Pretty in Ink (28 page)

“You’re a very beautiful woman, of course, but I’m a married man.” I nod stupidly, paralyzed in place, tears starting to stream down my face. The newsreel of the inevitable is unrolling in my head: Everyone finds out about this kiss, the rumors of my slutty stupidity spread like wildfire, I’m shamed in front of the entire staff, then fired, then sued a million dollars for sexual harassment and blackballed from the industry, so that I go broke and can’t make rent and have to declare bankruptcy. Fast-forward eight months, and I’m all alone, raising a newborn on the streets.

It feels like minutes later when I manage to snap out of my stupor. I bolt from the closet.

The entire office is in a frenzy. I wonder if I’m imagining it.
Could they possibly already know? Is there a hidden camera in the supply closet?
I start hyperventilating. My hands are trembling like crazy.

Zoe rushes to my side. “Hey, it’s OK. Really, it’s not that bad.” She swings an arm over my shoulder.

“It
is
that bad. It’s humiliating.”

“I know. Shhh, calm down.”

“I mean, I’m pregnant, for God’s sake.”

“I know, I know. But I really don’t think it will affect us.”

Huh?
I look up and see all the bigwigs huddled in Mimi’s office: Victoria, Abby, Johanna, and Lynn. The door is closed, and all four look as if they’re in the principal’s office, awaiting suspension. Mimi’s shouts carry through the glass, and though it’s difficult to make out the words, the sentiment is clear. I hear, “Who the hell—” and “Major scandal . . .” and “Totally fucking screwed!” I’m not positive, but it doesn’t seem like they’re talking about me sexually harassing the mail guy.

“What’s going on?” I whisper to Zoe. Laura shoots me a look of disgust.

“Seriously, where have you been for the last fifteen minutes?” asks Zoe. “Come here.” She pulls me over to her desk, and types “MAGnifier.net” into her Web browser. A photo of Helena Hope loads up on the screen, the image that’s planned for our November cover.

“What is this? How did they get that picture?”

“Watch,” says Zoe. Just then the screen flashes and another image appears: It’s nearly the same photo, but in this one, Helena looks different—puffier and older, her eyes rimmed with crow’s feet and bags. The coloring is off, too, and her dress is mussed in an unflattering way. Another flash and the screen reverts to the prettier photo, the November cover.

“Seriously, what is this?!”

“OMG Jane, really? Just read.” I scan the post:

“Wow,” I say. I can’t bring myself to click through past the jump.

“Uh, you think?” says Zoe. “There are already parodies up all over the Web, too. Someone posted a YouTube video pretending to be our photo editors in the digital studio. They have a pic of Kate Moss up on screen and they keep moving around her body parts until she looks like a Picasso. They claim she’ll sell more issues that way.”

“That’s actually kind of funny.” I start giggling and find I can’t stop. The monster performs somersaults in my stomach, as if in relief. Here is a scandal that no one can blame on me. I am not responsible. I am not involved. The truth is, I pretty much agree with the Web site’s post, and I feel a small thrill that someone within our ranks took a risk to expose the kind of unrealistic standards of beauty we promote. Still, I could not be happier that that person is not me.

The taste of Ed—cigarettes and Swiss cheese—is still faint in my mouth, but no one saw, no one knows. The whole office is flipping out, phones ringing like crazy and at least one person crying in a cubicle.
Stay sane, Jane,
I say to myself, relishing the opportunity to seem like one of the calmer ones. And I actually feel sane. I rub my belly and whisper, “Hey, little guy, my secret scandal’s safe with us.” What I’m going to do about this other scandal, the one currently growing in my stomach, is not at all certain, but for the moment I don’t feel panicked about figuring it out. Whatever I end up deciding will be all right—I’ll make sure of it. I return to my desk and, amidst the mayhem surrounding me, I set to work with laser focus. For the first time in weeks I feel confident I will survive the storm and still have a job come tomorrow.

19

I
never call in sick. As a policy, I don’t get sick. I believe that once you’ve made a commitment to show up, you show up, no questions asked. I once photographed a Bar Mitzvah cruise ship party in December while running a 103-degree fever and delirious with the flu. The pictures turned out gorgeous.

