“You do realize that you can be smart and serious and still fuss over your looks. It’s not a crime in this country.”
“I do realize that, but thank you for pointing it out,” Charlotte said sarcastically, folding her legs under her and opening her textbook.
“Why wouldn’t you give it a go, Charlotte? Life is all about collecting experiences, and this seems like a pretty exciting one. I’d do it in a second if someone ever gave me the chance.”
“I’ll tell you the time and place. You can go in my stead. How will they know you’re not Charlotte Friedman reporting for duty? Model duty.” Charlotte giggled.
“Have you looked at me lately?” JoJo asked, tilting her head.
“I have. I look at you all the time, and each and every time I do, I see a beautiful young woman with dazzling chestnut-brown hair, the cutest nose this side of the East River, and hazel eyes that burn with a zest for life and the confidence to take on the world.”
“That was so nice,” JoJo whimpered, pretending to wipe a tear from her eye.
Charlotte threw a pillow at her head and laughed.
“Opportunities come when you least expect them, Charlotte.”
“Are you trying to say that there’s an opportunity for me in modeling, and I just have to report to John Robert Powers on Monday, where my true destiny will be revealed?” Charlotte held out her hands, pretending to look into a crystal ball.
“Would that be the worst thing?” JoJo asked, lifting her left brow.
“Perhaps.”
“I hope you know I say this out of love, but it’s not like you have job opportunities knocking down your front door. I know tons of girls, including myself, who would do anything to be Miss Subways.”
Charlotte sat against the headboard and thought for a moment about what JoJo was telling her. “How nice for them,” she said. “It’s time to study.”
* * *
Sam was waiting at their regular corner table in the back of Thompson’s Drugstore and he waved Charlotte over. Immediately her shoulders softened and a smile came to her face.
Sweet, stable, reliable Sam. Tall, reddish-haired, sparkling blue-eyed Sam. The pair were set up by a mutual friend during Charlotte’s freshman year of college, when Sam was home from law school over winter break. That was nearly four years ago, and they’d been going together ever since. Sam worked at Linden & Linden in Midtown. His hours were decidedly horrendous, required for future partners of important Manhattan law firms. But trying for courting. And though Charlotte knew Sam wished he had more time for their relationship, wished that his face didn’t look so gray due to lack of sunlight and sleep, she also knew that his career was important to him and she found that a redeeming quality. One on a list of many.
“Darling,” he said as he rose to give her a kiss on the cheek. He pulled out her chair and she plopped down. Drained. Sighing. “What is it, Charlotte?” Sam asked.
“I heard from J. Walter Thompson.”
“And?” Sam asked expectantly.
“They don’t want me either. Nobody wants me, Sam.”
“Oh, Charlotte, honey. I’m so sorry. And you know that’s not true. I want you. In fact, I wish you’d reconsider my proposal,” Sam said.
“Sam, you know I don’t want to get married yet. I have so many things I want to do. Besides, how would that change anything?”
“We can elope. The sooner the better. And then you’d feel less of an urgency to start a job right away because I’d have you out of your parents’ house.”
“Sam,” Charlotte said, tilting her head.
“What’s so awful about marrying a guy like me, anyway?” Sam asked as he took a sip of his Coke.
“We’ve been through this a million times. There’s not one itty-bitty, tiny, little thing wrong with marrying a guy like you. In fact, there are a trillion things right with marrying a guy like you, and someday it will happen. Just not now. I’m only twenty-one. There’s time.”
“But I’m twenty-six. I think the older partners think there’s something wrong with me that I’m not married, and when it’s time for me to be up for partner, I don’t want them to overlook me because they think I’m not a family man.”
“Well, you tell those hoity-toity partners that your future wife is making a name for herself. They’ll put you right at the top of that partners list knowing you snagged a girl who had something going for her.” Charlotte lifted her chin and smirked.
“Okay, okay, Miss Confident. I’ll call a meeting first thing Monday morning to announce to all who will listen that I have the smartest, most ambitious girl in all of New York City, and that if they don’t make a partner of me, I’ll open my own firm and sue ’em all.”
