Pretty in Ink (7 page)

“I see you have a sense of humor,” Victoria says flatly. “I think we’ll get along well.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Last, I’ve been studying the reader mail, and they all want lighter options. Many of them are trying to lose weight.”

“If they eat reasonable portion sizes and limit sweets to special occasions, as we encourage in
Hers,
then our recipes fit very nicely into a healthy lifestyle.”

“Yes, but people like sweets and they tend to overeat,” Victoria says. “And who can blame them? Let’s give them options where they can eat large quantities and not feel guilty, rather than having to stick to measly little portion sizes.” This is the problem with America, I think; our readers are fat pigs. “Have you heard of the popular personality Ravenous Rhee?” Victoria asks.

My anger, previously at a simmer, now dials up to a boil. Last week when I found out the Food Network was giving that silly twit her own show, I actually threw my remote at the television; my cat cowered. Ravenous Rhee must have been raised on TV dinners and Ho Hos. “You mean the woman who thinks freeze-dried bananas, a bag of gummy vitamins, and three packets of Splenda equal a square meal?” I ask.

Victoria laughs. “I mean the woman whose newsletter has three million subscribers, whose cookbooks have topped the bestseller lists for six months straight, and whom Oprah has dubbed ‘the regular woman’s Martha Stewart.’ ”

“Touché.” I can respect Victoria’s feistiness, if nothing else. I know we’re not supposed to talk directly about what’s happening on staff, but I decide to challenge her: “Mimi’s replacing me with Ravenous Rhee, is that it?” I don’t actually believe it, since that woman would command a fortune in salary.

“That would be quite a coup,” Victoria says, then quickly backtracks. “I mean, no, no, not at all. She’s getting a monthly column in the food section is all, and we want you to oversee it.”

I clutch at a paring knife and begin aggressively mincing a clove of garlic. “So Rhee will pitch me ideas and then I’ll give the yay or nay?”

Victoria shakes her head. “More like, she’ll share whatever trend she’s spotted in her niche of the culinary world or she’ll cook up new recipes, then you’ll test them out to make sure they work.”

“So I’ll be her assistant?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t describe it that way.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” I steady my hand, still wielding the knife. “Victoria, I appreciate your stopping by. I’m going to get back to the weeknight dinners story, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” she says. “I’m glad we’re on the same page here.” On her way out Victoria’s hair swings behind her, the unnatural tint of cherry food coloring.

“What in the hell is this?” I slap Mimi’s latest memo down on Abby’s desk.

“Would you like me to read it aloud to you?” The managing editor smirks. I think she secretly enjoys my griping.

I read: “ ‘Starting tomorrow,
Hers
employees will set the example at Schmidt & Delancey of what it means to look polished and professional. To that end, we will no longer wear shorts and we will limit our donning of denim to Fridays.’ ” I look up at Abby. “ ‘Donning of denim’—is she
serious?
”

“The point is, Mimi would like to dress up the office a bit.”

“No shit.” I keep reading: “ ‘The ladies will make an effort with our hair and makeup, and wear high heels on a daily basis. If we choose to wear flats during our commutes, we will change into our heels before we enter the building.’ Um, I haven’t owned a pair of high heels since 1989.”

“Would you like me to take you shopping? We can slip out to Barneys at lunch.” I don’t laugh at what must be a joke.

“Abby, our dictator in chief is pretty much mandating the shortening of our calf muscles and deterioration of our knees. Plus she’s increasing the risk of falls. Does she really want to deal with a lawsuit when someone takes a face-plant in her stilettos and breaks a bone?”

“Debbie, I know you’re upset, but the truth is, Mimi has a right to instate a dress code.”

“What’s next—she’ll require Ed to wear a tux to deliver the mail?”

“Listen, why don’t you just keep a pair of comfortable wedges on hand and change into them when you come down to the office or visit the cafeteria? Use your company card for the shoe purchase; you can expense it.”

“Ugh, how come you’re always so goddamned reasonable?” I storm out of Abby’s office, clutching the offensive memo.