Today, for the first time in my career, I’m copping out. No, I didn’t spend the night upchucking into the toilet bowl, and I don’t have some hacking bronchial cough. And it isn’t because of the very real fact that I was awake all night waiting for Mark to come home or at least call (I’ve pulled plenty of all-nighters), or that I’ll likely be out both a boyfriend and a home in the very near future (I’ve always been fast to adapt to new circumstances).

Rather, I’m lying in bed consumed with fear, actually sick with it. The various accusations Mark hurled at me last night—that I’m not a real artist, that I’ve sold out to corporate America—keep resounding in my head. But although it’s troubling that my boyfriend would put me down with such disdain, I’m not actually scared that what he said is true. I
know
it’s true, and what terrifies me is that this knowledge doesn’t bother me. If I’m brutally honest with myself, I’ll admit I feel more passionate about what Mark calls my “bullshit corporate job” than I ever did about my personal photo projects or gallery shows. Working at
Hers
was originally supposed to subsidize my real work, but as it turns out, the former may just be my real work. Never mind that I kind of love going to a chic office every day where I get praised for my talents and hard work. Is it such a crime to enjoy all the trappings of a glamorous job with a fairly prestigious title and to aspire to climb the ladder of corporate career success? Is it really so bad to turn my back on the struggles of the true, starving artist? And so what if I have to put up with a few meetings now and then?

Despite, or maybe because of, these discoveries, I am freaking out—hide-under-the-covers-and-avoid-the-chic-office-at-all-costs kind of freaking out. I’d like to indulge myself with the belief that this spontaneous sick day is the result of a full-on Identity Crisis, though a part of me knows it also has something to do with the fight with my boyfriend and his subsequent disappearing act. I sigh and reach for my laptop.

I e-mail Lynn a lie about a stomach bug, and then pull myself out of bed. I avoid glancing back at the twisted, abandoned sheets for fear they’ll make my heart ache. Mark split hours ago—who knows to where?—and the apartment feels dark and echoey all by myself. I pull on clothes and wander outside to Riverside Park. It’s prime commuting time, and the promenade is packed with people. I pass hordes of smartly dressed workers rushing to their respective places of employment (I will not find Mark, still unemployed, in this crowd). The air feels fizzed with anticipation of the long weekend ahead.

Mark and I were supposed to go away for Labor Day, our first real trip together. It was his idea to surprise me with the destination. I tried to get him to leak some intel: I shared news of coworkers heading to the shore and friends’ camping plans in the Adirondacks, hoping Mark would spill something of our plans. But he would only respond elusively, saying, “Isn’t that classic for Labor Day?” or “Fun, fun, fun!” Then he’d put on a wry little smile, as if to imply that whatever plans he had up his sleeve were far more interesting, far more whimsical and exotic. The secret made me crazy with anticipation.

Last night marked the big reveal. I uncorked a bottle of sauvignon blanc, and Mark ceremoniously handed me an envelope. I felt like a presenter at the Oscars, holding in my hand the answer we’d all been waiting for. The envelope clearly contained tickets, and I imagined Venice or Madrid. I dreamed of rich culture, richer food, and roll-off-the-tongue romance languages. Of course I knew my fantasies were just that; Mark hadn’t earned a cent since he got pink-slipped from
Hers,
so Europe was not exactly a realistic guess for our getaway. More likely my boyfriend had booked us a cozy weekend at a bed-and-breakfast upstate. “Go on, open it already,” Mark pleaded.

So I did. What I found were two New Jersey Transit tickets to Trenton. At first I assumed it was a joke, which is why I smirked at Mark. I thought, he couldn’t possibly have psyched me up for days and days in order to swoop me away—surprise!—to a city known best for its boarded-up storefronts, its rampant blight, its poverty and crime.

Mark grinned back at me, and his words—“So cool, right?”—made me understand this was not some hilarious antic. Poof went my fantasy Academy Awards gown, my glamorous updo, my neck and wrists glittering with jewels; I pictured myself falling from the prestigious podium right back down to Earth, here in the cramped apartment I shared with my boyfriend, a guy who was ecstatic about a romantic getaway to Trenton, New Jersey.