“Now that’s more like it,” Charlotte said, and squeezed Sam’s hand. “But what will they think when you’re not a family man in the traditional sense of the word?”
“Sorry about that, Charlotte. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s okay. I guess I’ve kind of gotten used to it. But I still can’t believe you’d be okay with it.”
“My first choice is you. If we can’t have children together, then that’ll just be how it has to be. Or we can adopt. Either way, I love you, Charlotte. You know that. Babies or not.”
“I love you too. And thanks for saying that.” They stared into each other’s eyes. Perry Como swooning, seemingly just for them, in the background.
Charlotte did want to marry Sam. Just not yet. She had told him that the first time he had proposed during the summer after Charlotte’s freshman year of college. There was no ring, of course; she was only eighteen. Not like girls at eighteen didn’t get rings from their boyfriends. But Sam told Charlotte he knew she had plans. He told her he wanted to make sure she knew he was serious about her. That he had his own plans and they included her. He had proposed a few times since, always sincerely but never entirely seriously because indeed there was no ring. Charlotte knew that when a man was truly serious about proposing, there was a ring. And a bent knee. And that’s what she would have. With Sam. Someday, when the timing was absolutely right.
“What am I going to do about a job?”
“J. Walter Thompson isn’t the only game in town. Why don’t you send letters to some of the other concerns?”
“I’ve thought of that. I even called J. Walter Thompson and told them they were making a grave mistake.”
Sam smiled, reaching for Charlotte’s hands over the table and enclosing them in his own. “You’re such a go-getter.”
“That’s what the JWT man said. But look how far that go-getting got me.”
“Something will turn up. Any one of these agencies would be lucky to have a girl like you working at it.”
“You think? Why?” Charlotte asked coyly.
Sam saw the bait clearly and took it anyway. “Well, you’re the most beautiful girl in all of New York City, and you know how those account men like to stock their lakes with the pretty ones. You’re the smartest girl I know. And I’ve seen you type. Boy, do those fingers dance.”
Charlotte smiled dejectedly.
The waiter delivered their food, the grilled cheese glistening and the perfect shade of golden brown that Charlotte liked.
“When is your graduation ceremony?” Sam asked.
“June twenty-second.”
“You have three months to find something. That’s plenty of time, Charlotte.”
Charlotte took a bite of her sandwich and, a thought occurring to her, looked up at Sam. “What would you think if I became a model?”
“A model?” Sam exclaimed. “I’d support you in anything you chose to do, but I never knew you were interested in modeling.”
“Remember the night Martin suggested entering me into Miss Subways? I got a letter today saying I’m a finalist.”
Sam slammed his Coke down on the table harder than he had intended. Enough so that the couples nearby broke their necks looking. “That’s terrific!”
“You really think so?” C
harlotte couldn’t imagine Sam would take Miss Subways seriously.
“Sure I do.”
“JoJo thought so too, but I don’t know. It seems so ‘look at me, look at me.’ And it certainly promotes celebrating a girl’s looks instead of her talents.”
“I don’t think you need to dissect it so conscientiously. Seems like the girls in those pictures are having a lot of fun. Go for it, Charlotte. I’d love to tell the guys at work that my girl is Miss Subways.”
Charlotte laughed and leaned over to give Sam a kiss. She appreciated his enthusiasm, but something about it still didn’t feel right.
* * *
In bed that night, Charlotte couldn’t stop thinking about what Sam and JoJo had said. Why wouldn’t she go to John Robert Powers? Just for the experience, at least. If life, as JoJo claimed, was all about collecting experiences, then she didn’t yet have a life worth bragging about, her most exciting experience to date having been a full day at the 1939 New York World’s Fair when she was eleven.
At the time, and for several years after, Charlotte thought that nothing would ever compare to the terrifying parachute jump, the synchronized swimming show (that Johnny Weissmuller!), and especially those darling monkeys. She’d thought there would never be anything in life more thrilling.
