dolce and Gabbana section of Saks?”
Is she making fun of me? Telling me I didn’t get the job, then asking me these inane questions to watch me squirm? It was a mistake ever to leave the apartment. I need this humiliation like I need a hole in the head.
I stand up and grab my folder.
“Ms. Gordon, I appreciate the opportunity to meet with you. I’m sorry that you’ve decided to ‘pass over’ me without even bothering to inquire about my skills.”
I can feel tears welling up in my eyes. Passover indeed. I have to get out now, before giving her the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
“Thank you for your time,” I whisper.
I turn to leave, but I can hear Liz Gordon jump up from her desk. In a flash she’s in front of me, holding her hand on the door so I can’t escape.
“Lindsey, wait. Don’t go.” She smiles, almost kindly. “Listen, it’s only four thirty, but I have dinner plans with a horror bitch of a client later tonight and I could use a stiff martini to get me in the mood. Would you like to come have a drink with me?”
I was wrong. I might not be dead quite yet.
• • •
Two hours and three martinis later, I am having the time of my life. I’m finding that I actually like Liz Gordon, though I’m still baffled as to why I’m here. We’ve covered the new spring colors, celebrity gossip, boyfriend woes, and the fact that her old advertising agency is now run by a bunch of morons from the Stone Age… and believe me, I’m all about the questions.
I read once that when being interviewed, it’s best to distract the interviewer by asking constant and persistent questions about his or her own life and career. People love to talk about themselves. The point is to engage them in a lively conversation, yet steer the exchange entirely away from yourself. This takes up time, creates an atmosphere of easy affability, and minimizes opportunities for you to make an ass out of yourself.
And it seems to be working. So far I’ve quizzed Liz on all her favorite designers, restaurants, magazines, vacation destinations—anything I can think of, right down to her favorite lip gloss flavors. And she seems to actually like me. I’m even daring to think that Liz may have reconsidered the Passover thing. But we still haven’t talked about the job. And I’m getting a little tipsy to be professionally presentable.
“Liz, can I ask you a question?”
“Fire away, darling.”
“Advertising is your life. So I’m surprised that you find the media part of it so boring.”
Liz laughs and takes a swig of her martini.
“I never said that. I don’t find it boring at all. But you do, which is the point I was trying to make.”
“How did you know that?”
“Lindsey, I’m one of the most successful businesswomen in Chicago. Do you know why that is? Because I trust my instincts. And the minute you walked into my office, I had an instinct about you.”
“That I wasn’t so turned on by media buying?”
“That’s part of it. Can you stay for one more?”
Great. By a stroke of unbelievable luck Liz Gordon has waived her five-minute Passover rule for me, and I’m about to blow it by getting sloppy drunk and puking all over my new Armani.
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Liz. I’m really trying for a good impression here.”
“Nonsense. The only impression that counts is the first, and you had me at hello.” She motions to the bartender. “Two more.”
“And some water,” I add.
Then Liz turns to me and gets suddenly serious.
“I like you, Lindsey. You’re curious. You ask lots of questions, and that’s very important. Actually, I’m looking for someone just like you. But not for media buying.”
Interesting. I’m all ears.
“We’re developing something called The Pulse. It’s a newsletter designed to keep our clients up on the trends – ahead of the trends, actually. What’s hot, what’s in, and what’s on its way. We need to predict what those trends are before they happen. Or at least before most of the country gets wind of them.”
The bartender sets down our new drinks.
“I’m hiring two trend-trackers for the job. I’ve already got one in place, and I’m wondering if you’d be right for the other.”
She’s clearly fooled by the Armani. I’m about as trendy as my old neighbor Mrs. Goldenstein, who grocery shops in her curlers and hoards canned goods from the 1980s.
“I need someone like you,” Liz continues. “Someone young, hot, hip, and cool. Someone who’s got it goin’ on.”
If only she’d seen me a week ago, lying around like a dead ape in my beer-stained sweats, plugging mini-doughnuts into my face like a slot machine.
“The job would entail two weeks of each month in New York, and two weeks in Los Angeles. You’d go back and forth each week, and at the end of the month report back on whatever’s cutting-edge. Trends in fashion, cosmetics, music,
entertainment, everything. You’d have free rein at all the hot spots – clubs, bars, restaurants, whatever.”