“You would not believe the deal I found at this motel, for a holiday weekend no less,” he said. I could in fact believe that he’d gotten a deal at a motel in Trenton. “I can start working on my project at the train station.”

Ah yes, Mark’s project. Whenever I’d asked him about his work prospects—whether he was scanning the job boards or leaning on his network or doing anything at all to reenter the community of paycheck-earning adults—he’d start up about the project he was planning: to photograph all the major train stations in the tristate area, to capture on film these sites of decadence decayed, of glory rusted, of commerce and prosperity collapsed.
That’s a great, if not particularly original, idea,
I’d think,
but what about a
job
?
Yet if ever I expressed an ounce of this skepticism, Mark would flare up and accuse me of not caring about art or about him, of abandoning my own artistic sensibilities, of ignorantly succumbing to capitalism and corporate greed and the status quo.

At first I took these accusations to heart. I’d feel guilty about how well I was thriving at
Hers
and start to wonder if I was doing myself a disservice by neglecting my own photography. Worse, I was ashamed that I didn’t feel the kind of void real artists are supposed to experience when they neglect their art. Producing photo shoots for articles about cheating spouses and Halloween costumes felt strangely fulfilling, or at least quite fun, and I internalized Mark’s disappointment in me. And so, ironically, at the same time that I felt happiest and most competent in my professional life, I’d never felt so lacking and miserable about myself.

I realized Mark was still talking: “And I’m certain you’ll find inspiration on the gritty streets of Trenton, too. How could you not? It’s a mecca of stories, with so many people struggling to just get by, to do all they can to keep their homes and their jobs.”

“Their jobs, huh?” I blurted it out before I could stop myself. “You find it inspiring that they’re making an effort to hang on to their livelihoods? That’s quite interesting.” I examined the train tickets, innocently stamped with information. Who knew a couple of city abbreviations on a slip of paper could cause such consternation?

“Oh, come on, Drew. This is our kind of adventure! Don’t tell me you’re not happy for me to pursue my passion. Don’t tell me you’re not excited to venture out and explore this pocket of our country together.”

Mark’s soulful, pleading eyes were so full of hope and maybe even love that it was almost enough for me to cave. But I took a deep inhale and said it: “That is exactly what I’m telling you, Mark. I’m not happy, and I’m not excited, and I’m not going with you.”

I exhaled the rest of my breath, feeling like I’d shrugged off a backpack full of boulders, one I hadn’t even known I’d been lugging around. Somewhere along the way I’d stopped feeling guilty for not being the artist—or the person—Mark wanted me to be. Even more, I’d started letting myself be pissed off that my boyfriend was not living in the real world that requires income, and that in a few short, severance-dwindling weeks he’d have zero means to earn his keep.

Then Mark turned mean: “Oh, so you’re going to stay in town and work all weekend like the good little Me-me-me ass-kisser you’ve become? Or will you go to the beach with your pack of silly friends, all of you in your skimpy bikinis to fry in the sun and eat ice cream?” He pronounced “ice cream” like it was the most detestable thing he could imagine.

“Yes,” I said sadly, only then understanding that the conversation was marking an ending. “I will probably eat some ice cream this weekend.”

With that, Mark jumped up, tore the tickets from my hand, and fled from the apartment—off to who knows where, to Trenton, or to wander the streets of New York, or to somewhere, anywhere far from me.

 

Meandering over to Riverside Drive, I detect the faint jingle of a Mister Softee ice-cream truck. It reminds me of a photo show I put on back in college: I took shots of the meatiest kinds of meat—big, bloody steaks; pork chops glistening with fat; lamb shanks the size of my head—and at the gallery opening, I cued up the Mister Softee jingle to play on loop. The idea was, how would the pairing of those photos of so-called pleasurable foods and the melody that we all associate with the simple pleasure of ice cream change people’s perceptions of what they were seeing? I was a vegan at the time, of course, and had a very specific idea of how viewers should interpret the work. The whole thing feels so silly and naïve to me now that I shudder at my former self.