Back upstairs, I have an idea. I search through my back issues of
Professional Chef,
certain that what I’m looking for appeared sometime in 2011. I flip to the fall issue, and freeze: The cover features Eileen Houtt, my partner and closest friend from back in culinary school; her big smile is familiar, only a bit crinkled with age and with an added dash of smugness. The coverline reads: “Houtt Commodity: Chicago’s most inventive chef makes a splash with chic new seafood restaurant.” I roll my eyes and toss it aside, then turn to the winter issue, where I find the story I want.

“Excuse me, she’s busy,” Laura says as I breeze by her cubicle and march into Mimi’s office. I slap the
Professional Chef
article down on her desk.

“Jesus Christ, what is this?” Mimi wails. I forgot just how gruesome the story’s images are. The burned, mangled foot looks like it belongs to some freakish monster, and the bruises span the colors of a painter’s palette.

“What this is,” I say, “is a story about people who wore improper footwear in the kitchen and then suffered the consequences: boiling Alfredo sauce splashed on the foot of a chef in open-toed shoes, and a prep cook who wore fashion boots, slipped on spilled olive oil, and fell flat on her back. She’s probably now paralyzed from the neck down.”

“Ah, I see what this is about,” says Mimi. “You’re upset about the memo.”

“Damn right I am. How dare—” I stop myself. I consider what’s at stake: my gorgeous, spacious kitchen, my Eden.

“Deborah, you’ve made your point loud and clear,” says Mimi. “How’s this? You may wear what you wish while cooking, but otherwise it’s time to step it up a bit from the white Reeboks. The rest of the staff needs some extra polish, too. I assume you know that
Hers
has become the frequent butt of jokes in the building. We’re known as the frumpy mom-types who haven’t updated our wardrobes since the Clinton administration.”

“Who cares what we’re wearing as long as we’re putting out a quality publication?”

Mimi smiles, and pauses before she speaks: “Would you say that’s what you’ve been doing, Deborah? Putting out a quality publication?” Crap, I walked right into that one.

“Listen, Mimi, I have been working at
Hers
for longer than you’ve been in this industry. You know as well as I do that I am a grand bargain for you; you’d have to shell out double or more to get another recipe creator with my experience and expertise. And if you did let me go, my severance package would be—let’s see, four weeks for every year at the company—two full years of my salary.”

“You’ve thought this all through, haven’t you?”

“Just the facts, ma’am. And another thing: I’ve got a full workload already, so you’ll have to find someone else to assist this Ravenous Rhee character. How about your assistant, Laura, whose taste you revere so much?”

“Deborah, I admire your willfulness.”

“But?”

“But, you will have to work with Rhee. Unless of course you want someone else using your kitchen to test out her recipes?”

Ugh.
My mind flashes on the
Professional Chef
profile of Eileen Houtt’s hip new restaurant, an article I never bothered to read. Eileen and I had lost touch for years, but shortly before that story was published, I ran into her at a conference. When I told Eileen I worked at
Hers,
she said she wasn’t familiar with it, but asked if I knew the editors at
Gastrome,
that snooty rag for rich foodies; apparently her sous-chef used to head up their kitchen. I shudder to imagine my old friend happening upon an issue of
Hers
and seeing so-called recipes created by Ravenous Rhee. “Fine, I will test out that phony’s recipes,” I say to Mimi now, “but if the result is inedible, I claim veto power.”

“You may veto one out of every four recipes, and only if the
Hers
staff reaches a consensus on the decision.”

“How about, I can nix one out of two recipes, and I only need staff majority?”

“One out of three, and fine. Anything else?”

“I’m not buying new shoes.”

“Ha! I guess I know what I’m giving you for Christmas.”

“Hanukkah, you mean. You should watch those kinds of assumptions. Religious intolerance is a serious offense at Schmidt & Delancey.”

“Noted, Deborah.”

“Please call me Debbie.”

“OK, Debbie. Now, will you please remove these horrifying images from my desk?”

“Gladly.” I snatch up my copy of
Professional Chef
and march out, feeling triumphant. I decide I’ll treat myself to truffle oil mac and cheese for dinner.