She and Harry had talked about that day for years. And each time, their memories made the shiny shinier. Charlotte was even more terrified of the parachute jump, and Harry, of course, was even braver. Harry was even more certain he would grow taller and swim faster than Johnny Weissmuller. (Perhaps, Charlotte would say, but she’d insist he’d never be as handsome.) And Charlotte was even more smitten with Monkey Mountain and its hundreds of inhabitants. They’d spent hours re-creating the spectacles in their living room on cold winter days, forcing their parents to sit in the audience. Their father, without fail, would leave their show before it was over.
But memories fade. And those, despite their impact, had faded like the photo of her brother in its frame on the mantel. Perhaps it was time for a new experience.
Charlotte tiptoed down the stairs and felt her way into the dark kitchen. Opening the garbage can, she sifted through the scraps and eventually found what she was looking for. Smoothing out the paper, which luckily had somehow been protected from the dregs of dinner, Charlotte reread its contents. She still had a few days to make her decision, and figured she’d sleep on it. But after scrutinizing the letter more carefully, with its self-important tone and affected presentation—undoubtedly an extension of the John Robert Powers models themselves, Powers Girls, as they were pretentiously called—she scoffed and tossed it back where it belonged.
CHAPTER 4
OLIVIA
FRIDAY, MARCH 2, 2018
“What the hell did you say to him?” Matt asked Olivia as she ginger-stepped into the conference room the next morning.
Every Friday morning at nine, the three of them had a state-of-the-agency sort of whirl: Olivia; Matt, the founder and CEO of The Osborne Agency; and Thomas Cameron, the other account director, whom Matt had brought along with them from Young & Rubicam at the eleventh hour.
“What the hell did I say to who?” Olivia asked defensively, taking off her scarf and coat but leaving her sunglasses on. The lights in the conference room were so bright, she thought, so very, very bright.
“To whom,” Thomas corrected her.
“Shut the fuck up, Thomas,” Olivia said, giving him a nasty look. Olivia dialed her assistant on the conference call phone in the middle of the table. “Chloe, a trough of black coffee, please.”
“Done,” came Chloe’s voice from the speaker.
“John Haldon,” Matt said, looking happier than she’d seen him look in quite a long time.
“I don’t know who that is, and I also don’t know why you have to talk so loudly,” Olivia said, putting her head down on the table and covering her ears with her hands.
“John Haldon is the chief marketing officer of the MTA,” Matt said.
“He’s great. I’ve known him for years,” Thomas added, clearly trying to prove, yet again, his worthiness to Matt. “Jack and I go way back.”
Olivia’s head shot up. “Ow,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. “Did you say Jack?”
“I did,” Thomas said. “Is it fair to say you’ve come to work today in a state incapable of actually, um, working?”
“Oh please, Thomas. Put your flappy tongue back in its slimy holster and leave me the hell alone. The last time I came to work with a hangover was when you were still a brown-nosed assistant account exec at Y&R, texting your mommy every time you had dirty laundry. So give me a break. I needed to blow off some steam.”
“And it seems, if the phone call I received this morning is any indication, that you blew that steam in precisely the right direction,” Matt said.
Chloe knocked on the door and walked in. She placed an urn full of coffee in front of Olivia, along with a tall paper cup, two sugars, and three Advil. “This is the biggest vessel I could find.”
“Perfect, thank you,” Olivia said, smiling at Chloe. Olivia took a sip of the coffee and sighed. “I did meet a Jack last night. He said he was in transportation.”
“Jack in transportation,” said Matt, “is none other than John Haldon from the Metropolitan Transportation Authority. He called me this morning and told me he was quite charmed by one of my account directors last night. Sorry, Thomas, but I didn’t for a second think it was you.”
Olivia threw a saccharine smile at Thomas.
“He invited us,” Matt continued, “to pitch the MTA business, which happens to be up for review.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Olivia stood up, her mouth wide-open.