Wow. Is she joking? New York and L.A.? Free rein at all the hot spots? There’s got to be a catch here.
“I know what you’re thinking, and there’s no catch. But the job won’t be easy. We’re investing a lot in this, and you’ll be expected to deliver.”
“So I’d have to move from Chicago.”
“Yes, obviously.”
“Liz, I don’t know if I could afford an apartment in both New York and L.A.”
“You won’t have to. We’ve already got furnished places in both. You’d alternate cities with the other girl, so you’ll always have a place to stay. You can ship some of your stuff and store the rest.”
Wow. She’s serious about this. But what do I know about trends? Where would I start? How would I do it?
“It sounds like a wonderful opportunity, Liz, but it’s all so daunting.”
“What does your instinct say?”
The pressure feels like a ten-ton meteor. And my instinct has been long swallowed, along with the four martinis that are threatening to cause a very embarrassing accident in about one second.
“That I have to go the bathroom?” I squeak.
Liz laughs. “Go ahead. But when you come out I want an answer. Remember, Lindsey: Trust your gut. If you think about it too long, you’ll make the wrong choice.” She winks.
As I sit in my buzzed haze on the toilet, the pros and cons swirl through my mind. It’s all too quick. Liz Gordon is great, but how can she expect me to make this kind of decision in five minutes? Is this even really happening?
Shit. There are only two stalls, and I can see by the sea of feet under the stall door that a line of impatient women is forming fast. I have to face the music.
I slide back into my seat and give Liz Gordon’s two heads a nice long stare. Both of her mouths are smiling, and all of her eyes are warm.
“I want you, Lindsey. Please say yes.”
I take a deep breath and down the rest of my martini. This is happening to me for a reason, and that reason is not to always wonder what might have been. I look up at Liz and smile back.
“Yes.”
Chapter 4
“Live bicoastally? You said yes?!”
My friends, who have come over the next night to supposedly help me pack, aren’t quite as comfortable with my snap decision to pick up and completely change my life and homestead.
“How could you accept something like that without even thinking about it?” Even Holly, who’s usually so quiet and supportive, is upset.
“Um…I was drunk?”
“That’s really funny,” Scott says. “And let me tell you something else. You’re not exactly the person who comes to mind when I hear the word ‘trendsetter.’”
Danielle, who’s been silent, gives him a look.
“I’m not the one setting the trends, Scott. I just have to report on them.”
“You don’t think it’s weird that she offered you this job so quickly? Before she really got to know you?” Holly shakes her head. “It just sounds a little fishy to me.”
“You guys, this is Gordon-Taylor. It’s not like it’s some schlocky, small-time agency. It’s a legitimate, exciting thing they’re doing. And to answer your question” – I flick my nose into the air – “Liz had an instinct about me.”
“And you really think you can handle having two different lives in two different cities? Without a place to call home? Without your friends around?”
This lack of enthusiasm is really starting to piss me off. “Look, you guys. You may not agree, but it’s my life. And from where I’m standing, this is just what I need. My life is in a rut, and this is a huge opportunity for me to do something new and fun and big.”
“And what about your apartment here?”
“I’m going to keep it. Liz wants me out in New York in a week, and I don’t have time to move my stuff out before then. Besides, it’ll make me feel better knowing that it’s here. You guys’ll look after it, right?”
Solemnly, they nod. And by the looks on their faces, I suddenly realize that it’s not that they don’t support me. It’s that they’re going to miss me.
We sit there in a moment of silence. Then suddenly Danielle, who hasn’t said a word, pipes in.
“You know, I think Lindsey’s right. This is a great thing. She can always come home if it doesn’t work out. And this doubles her chances of meeting Prince Charming.”
I nod. “If I can’t find the man of my dreams in New York or L.A., he doesn’t exist on planet Earth.”
Holly sighs. “How often are you going to come back to visit?”
“All the time. This is still my home. My apartment will always be here waiting for me.”
They nod and get up to give me hugs of congratulations. As I feel my friends’ arms around me, I almost break down and admit that I’m not quite as confident as I may be coming across. In fact, I’m scared as hell.
I’d met with Liz this morning to go over the details. Salary – very good. Timing – very tight. I’m starting next week, and tomorrow we’re going to meet with Jen, who is my trend-tracking counterpart. Jen’s already been on the job for two months, so she’ll be able to introduce me around and show me the ropes before we start swapping cities.
