“Lindsey, look. You spend half of your time away from me, and I make it a point not to pry about what you do in New York. But can you do me a favor?”
I nod.
“Whatever you do in New York, can you not do it while you’re here? Or at least, not when you’re with me?”
I nod again. “I’m sorry, Danny. I really am.” I hand him back my phone. “Here, it won’t ring again.”
He attempts a smile and slides it back into his pocket.
“Come on now.” I pull on his arms. “Let’s get back to Heaven.”
• • •
The next morning I notice that the blinking light on my answering machine is going crazy, but I’m avoiding it like the plague. It’s probably Victor – or maybe even Danny. But I’m too tired to talk to either one of them. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Having two guys in two cities can be loads of fun, but it can also be confusing and tricky. Compartmentalizing works only when you’re pulling all the strings – not when the strings call to check up on you when you’re at a party in the other compartment.
I want to escape. To go somewhere away from New York and Los Angeles. Somewhere that I can make sense of things, try to figure out how I can make this double-dating thing a little easier to pull off.
I settle in on the couch and try to work on my Internet survey, but the numbers just keep swimming in front of me like blurry little fish. Then I feel a heaviness in my eyes, and I decide to let myself drift off into a much-needed afternoon nap.
Which I’m jolted out of when the phone rings.
“Lindsey! Where are you?” It’s Liz. “I’ve left countless messages and I’m starting to worry about you now.”
Leave me alone, I think.
“I have wonderful, fantastic, fabulous news, my dear. You and Jen have been invited on DayLine NBC to talk about The Pulse.”
I jump up from the couch.
“They film in Chicago, and they want to shoot the story on Wednesday. So let’s meet here on Tuesday morning to go over the info. I trust you’re getting these messages, so be here on Tuesday. And remember, the camera adds ten pounds.” Pause. “I’m joking! You’ll look marvelous. See you then.”
Chapter 26
Whenever I stay over at my parents’ house, I always wait until they’re asleep, then sneak down to the basement where there is a big cardboard box in the storage room labeled, Lindsey’s Old Stuff.
In the dim light from a bulb hanging in the corner, I open the box slowly, as if it’s filled with hidden treasure that is precious and fragile. I carefully pick each thing out – each picture and drawing, each love letter and birthday card, each class picture and term paper… all concrete little landmarks along life’s journey that are special and meaningful, but only to me. Then I spend hours sorting through them one by one, lingering on the memories they re-create.
It’s funny how one small thing, such as a napkin from Baxter’s Pizza with a grease spot and a phone number scribbled in marinara sauce, can bring back such a powerful, detailed memory of one particular night, so many years ago. Wind and snow howling out the window, Night Ranger’s “Sister Christian” on the jukebox, my new lime-green Benetton sweater dress and jelly bracelets. Friday night at Baxter’s is the place to be, and the garlic bread and two large pizzas on the table (one pepperoni and one just cheese) are a mere distraction from what’s really going on, which is a bunch of guys from the high school across town, trying to act like they’re not all that interested in me and my big-haired friends. The phone number was Blake Jersey’s, by the way, but I never did get to call him because the last digit got blurred when Jennie Burns bashed her eye into the hand dryer in the bathroom trying to blow more Aqua Net into her bangs, and when I went to help her, the napkin fell from my hand and some water splashed on it. But I did get to kiss Blake that night, outside in the swirling snow while our respective friends waited in their cars, honking their horns for us to hurry up. The kiss was wonderful and magical. And whenever I find that napkin in the box, I always wonder if it was even more wonderful and magical only because I never did get to call him.
I can’t stop thinking about this now on the way back to my apartment in Chicago. I roll down the car window to get some fresh air, and am whooshed in the face by the recollection of autumn in the Midwest. The crisp smell of impending winter, the crunch of crispy, dead leaves beneath the car tires – it feels beautiful and strange and foreign and familiar, all at once.
When I turn the key in my lock and step into my dark apartment, it creaks like an old, haunted house. I click on the desk lamp and look around, almost expecting cobwebs to be stretching from the ceiling corners to the floor. It’s been only four months, but I feel like walking into this apartment is like pulling an old, dusty relic from the box in my parents’ basement. This is a place from the past—filled with belongings that were once owned by someone I used to be.
“What’s the matter?” Holly asks. “You’re so quiet.” Holly picked me up from the airport, and has walked in behind me with an armful of mail.
“I don’t know,” I say thoughtfully. “It’s weird to come back here.” I pull open the drapes, run my hand over the furniture.
“It’s the same as how you left it.” she shrugs.
“Yeah. It is. But it feels like something’s different.”
“You’re what’s different,” she points out quietly with a little smile.
An hour later we’re joined by Scott and Danielle, who’ve brought bratwurst sandwiches, Kettle Chips, oversize pickles, and a case of Oktoberfest beer from the local brewery. Chicago food will never get old.
“So one of them is tall, dark, handsome, and rich… and the other is a big hunky teddy bear with a heart of gold and an empty wallet.” Danielle attempts to sum up my love life with a mouthful of potato chips. “Hmph.”
