Girl Before a Mirror (23 page)

“Congratulations are in order,” Chuck says, sitting in one of my client chairs.

“Thanks,” I say, pressing send on an e-mail and then giving Chuck my undivided and highly suspicious attention.

“Did you ever see
From Dusk Till Dawn
?” Chuck asks, apropos of nothing. A moment as I recalibrate my expectations for this conversation and . . .

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“It's a movie.”

“Yep.”

“It's a Quentin Tarantino movie,” he says.

“It's late, Chuck. Thanks so much for your—”

“Okay, what about
Johnny Be Good
,” he says.

“Nope. I . . .” I close down my computer and reach for my purse. “I really must—”

“Look, I'm trying to make a point.”

“It sounds like you're trying to make a point without actually making that point. Am I going to have to read between the lines or . . .” I settle back into my chair and wait.

“Quentin Tarantino can't act worth shit.”

“Oh, good. In between the lines it is.”

“Anthony Michael Hall played a great nerd,” Chuck says like he just gave me the coordinates to the Holy Grail.

“That's fascinating.”

“You have to know what you're good at, is my point.”

Ah. And then it hits me.

“This is about Quincy,” I say.

“What you did with the Lumineux campaign, I could never have done that,” he says.

“For a lot of reasons, over and above me being a lady,” I say.

“No, I know that.”

“Do you? Or do you think my knowing how to pitch that shower gel had nothing to do with talent and expertise and everything to do with getting my period or something?” I say.

“Ugh.” Chuck takes a moment. “I just need you and Sasha to be ready for Pop and me to make a tough decision,” he says. Pop. And. Me.

“It's not sounding like it's going to be a tough decision for you at all,” I say.

“You're a—”

“What am I, Chuck? Someone who reels in the big fish so you can take your picture with it?”

“I don't get it.”

“Right, because it's not a Quentin Tarantino movie.”

“Look, I'm not trying to be disrespectful here. I'm appreciative of what you've done with Lumineux. But as far as Quincy goes—maybe that's more our deal than yours.”

“It's only anyone's deal at Holloway/Greene because I brought it in. In its DNA it's my deal,” I say.

“Sometimes you gotta pass the baton, you know what I mean?”

“No.”

“It's a track-and-field—”

“I understand the reference, Chuck. What I don't understand is how—according to you, at least—all of a sudden I'm out of my depth with something I created.”

“We're talking potential. Scope.”

“You can't give me one day? One day of basking in this thing?” I ask.

“It just got me thinking,” he says.

“About Tarantino,” I say.

“Well, yeah,” he says.

“Sure.”

“This is a compliment, Anna. I'm saying you wrote
True Romance
. You're capable of
Inglourious Basterds
. You're going to win an Oscar,” he says.

“But just not for acting,” I say.

“Right.
Right!
” He's on the edge of his seat and I'm having flashbacks to the Queen Elizabeth/Bloody Mary conversation. For two people who are completely at odds and hate each other, Chuck and Audrey sure are eerily similar.

“That's . . .” I shake my head. “That's . . . ugh. That's not fair,” I finally say, sifting through several four-letter words that spring to mind a lot quicker. Chuck looks taken aback.

“It is, though. And you know it. Holloway/Greene is a team,” he says. I laugh.

“A team,” I say.

“Let us take it from here,” Chuck says.

“You're essentially telling me that I'm only good at coming up with ad campaigns for women's products.”

“No, I'm saying you're great at it. And that's not an insult,” he says.

“How is this not an insult?”

“It doesn't feel like it is.”

“Okay, does this make it clearer? The big accounts we have. The car account. That breakfast cereal. The brokerage firm. That terrible superstore chain. Even that goofy car insurance company. These are the accounts we tout on our website, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“The ones that, when you're at a party with your dad and somebody asks you guys which ads your agency has done, you say those, right?”

“Sure.”

“So, those are the important accounts,” I say.

“Well—”

“And those are the accounts that, using your reasoning, I'm not capable of representing,” I say.