The catchy tune draws me to its source. I spot the iconic cartoon of the smiling ice-cream cone, and I order myself a chocolate shake. The sweet, cool liquid slides down my throat smooth as butter, and my mind starts motoring about all the novel ways we could shoot a
Hers
story about milk shakes. We could treat the ice-cream flavors like paint colors, and show them pouring out of paint cans and swirled with brushes onto bright white surfaces. Or we could meld a food and beauty story, and shoot fingers clutching at tall glasses, the nails polished to match the flavors of the shakes that the hands hold: “Match your dessert to your manicure.”

I’m now sucking at the dregs of my milk shake, having devoured the whole thing in about four minutes. The sound snaps me out of my brainstorms. I can hear Mark’s voice in my head: “This is what you’re wasting your thoughts on, coordinating your nails with your ice cream?” He wouldn’t be wrong—I admit it’s silly—but it also makes me laugh. I’m sitting on a park bench guffawing like an idiot, so much so that the woman next to me gets up and rolls her stroller to the next bench. But I don’t care. I realize that Mark may come off as belittling and judgmental, but he really just wants the best for me, even if he doesn’t understand that his idea of the best doesn’t necessarily match my own. The thought spreads over me like a soothing balm. My boyfriend has been trying to take care of me, just as I’ve been trying to take care of him. The truth is, neither of us can give the other the right kind of care. It makes me a little sad, but mostly I feel all right.

And then I’m dialing Lynn’s number. “Drew, is that you?” my boss answers, her voice more frantic than usual.

“Yeah, I wanted to tell you I’m feeling a lot better, so I’ll come in this afternoon.”

“Oh, thank you, sweet Jesus. Shit is hitting the fan up in here, and Mimi is demanding to see you on the double. I was about to beeline it to your apartment and ply you with ginger ale and Saltines until you felt well enough to haul ass out of bed and make an appearance in the office. I’ll see you soon—
run
if you can.” She hangs up before I can ask her exactly what kind of shit is hitting the fan.

Still clueless, I enter the Schmidt & Delancey building, ascend the elevator, and cautiously make my way toward my desk. Laura blocks my path and redirects me to Mimi’s office. “You are wanted immediately,” she says, the glint in her eye suggesting I should be worried. I can’t possibly imagine what I’ve done wrong.

Stepping over the threshold to Mimi’s office, I discover a group gathering. All eyes land on me, each pair projecting a different attitude: those of Mimi, Victoria, and Johanna are different shades of predatory; those of Lynn look apologetic; and those of Abby appear both agitated and sympathetic.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” barks Mimi.

“Let’s all remember that Drew was home sick this morning,” says Abby, “so she probably doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“Oh, rubbish. As if!” It’s Johanna, fixing me with a glare. “Here, eat it up.” She plants a laptop in front of me, and the screen flashes up two images of Helena Hope: the first is the original from the photo shoot, and the second is the one I massaged and tweaked and practically alchemized into what will be our November cover. I think I’m looking at
Hers
’ internal server until Johanna scrolls down to what is clearly a blog, meaning it’s published on the Internet, available for anyone and everyone to see. I quickly scan the post.
Oh no.

“Who did this?” I plead, searching the faces around me for an answer. But I read the looks in their eyes. Oh.

“See, I told you Drew had nothing to do with it,” Lynn says. “She didn’t even know about the blog post.”

Johanna rolls her eyes. “What, you fancy she’ll up and admit she’s responsible, like it’s no big deal? Bollocks!”

My mind starts racing. Who could have leaked the images? The way Johanna’s attacking me, I wonder if it was actually her—a backhanded publicity stunt to drum up more press for the big relaunch, kind of like what we all know Zoe did back with her Randiest Rachel Twitter account. On the other hand, Lynn is acting awfully sympathetic; maybe she feels bad that the blame for something she did is falling on me. Lynn came to
Hers
out of nowhere, and it wouldn’t totally surprise me if she took on a job in women’s magazine with the express purpose of exposing our not-so-noble inner workings; this kind of subversive act would definitely do the trick. Then again, there were a dozen people on that photo shoot, and Helena Hope was categorically awful to each one of them. Every single person involved would have a motive to swipe the film and expose the singer for her true, ugly self.