“I’ll tell you something right now,” Scott says. “Money goes a long way.”
“Money’s not everything,” Holly jumps to the defense.
“The only people who say that are people who have it,” Scott points out. “Or people whore trying to make themselves feel better about not having it.”
“Forget the money,” Danielle interjects. “Which one is cuter?”
“They’re both cute,” I say. “But different.”
“Which one’s a better kisser?”
“They’re both good. But different.”
“Which one would run into a burning building for you? Or at least bring you breakfast in bed?” Scott asks.
“Which one would your parents like better?” Holly offers.
“Which one would we like better?” Danielle demands, and the other two nod in agreement with her question.
“I… I don’t know.” All this talk is confusing me. “You guys are making it sound like I have to decide between them.”
“Eventually you’ll have to decide,” Scott says. “No guy is going to put up with a girlfriend who’s banging someone else.”
“She’s not banging the second guy,” Holly reminds him.
“So she likes the first guy better,” Danielle deducts.
“I don’t know,” Holly muses. “Maybe that means she likes the second guy better.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Scott says firmly. “In enough time, she’ll be banging both. And when they find out” – he whistles – “she’ll be damn glad to get on a plane going neither way.”
“Look, you guys.” I stand up. “I don’t feel pressure here to make any decisions. I’m having the time of my life, and I like them both the same. They’re two different people, and they bring different things to the table, and I like it all. Now that’s it. Okay?”
They nod in silence.
“Good. Now come in here and help me pick out an outfit for my television debut!”
• • •
When I arrive at the television station, Liz and Jen are already there. I’m wearing my white Armani pantsuit – the same one I wore on my interview with Liz – but the minute I spot Jen
talking to one of the producers, I feel completely overdressed and ridiculous. Jen’s sporting a pair of faded Joe’s Jeans and a hot-pink tank shirt with Timberland boots and a leather choker necklace. I turn in desperation to one of the women flitting around the dressing area.
“Excuse me, do you by any chance have any other clothes lying around back here? Clothes you use on shows or something?”
“Who are you?” she demands.
“I’m Lindsey Miller. I’m going to be on the trend segment.”
“You look fine to me. What’d you have in mind?”
“Something a little more… um… casual?”
“We have plenty of samples, if you’re a size four.”
“Right. Well… thanks anyway.”
Another woman comes up behind me and pushes me into a salon chair. “Time for your makeup,” she tells me, and begins sponging thick, cakey foundation onto my skin.
“That’s a bit much, don’t you think?” I ask timidly.
“Believe me, honey,” she laughs. “The camera is not your friend.”
“There you are!” Liz rushes into the room. “I was looking for you everywhere.”
“Liz, I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be nervous, darling. You look like a million bucks.”
“I look like a politician’s wife.”
She looks me up and down. “Maybe just a little. But I love that suit. I’ve seen it on you before. It’s very hot, Lindsey, so settle down and enjoy yourself.”
“What are they going to ask me?”
“All about the newsletter, how we got started, how you get your awesome information… just make sure you plug the agency. Gordon-Taylor. Gordon-Taylor,” she chants. “When you don’t know the answer to something, just simply respond, ‘Gordon-Taylor.’”
“I don’t wear orange lipstick,” I tell the makeup lady, who is coming at me with something that looks like a stick of melted highway-hazard sign.
“You need something to offset the pale jacket,” she tells me. “Something to give your skin a little color.”
“Now listen, Lindsey. After the show, we’re having a little celebration back at the office. You and Jen can cab it over. Everyone from the agency will be there, and you two are the guests of honor.”
Wow – I’ve never even met anyone at the agency, at least not in person.
“Lindsey Miller?” A woman who looks vaguely familiar walks up with a clipboard. “You’re on in five.” She slides on a pair of glasses that are hanging around her neck, and I instantly recognize her as Julia Sykes, the woman who interviewed me from the New York Times.
“Hey – I know you!” I say. “You interviewed me for the Times in New York.”
She looks up and smiles. “Yeah, I know. I’m why you guys are here.”
“Really? What do you mean?”
“I was hired by the network two weeks ago. I’ve been dying to get into TV.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “And it pays way more than print.”
I nod, like I totally know what she’s saying. “So you moved to Chicago?”
“You go where the job takes you.” She nods. “You of all people should know that. But no. I still produce from New York. I just rove here about once or twice a month.” She glances at her watch. “Three minutes. So anyway, I heard they wanted to do a show on the trend thing, so I told them to get you guys in here.”
“Wow, thank you!” I jump up and hug her, then just as quickly pull back in embarrassment. “Sorry. I’m just so excited to be on television.”
“Not a problem.” She smiles. “Just knock ’em dead. Here – follow me.”
Julia leads me through a long hallway to the entrance of the studio. It’s like a zoo of producer-looking people talking into headsets and crashing into one another in a crazed frenzy. Just behind the curtain, Jen stands waiting with a copy of The Pulse in her hands.
“What’s with your makeup?” she asks, looking at me like I’m a circus freak.
Shit – I never looked in the mirror when they finished me. “Why?”
“It’s just very… bold.”
“Oh, my God. Really? Should I change it?”