“No, ma’am,” Matt said.
“That’s amazing news!” Olivia said. “I had no idea he worked at the MTA. Come to think of it, we didn’t really talk much about him. I kind of dominated the conversation.”
“Shocking,” Thomas said, rolling his eyes.
“Anyway, we’re coming in late. He said other agencies have six weeks on us. So we need to mobilize fast.”
“Did you sleep with him?” Thomas asked, looking smugly at Olivia.
“Thomas, please,” Matt said.
“Really, Thomas. It’s only nine o’clock. I don’t think you’ve ever revealed your misogyny so early in the morning before. But sure. Yes. How could I have relied solely on my intellect and professional experience to convince an advertiser to include our agency in his pitch lineup? Certainly only my womanly wiles would be able to do that.” Olivia turned back to Matt. “You were saying.”
“The pitch is in two weeks. They’re looking for a new agency of record, but their immediate need, the one they want us to address, is a revamp of their on-subway advertising. A new CEO just started and he’s chopping heads.”
“On it. I’ll put together a starting brief, and I’ll spend the weekend brainstorming. Let’s meet at eight o’clock on Monday, and I’ll tell you what I have,” Olivia said to Matt.
“Good plan,” Matt said.
Olivia smirked at Thomas, stood up, and walked to her office. The renewed sense of purpose energized Olivia, and she was thankful for the adrenaline rush. It was her resting state. Olivia only felt like herself, the self that was authentic, when the pressure was turned up all the way to the point that would make most people explode.
* * *
“Can you hold that?” Olivia called to the person in the elevator as she entered her apartment building.
A hand reached out. The doors jerked and slid back open.
“Thanks,” Olivia said.
“Sure thing.”
Olivia went to press eleven but noticed it was already lit. She glanced at the guy standing next to her but didn’t recognize him as one of her neighbors. She looked at her phone.
“Olivia, right?” the man asked.
“Yes, do I know you?” Olivia asked, puzzled.
“Ben. My grandma lives next door to you,
” he said, nodding. His hands were in his pockets, and he was rocking forward and backward. His energy, both precise and unassuming, didn’t take up much space.
“That’s right,” Olivia said, only partially lying. “I haven’t seen you in a really long time.”
“I’ve been away. Working.”
The elevator stopped at eleven. Ben held the door and Olivia walked out. She turned right and Ben followed a couple of steps behind. He knocked on 11D, while Olivia turned the key for 11E.
“I’m back now, clearly, so I guess I’ll be seeing you around,” Ben said.
“Okay,” Olivia said, smiling politely as she walked into her apartment.
Olivia kicked off her shoes and dumped her mail onto the cluttered hall table. She hung up her coat and dropped her work bag onto the floor. After filling a glass with white wine, Olivia plopped down on the couch and put her feet up. The exhausting week had begun to loosen its grip.
A couple of years ago, when Matt had approached Olivia about leaving Y&R with him to start a boutique agency, she was all in, despite the embarrassing cliché of it all. She had begun her career at Y&R as an assistant account executive right out of college (no sketchy hostels and overstuffed backpacks in Europe for Olivia; she had four years of crushing student debt to pay back), and Matt had been her first boss.
They had worked together for seven or eight years, and Olivia admired and respected him. Fed up with all the acquisitions and corporate headaches at Y&R, Matt burned to build an agency that would elevate the agency-client relationship and produce a unique type of creative. Not that any of that was unusual for a start-up in their industry, but Olivia trusted Matt and didn’t think twice about going all Jerry Maguire with him when he asked.
Together they hired Pablo, an outside-the-lines creative director in San Francisco, and the three of them approached agency-building with the fervor of an eight-year-old with a new box of Legos.
As they started to accrue clients, Matt needed another body on accounts. And even though Olivia presented a determined display of red flags, Matt hired Thomas, who they had worked with at Y&R. He was an unmitigated asshole, but he was also the most effective account executive they knew.
The Subway Girls_A Novel Page 3