“Wait . . .”

“Ergo, I am—and the accounts I now have and hope to have in the future are—less important,” I say.

“No, you're twisting my words.”

“This isn't about Tarantino or Anthony Michael Hall.”

“Wait, what?”

“You can't have already decided this. Give me a chance to prove to you and Mr. Holloway that I can not only handle a big campaign like Lumineux, but that I'm the only person who can actually bring in Quincy. I deserve a place on the team. Sasha deserves a place on the team,” I say.

“I try to give you a compliment and somehow—” Chuck
labors to get up out of his chair, burdened by my lack of understanding. “This is why everyone says women are crazy.” Chuck opens the door and starts to back out as if he's unexpectedly found himself in the bear pit at the zoo. “
True Romance
is a really good movie.” And he closes the door behind him.

I want to scream. But I can't because I'm in public, so I end up half growling, half yelping, which does nothing to assuage my . . . can you even call it a mood when it resembles more of a hurricane?

The closed door. The air-conditioning thunks on. The bustling office just outside. Be the heroine of your life, eh? What if my life sucks and it was only this façade of a life that was actually good in any way? The fantasy world and the fake personality and the friends who . . . no no no: I have dinner with Hannah tonight. I'd been putting it off and—I check the time. I'm meeting her at six
P.M.
at a sushi place around the corner.

I pull my blazer off the back of my chair with what can only be described as a maniacal laugh, try to wipe away any tear remnants (a skill at which I'm excelling), and pack up my laptop. I stop off in Sasha's office on the way out.

Her office is overrun with art. Every inch of her walls is covered with it. Paintings, drawings, and comics are framed, pinned, and hung in any way she can devour them. The deep reds and browns of her office envelop me, and I get pulled deeper and deeper in.

“Hey, you,” she says, looking up from her desk, almost dragging herself away from what she's working on. My workbag falls off my shoulder and thunks into the crook of my arm. Instead of hiking it back up I just lean down so it'll hit the floor. “You okay?” she asks.

“I have dinner with a Slow Fade friend tonight. We were going back and forth and it's just so fake at this point. But I feel so guilty for not wanting to be her friend anymore that I was all
oh my God, let's get sushi, yayyyyyy!
” And I let the workbag drop and just throw up my hands. “When . . . who says that?”

“Not you,” she says.

“And Chuck all but said that we aren't going to get the Quincy pitch if it happens,” I say.

“What?? First Audrey and now this?”

“I know,” I say.

“What did he say?”

“That I need to know what I'm good at,” I say, putting air quotes around the statement.

“Are you serious?” Sasha asks.

“Yep. I asked that he let us prove that that Quincy pitch is ours, but I don't know,” I say.

“I honestly don't know what I ever saw in that man,” Sasha says.

“He's handsome, rich, and can be charming when he wants to be,” I say.

“Oh, yeah. That.” Sasha laughs. “Lumineux is going to be huge. I don't think Chuck is going to have a choice but to let us pitch Quincy, and Audrey didn't even show up to today's meeting. We got this,” she says. I let out a slow, meandering whine. “Do you want company at your Slow-Fade dinner?”

“No. Thank you. And I don't care what people say, it's harder to break up with your friends than get a divorce,” I say, putting my workbag back over my shoulder. “All Holloways are crazy.” I turn to walk out of Sasha's office, my hand on the handle. I turn back around. “Thanks.”

“Don't mention it,” Sasha says. A smile, a dramatic weary wave, and I'm off.

I walk to the little sushi place. In the waning summer days of D.C., the humidity and thunderstorms allow summer to end with a bang and not a whimper. In an odd way, I'm happy to be going to dinner with Hannah. Going home after the day I've had, after the week I've had, feels a bit overwhelming right now. The silence of my apartment feels tight on me. Especially now that Ferdie is . . .
away
. Maybe it'll be good to just talk about nothing for a while.

