Bicoastal Babe (29 page)

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 realize 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.

What the hell is going on? This day is just too weird. And come Monday when the show airs, all those smiling faces out there are going to know just what a bumbling idiot I really am. Not to mention that they’re all going to think that Jen is behind every single creative or interesting thing in our newsletter. Liz will calm down eventually and realize that the disaster on
DayLine
is mostly my fault for sitting there like a deaf-mute with chronic perspiration and malignant eczema.

When no one’s looking, I duck out of the boardroom, grab my purse, and head for the elevator. Hitting the first floor, I can see a few Gordon-Taylor people spilled out on the sidewalk with cups of champagne. I don’t want to talk to them, so I look for another exit. In the back of the building I push open a door that leads out to an alley. My head hung low, I go down the steps and schlump toward home.