 

The next morning I board the same up elevator as Mimi. She gives me the once-over, eyeing my usual sneakers, jeans, and T-shirt. I take out the tube of lipstick I nabbed from the beauty closet, the same crimson as Mimi’s editing pen. I apply the dark stain carefully to my lips, and then smile flirtatiously at my boss. I wink and bat my eyelashes. Mimi’s laugh is the hoarse hack of a smoker’s; it sounds terrible. I decide I’ll go up to the kitchen and brew her some herbal tea. Hibiscus flower with honey is very healing.

5

I
’m distracted as I enter my office, so when I go to fling my bag onto my chair, I nearly knock Victoria in the head. “God, I’m so sorry.” One peripheral glance reveals that all of my belongings have vanished, replaced by stuff that is similar, but not the same. I feel a pang for my stapler, of all things. “What’s going on in here?”

“Didn’t you get the memo?” asks Victoria. “Laura was supposed to e-mail you.” I nod like I know what she’s talking about. The truth is I haven’t checked my messages since yesterday afternoon, one of my work-from-home days. My husband surprised me by coming home early with a bottle of good champagne and takeout from my favorite Italian joint. I was wary of a catch, but Rob insisted he simply thought I deserved a break, then he powered down our computers and phones and poured us each a flute of bubbly. One evening a week Rob and I pretend we’re living in a pre-Internet age; it’s the closest thing we get to date night. (We derive all too much pleasure from the name we’ve come up with for the ritual: “Brenner Unplugged.”) As a result, unread e-mails have been colonizing my inbox for the past eighteen hours, undisturbed by the predatory Delete button, and Victoria has managed to blindside me with this humiliating switcheroo.

“The thinking was,” she says, chipper as ever, “we’re co-executive editors now, but since you’re only in three days a week, it makes more sense for me to have the office, since I’m here every day. You understand, right?”

To prevent my fist from delivering a right hook to Victoria’s cheek, I practice the relaxation technique I mastered during my triplets’ colicky stage: a long, deep breath; hold for one, two, three, four—
Oh, forget it,
I think, releasing the inhale in one defeated burst. My eye catches on a new photo on the wall: an altar shot at what must be Victoria’s wedding. The guy’s cute, but Victoria’s dress is a horrendous layer-cake ordeal. The realization that my office has been usurped by someone who would pick that gown for the most important day of her life sets me spinning with vertigo.

“So where do I sit now?” I ask, trying to sound unfazed.

“The intern has been relocating your things to that large space over there.” Victoria points to a cubicle next to the beauty closet, where I spot Erin propping my Christmas card up against the divider.

“But that’s Liz’s spot. She’ll be back from maternity leave in less than a month.”

“I’m sure we’ll figure it all out when she’s back.” Victoria ushers me out of what I can’t help still thinking of as my office.

 

Seated at my new desk, I smell Regina before I see her: tobacco mixed with her Calvin Klein perfume. I look forward to the frequent visits from our entertainment director; her gossip is always first-rate, plus her kids are grown, which is a reminder that some people really do survive motherhood. “Hey, Reg,” I say. She leans down for a double-cheek kiss. “You’re looking fabulous.” An ikat-printed wraparound hugs Regina’s surprisingly taut middle-aged curves.

“Oh, shut up. I’m straight off a red-eye from L.A.,” she says. “And um, forgive me if I’m missing something, but what the hell are you doing sitting in this crappy little hole?”

“Gee, thanks for your tact. I had to clear out my office to make way for my new co-executive, Ms. Victoria Perfect, so it’s back to cubicle-land for me.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“Tell me about it. I’m picturing junior staffers perched up on my desk when we go over stories. That’ll give me quite the air of authority.”

“If you ask me, you should blow this joint for good, ship out of New York once and for all.”

“I gather you’ve been talking to my Vermont-obsessed husband?”

“Seriously, with all the craziness that goes down in this town, it’s best taken in small doses. Palm trees and the Pacific are what do a body good.” Regina’s permanent post is in Los Angeles; she visits the New York office a couple of times per month.