Everything is happening so quickly, I feel like I’m swirling in the eye of a tornado. What did I get myself into? Did I make the right decision? Am I going to hate the bicoastal lifestyle? And to Scott’s point, how the hell am I (who barely has a hip, cool, stylish bone in my body) going to suddenly become a trend expert? Good question. I’ll think about that one on the plane.
After my friends leave, I call my parents with the news. Surprisingly, they’re pretty encouraging. You can hear the envy in Mom’s voice; she’s wishing that she’d had such a glamorous opportunity at my age. And Dad? Well, like most things, he takes it in stride. “It’s a long life,” he says. “And you can always go back.”
So that’s that. The only person I haven’t told is Steve. Late into the night, as I sit with my hand wavering on the phone, I close my eyes and imagine a vision. It is Steve, banging on my door, begging me to let him in. He knows I’m leaving and has realized that he loves me after all. He wants me back. He’s crying. He’s holding out a ring. He’s–
Suddenly the phone rings under my hand and I jump a mile high. Oh, my God, could it be him? Did he feel the vibrations of my thoughts calling out to him? Who else would be calling this late?
Breathlessly, I pick up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Darling, it’s Liz.”
Who else would be calling this late? Liz, apparently.
“Jen’s flying in on the red-eye, so I’ll need you in here early.”
I agree and hang up. Shit. I wonder what this Jen girl is going to be like. Surely she’ll be hipper and savvier than me. She’s already been living bicoastal for two months. I need this girl to like me, or I’m totally screwed. Shit. I need an outfit.
As I begin to tear through my closet, it doesn’t even occur to me that twenty minutes ago I was about to call Steve.
• • •
“Lindsey Miller, meet Jen Savage.”
I was always jealous of people with that last name. Savage. So primal and sexy. Makes me think of the person making animalistic love, moaning and tearing their claws down the back of their partner—
“Lindsey?”
I snap back. Jen Savage, in the flesh.
“Yes. Hi. Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand and thank God that I didn’t wear the pink sweater with the penny loafers.
This girl is not just hipper and cooler and edgier than me. She makes me look like something that just fell off the frump truck. Thin and cute with a short, pixie haircut, tight leather pants, and a tiny black tank. Hip city chick. And I suddenly see why Liz picked me. Jen and I are polar opposites.
“I love your hair,” she tells me, and I catch a glimpse of
myself in Liz’s window. You know what? I forgot the makeover I’d had a few days ago. Deep down, I still feel like the odoriferous bovine that’s inhabited my apartment for the last month. But the reality? I do look kind of hot.
“Jen’s going to meet you back in New York and spend a day showing you around. Then she’ll be off to L.A. One week later you’ll make the switch, but she’ll overlap a day or two so you can put together your report.”
“Perfect,” Jen says.
“I need you two to develop a system of working together. You’re there to complement each other, double-check each other’s instincts. Mind-meld to create something genius.”
Jen smiles at me, then at Liz. “I’m sure we’ll work together beautifully.” Why is she so confident? She doesn’t seem to be concerned at all about me not liking her. So why am I so worried about her not liking me? Because I’m the new girl. The fish out of water. Actually, Jen seems really nice. And the truth is, I need this girl on my side.
• • •
It is ten p.m. My plane is about to land at John F. Kennedy International Airport. I have never been so nervous in my entire life.
I close my eyes and squeeze the armrests. I’m sick to my stomach with the sudden fear that the great island of Manhattan is going to swallow me like a Venus flytrap. And then, of course, spit me out because I taste too much like a stupid Midwestern mandrill.
I could go home. I could turn around and get right back on a plane to Chicago. I begin to list the possibilities for getting myself out of this ridiculous mess, but then I hear the seven words that turn my nervousness into a sudden smile.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to New York.”
A few minutes later I’m in line at the taxi stand. JFK is in Queens, and one must cab it down to “the city,” as I’m picking up is the New York way to say “New York.”
“HEY! Move your motherfuckin’ car!”
I turn in shock to see an angry man get out of his Lexus, screaming bloody murder at the car in front of him.
“Fuck you! Wait your turn!” the other driver yells out the window.
The angry man begins to slam the other guy’s trunk with his fist. “Move it, asshole, or I’ll beat your fuckin’ window in!”
Bicoastal Babe Page 3