“Too late now.” She points out onto the studio, and I hear the DayLine NBC theme song playing through the backstage speakers, then Georgia Dunn, the show’s host, introducing us.
“Keeping an eye on the ‘pop’ in pop culture has always been of crucial importance to the marketing and advertising world,” she starts in her newscaster voice. “And the idea of ‘trend-tracking’ certainly isn’t new. But more and more, the experts of ‘cool’ are inventing new ways to spot what’s hip right now, and what will be hip in months – even years – to come. And the ever-growing popularity of this profession has now exploded to what some might even dare to call – a trend.”
Suddenly I feel a wave of heat rising up the jacket of my Armani. I can hardly breathe. My neck is starting to itch, and I realize that any second now my face is going to explode with hives.
“So we’ve asked the newest trend-spotters on the scene, two young women from Chicago’s Gordon-Taylor ad agency, to come in and tell us about how to spot what’s in, what’s out, and what’s just around the corner. Jen Savage and Lindsey Miller.”
I feel a hand nudging me forward, but I don’t move. Jen has already walked out onto the stage when the hand gives me a hard shove and I go flying forward through the curtain. I’m way behind Jen, who is grinning from ear to ear and shaking hands with Georgia. She plops down in the first seat, next to Georgia’s desk, and after a moment I come stumbling after her, squinting into the blinding lights.
“Wonderful, ladies. So nice to have you here.”
“Thank you, Georgia.” Jen beams as I gulp for air.
Georgia glances over at me and does a very slight double take at my neck. God, it must be bad. I shift in my seat and position my arm from my chin down my chest, hoping to hide the blotchy redness.
“There are so many interesting components to your newsletter. Tell me about how you ‘bucket’ people, rather than following typical demographics.”
I sit up straight and clear my throat. “Well –”
“You know,” Jen interrupts. “In today’s world, demographics mean nothing. Age means nothing. The typical all-American couple can be a twenty-year-old woman who’s still in college, married to a fifty-year old divorcé with four kids. Reaching consumers is all about lifestyle.”
“So…” Georgia looks at me.
“So,” I begin.
“So it made more sense,” Jen continues, “to come up with ways of breaking people down that are new and creative, but very real and true to the way we live and think.”
A half hour later, I still haven’t gotten in a single word. Georgia has completely given up on me, and the camera probably has too. It’s like I’m the Invisible Woman, except that I am not the Invisible Woman. I’m the Overdressed Woman with the white suit and the red skin rash, who’s checked her ideas at the door and left her tongue at home with the cat.
“I knew that everything starts with the teens.” Jen’s bubbly voice fills the stage. “So I thought, we have to go directly to the source.” Like rain in the far-off distance, I vaguely hear her gushing on about the teen panel, like it’s totally and completely her own discovery and creation.
“So then I taught Lindsey how to do on-the-street interviews, and then I started her on interviewing professionals, like fashion buyers and designers…”
I’m really, really thirsty, and the bright, hot lights are making me sweat, which runs down my chest and irritates my hives even more. I can feel that the armpits of my Armani are soaked, and my feet feel strangely numb. I’m kind of tuned out at this point, just waiting for it to be over. And when I hear echo of applause and the DayLine theme song, I stand up and follow Jen like a sheep back off the stage.
“What the hell was that?” Liz demands when Jen and I walk into the dressing room. I’m still in a confused, trancelike state, but then I hazily real
ize that it’s not me Liz is talking to. I see her grab Jen’s arm and yank her to the side.
“What do you mean?” Jen asks sweetly.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
They both turn toward me and stare. Then Liz snaps her fingers, and suddenly I snap out of it.
“You took credit for all my stuff!” I scream at Jen.
“You were sitting there like fucking Helen Keller!” she screams back.
“You know that half of what’s in that newsletter came directly from Lindsey,” Liz spits angrily. “More than half. But you sat out there and acted like the ideas were all yours and she’s just your order taker.”
“What do you care? We came off great. The Pulse came off great. Gordon-Taylor came off great!”
“Oh, really? And now everything that Lindsey says to our clients, they’re going to want to double-check with you!”
“Oh, Liz. We don’t really have to worry about that now, do we?” Jen’s eyebrows rise and suddenly, bizarrely, Liz is quiet.
“Um, you guys?” I didn’t notice, but Julia Sykes is standing in the doorway with her clipboard. “Your car service is here.”
• • •
The party is a smashing hit. As promised, almost everyone from the agency seems to be there, toasting and congratulating Jen and me on the success of The Pulse and our appearance on the show. Of course, none of them have seen the show yet, as it’s not set to air until Monday. I drift through the celebration like a zombie, not really seeing any of the faces or hearing the excited voices that go with them. Everyone seems so happy that they don’t even notice the tension between Jen and me. Everyone but Liz, that is.
After putting on the performance of a lifetime in which she introduces Jen and me as her “brilliant trend-tracking wonder team,” Liz kind of disappears into the shadows. When I walk up to her to ask where the other half of her wonder team is, a strange grimace spreads over her face. “Taylor couldn’t be here,” she states quickly, then turns away.
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