“This happy arrangement might not last for long, anyway,” I say. “I saw the latest masthead, and “Victoria LaRue” and “Leah Brenner” don’t even fit on one line—Mark had to shrink the font to ID us as co-executive editors.”

“Well, shit.” Regina smoothes down my hair, and I notice her discreetly removing a Cheerio from a strand. “Everyone around here does kind of look like a bully stole their lunch.”

“Yeah, and the bully is our new boss.”

“Mimi stole your lunch, huh? Speaking of which, tell me, is she a big eater?”

“More so than Louisa.”

“Well, Louisa was permanently on the herbal tea and cottage cheese diet. I’ve seriously seen celebrities with bigger appetites. I’d prefer to do without the new boss’s judgment, but you know I don’t do plane food, and what I really need right now is a big old chocolate chip muffin before our little executive rendezvous.”

“Ooh, get me one, too.”

Regina has flown in for a meeting to discuss the November cover star. Mimi hasn’t yet shared her vision of an ideal candidate, but I’ve taken it upon myself to compile a list of actresses I think would set the perfect tone for the
Hers
relaunch. I’m gunning for Dina Monahan, the breakout success and critics’ darling from this year’s Sundance Film Festival; she has a new indie movie coming out in November that’s predicted to be a crossover mainstream hit. Plus, Dina Monahan’s career is in the sweet spot for
Hers:
She’s right on the cusp of fame, meaning she’d likely agree to an interview, and probably even divulge some real info about herself, not just the boilerplate, publicist-approved drivel all the bigger stars have learned to spout.

The senior staff—Victoria, Mark, Abby, and I—file into Mimi’s office, where we discover that all of the chairs are already occupied by a small group of young women, spines like rods. We remain standing, awkwardly shifting our weight. “Don’t mind the whippersnappers,” says Mimi. “They’re all recent grads from my alma mater, good old Kansas State. They’re here for the day so we can hear their ideas and find out if any of them would fit in at
Hers.
” Oh, great, so now Mimi plans to replace all of us with twenty-one-year-old know-nothings whom she can pay slave wages. When I was their age, I drew confidence from the fact that this industry tends to value youth over experience. Now, I want to Fed-Ex all of their fresh faces directly back to campus; I couldn’t care less about their youthful ideas.

As Laura carries in chairs for the editors, Regina struts in and throws her arms around Mimi. “We finally meet up in the flesh,” she says. “What fun!”

“Welcome to the East Coast, dear.”

Regina must have treated herself to a triple espresso (or an alternative I don’t want to consider), because she launches right in, speed-talking like she’s been given a time limit: “I was just at the September cover shoot, and Liliana Line cannot be more of a nightmare. She hasn’t been in a hit movie since the nineties, yet she’s kept up her diva routine with full force. I had my assistant running all over the Valley trying to locate tropical Starbursts and Cherry Vanilla Coke for Her Highness. The upside is, we did get some killer shots that we can all look at today; Drew’s manipulating them now. I’m sitting down with Liliana next week for the interview, and I hear the trick is to get a couple glasses of merlot in her and then she talks.”

“Whoa, let’s hold on a minute,” says Mimi.

“Oh, I just assumed you’d want to get straight to business. I’ll start again. Hello, I’m Regina Peck, entertainment director of
Hers
magazine. It’s a pleasure to see you.”

“Hello, Regina. Mimi Walsh. Of course you know Leah, Mark, and Abby, and this is Victoria, our new co-executive editor. My assistant, Laura, was the one who showed you in. So how long has it been?” I had no idea Regina and Mimi knew each other.

“I don’t know, a decade?” says Regina.

“More like a century,” Mimi responds.

“My daughter’s actually planning to intern at
Starstruck
this summer. You’d think having a mom like me would be enough to turn her off of celebrities for good, but she did grow up in Santa Monica, so what could I expect? I was hoping she’d get to work with you over there.”

“You don’t mean the daughter I remember you being pregnant with? You’re telling me she’s a
teenager
now?”

“Actually, in her last year at NYU.”