I walk into the sushi place and the staff loudly greets me. I immediately see Hannah waving over in the corner. I motion to her and the hostess smiles. And I try to smile. Hannah stands up and we hug. She's always been such a good hugger. We settle at the table, as I put my workbag at my feet and drape my purse over the back of the chair. Hannah immediately presents me with a gift.

“What's this?” I ask.

“I forgot to bring your gift to your birthday dinner, so sorry. So here it is!”

“Oh, you so didn't have to,” I say. I read the card and it's lovely. And I'm feeling more and more guilty about my Slow Fade by the minute. “Thank you so much.” I tuck the card back into its envelope and dig through the tissue paper, my fingers curling around an object. I pull it out. It's a coral-colored journal, with a fountain pen and a scarf that's perfect for me. “It's beautiful.”

“I know how you love coral,” she says, ordering a pot of jasmine tea. I actually hate the color coral. Hannah suggested that I'd look good in coral however many years ago and now she
makes it a point to get me something coral for every occasion. I own nothing coral except what Hannah has gifted me over the years.

“It's so thoughtful. Thank you so much,” I say, carefully putting the gifts back in the coral tissue paper inside the coral gift bag. “It's so good to see you!”

“You too. I'm so glad we could do this,” she says.

“So, how's everything? How are the kids?” I ask.

“Oh, they're so great. Almost back in school, thank God,” she says.

“It's fifth, third, and . . . please don't tell me James is already in kindergarten?” I ask. The waitress comes over and drops off the pot of jasmine tea and a couple of menus with little pencils for us to mark off what we'd like. I scan the list, checking off sushi roll after sushi roll.

“Can you believe it?” Hannah asks, scanning the menu as well.

The hostess seats a woman and a little girl a couple of tables over from us. Hannah and I both notice them. The woman asks to be moved to another table. That table is dirty, she sighs. (It's not.) No . . . not that one, either. The woman's expression looks like the hostess vomited all over herself and just left it there during their entire interaction. The woman and the little girl finally deign to sit in a booth by the window. The little girl doesn't even look at the hostess while the woman manages a snotty thank-you that is more insult than actual thank-you.

“Is that . . . is that child wearing a fedora?” I ask, my voice dipping to a whisper.

“And that's the real deal, too. That's a Goorin Brothers,” Hannah says, leaning closer across the table.

“How do you buy a—”

“At least a hundred fifty dollars,” Hannah says.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“For a six-year-old?”

“You should see the kids at James's preschool. Real Uggs and jeans that cost hundreds. They dress better than I do,” Hannah says. The woman is wearing her own fedora, placed just so on the very back of her head. She has a loosely done side braid that trails down her back. She's wearing a stylish maxi dress, and from her pinky lipstick to her vintage boots, she drips with the height of hipster fashion.

“You know they keep chickens,” I say.

“Oh, absolutely. And she's really getting into canning. You know, keeping it real,” Hannah says, pounding her chest with her fist.

“The little girl's name is either Holden Caulfield, all one name, or possibly Soirase,” I say.

“And she corrects everyone when they pronounce it wrong,” Hannah says.

“Um, it's
SHER-sha
?!” I say, in my best hipster affected accent.

“Everything in her house is in mason jars,” Hannah says. I laugh.

“And the husband—”

“Who's really into modern Danish furniture,” Hannah says.

“Only uses those old-timey suitcases when they travel,” I say.

“They use them for dressers as well,” Hannah adds.

“And he plays the banjo in the evenings,” I say.

“Because, um, they don't haaaave a TV,” Hannah says.

“But they are reading little Simonetta Jinx the classics—starting with
Finnegans Wake
,” I say.

“Simonetta. Jinx.” Hannah laughs. And on we go. For another hour. We talk about everything and nothing.

And it's fine.

Fine
. There's that word again. But there's a difference. Not everyone in my life has to be this wildly intimate, super intense, wholly authentic experience. I had a blast with Hannah. It was light and it was fun and we kept it totally on the surface. And that's fine. That's what she wants. Who am I to judge her or say that that's a bad thing?