“A college senior?!” Mimi says. “Christ, you’re ancient!” Regina forces a smile. She often jokes about her flagging memory and sagging everything (and then happily passes around cards for her plastic surgeon—for the referral discount, she says), but no one else dares poke fun at her age. It occurs to me that she must be at least a decade older than Mimi.

“Regina’s daughter is both beautiful and brilliant,” I say.

Mimi ignores me. “So, I want to talk reality,” she says.

“Wow, OK, let’s do it,” says Regina, with an artificial laugh. “So, tell me the situation. I sincerely hope you’re not planning on shopping around my job, because I’ve got ears all over this business.”

“No, not
reality-
reality,” Victoria interjects. “She means reality TV.” I wonder if Mimi and Victoria have already discussed the November cover in a premeeting prior to our meeting.

“Oh, obviously,” says Regina. “What a relief.”

“That’s what our readers watch on the boob tube, so those are the stars I want on our covers,” says Mimi.

“Really?” I say. “Because I am hearing amazing things about Dina Monahan, and I know she might not be a superstar quite yet—”

Mimi sighs, cutting me off. “Let’s all make a deal. We’ll agree to stop featuring B-list, artsy-fartsy actresses on our covers and filling their interviews with highfalutin, pseudointellectual bullcrap, while in the meantime we pine away for the A-listers and wish we were
Vanity Fair.
OK?”

I manage a nod. I can feel my cheeks burning red. I crumple up my dossier of the Dina Monahan info I’ve compiled. The crunch of paper in my fist is oddly satisfying.

Regina, meanwhile, has bounded up out of her seat and is literally shaking her booty. “Mimi, you’ve just made my week,” she says. I catch Laura peering in at Regina as if she’s from Mars rather than just the West Coast. “I have to tell you, I’ve been pushing to include reality stars in the magazine as far back as the third season of
Survivor.
Those loonies give the best interviews—you practically have to shut them up before they blurt out their ATM code.”

“One thing to consider,” says Mark, who is always considering and reconsidering everything, “is that reality stars don’t quite look like models, or even actresses. The camera does love a train wreck, but not exactly in the way we’re going for.”

“That’s a good point,” I say, glad to have an ally. I glance at Abby, who’s staying judiciously silent.

“Well, that’s
your
job, isn’t it, Mark? To make them look pretty,” says Mimi. “I have faith you can work your Photoshop magic.” I see Mark clench his teeth.

“So who should we snag for the November relaunch?” Regina says, her mind clearly motoring away at possibilities.

“How about one of those horrifying housewives?” suggests Victoria.

“I was thinking everyone’s loving Janine, that disaster from
Worst Moms in the World,
” says Regina. “We could pair her Q&A with some tongue-in-cheek parenting advice, and she could share her favorite Thanksgiving family traditions.”

“That would be perfect.” Mimi engulfs Regina in a bear hug. Victoria’s jealousy is almost palpable, like a toxic gas emanating from her pores. I wonder if my own dismay comes off so obviously.

Later that day, I corner Regina. “So you know Mimi from before?”

“Oh yeah. I first met her through her then-boyfriend, soon-to-be-husband, now ex-husband, Steven, when he was my attending nurse in Lenox Hill’s maternity ward. Even at nine months pregnant I was a pro at the art of bedside flirting.”

“I bet you were. So give me some dirt.”

“He and I became friendly, and when I mentioned I was an editor, he said his girlfriend—that was Mimi—was looking to break into magazines. In the interest of racking up some career karma, I set her up with a friend at
Persons of Interest.
And the rest is history. Her star has been rising ever since.”

“So then you’re responsible for the unleashing of the monster,” I say. Regina laughs her great big guffaw.

“Shhh.” We both hear it and wheel our heads around. It’s Laura.

“Excuse me?” says Regina.

“Can you please be a little quieter? Your speaking voice is quite loud, and you’ve been on the phone making a racket all day. I can hardly hear myself think.”

Regina mouths to me,
“Who does this girl think she is?”
Aloud to Laura, she says, “And why exactly do you need to hear yourself think? Is it that complicated to slot in appointments and schedule dinner reservations? You may be interested to know, I’m busting my ass over here, trying to book our November cover.”