Citizen Girl (27 page)

‘Then why didn’t you tell me any of this earlier?’

‘I’m telling you now.’ He opens the door. ‘Tomorrow morning, MC, Inc. is pitching to orchestrate their US launch. And I’m about to do you an incredible favor.’ He leans in. ‘I’m going to forget the last five minutes ever happened. I won’t let you blow this opportunity just because you’re being ignorant and reactionary and, frankly, unprofessional.’ I flush as Jeffrey passes the binder through the window and lays it over my lap. ‘This contains all of Bovary’s pertinent stats. Make it your bible. Tad’ll pick you up at nine thirty sharp. Knock ’em dead. Kat loved you.’ Before I can even form a response, he raps the roof with his knuckles and the car takes off down the drive.

Two a.m. finds me staring into an empty coffee mug at a booth in the hotel’s diner-style restaurant. Having abandoned trying to make sense of Jeffrey, I’m still trying to make sense of Jeffrey’s dossier. Sliding the cup onto the Formica, I shut the binder and rub my tired eyes, ears tuning to the low hum of CNN from the bar TV. I glimpse documentary footage of Sierra Leone as the screen casts a green glow over the beautiful few slumped in post-party exhaustion at nearby booths, their drunken chatter mingling with the grim report.

Taking a deep breath to revive, I flip the binder back open and reread, for the fourth time, the final paragraph
of the last article. No, it officially ends mid-sentence. I stare again at the blank page behind it. Nothing. Each article, after enumerating the reams of charitable causes Bovary has championed, seems to end at the point of addressing their US launch.

The door at the far end of the Gulfstream-styled room swings open and Seline shuffles in, swathed in one of Guy’s blue and white pinstripe shirts over jeans. She walks to the bar and peers at the bottles behind it, running two hands through her bed-tousled hair.

‘Hey,’ I call to her. It takes a moment to register who I am before she nods hello. ‘Can’t sleep?’ I ask.

She nods yes and slides in across from me, tucking the cuffs into her palms. ‘Working?’

‘Prepping for tomorrow’s meeting.’

‘How’d you get out of dinner?’ She holds her finger up to catch the bartender’s attention. ‘A glass of port, please.’

‘I was at Jeffrey’s.’

‘Oh, then I guess my evening could have been worse.’ She picks up the small plastic snack menu and gives it a cursory glance.

‘Yeah, it was probably my first and last gay pool party.’

‘At least you didn’t spend your evening being force-fed shot glasses of slime at Asia de Cuba while your boyfriend licked his boss’s ass,’ she grimaces. ‘Oh God, are you watching this?’ Her left hand still balled beneath his cuff, she points at the scarred limbs flashing from the screen above us.

‘Help,’ is all I can muster.

‘Can we switch it to something lighter?’ she asks the
bartender as he places the sherry glass before her. He points the remote.

‘Mmmmm, the Style Network.’ My shoulders sink in relief.

Seline pulls her feet up and I do the same as the screen fills with the transformation of real people and homes into momentary ideals of perfection.

‘How was your massage?’ I ask, the respite from genocidelingeriegenocidelingerie perking me up. ‘So, was your masseur… under the impression —’

‘Guy was on the balcony talking on the phone the whole time, so.’ She swivels her forearm, dislodging a bracelet stuck near her elbow and I catch sight of a Whitney-worthy diamond solitaire that definitely was not there yesterday.

‘That’s … wow,’ I say, my eyes widening.

‘Two weeks ago we walked past this store. I said, “
Gee, that bracelet’s ugly
.”’ She twists her wrist, making the moonstones glint. ‘Guess we know which part he heard.’ The lady from Shabby Chic is perusing a flea market on the big screen.

‘Sorry, I meant your ring. Congratulations.’

‘Oh.’ She tucks her hands back into his large shirtsleeves, the fabric obscuring the diamond. ‘He just proposed tonight, so I haven’t really had time to… thanks.’

We both stare at the television. Yeesh. I search for a comfortable topic in our extremely limited parcel of shared experiences.

‘I didn’t really expect this.’ She glances up at the ceiling.
‘You just… never know with him. I mean… if he’s going to break up with you or …’

‘Promote you?’

‘Yeah,’ she laughs, pushing up her sleeve and looking down at her four-carat promotion until her eyes suddenly well and she blinks, her lashes wet. ‘He’s a great catch and this ring is fucking huge and then we… and then I tried to go to sleep, but my heart is just racing.’ She holds her hand over her chest and takes a shaky breath. ‘Some birthday.’

‘That’s right, happy birthday.’

‘Thanks.’ She takes another steadying breath and looks out the darkened diner window, where a group of porters playfully jostle each other in the drive. ‘The big three-oh.’

‘How does it feel?’ I ask, eager for a report from the front.

She shrugs.

I lean my head against the cool window, imagining a future of self-assertion. ‘I’m gonna be a festival of boundaries by then, so help me.’

She flags down a refill. ‘You think?’

‘I hope.’

‘I still let a lot slide. I mean, not at work, or with my friends, but… I’m the girlfriend who lets a lot slide. Maybe he’s looking for the wife who does the same. Or not. I don’t know.’ Seline tosses her hands up. ‘I didn’t expect this. I’m just not… prepared.’ Her eyes are fixed on the screen, where a bed frame is being meticulously repainted and it’s unclear if she wants me to prompt her or let it drop.

‘It’s about a lifestyle of comfort, relaxation and beauty …’ the nasal British voice drones, and there’s only the tiny motion of Seline’s sleeved fingers clasping and reclasping the small glass.

She drains it. ‘The thing is there are hundreds of women who wouldn’t bat a mink eyelash that he cancels dinner an hour after he was supposed to pick them up.’

She pauses and I temper my impulse to eviscerate him. Do not diss him. Do not diss him. Do not. ‘He does seem like… a busy person.’

‘He is. But when he’s there for me, he’s so there for me it’s electric.’ Her whole face breaks open into a soft smile. ‘He’s amazing with my family. He loves kids. We both love black Labs. He so wants to be “the man”, “the husband”. I can just so easily picture him as the soccer dad. And I can so easily picture him never coming home.’ Her expression once again clouds. ‘But does anyone come home anymore?’ She looks to me to weigh in.

‘I don’t know. I think so. I hope so.’

‘God, I could use a cigarette.’

‘I have some in my room,’ I offer.

She flattens her forearms on the Formica. ‘It’s shocking there isn’t a clearer line here. I can’t believe I’m staring at thirty and I still don’t know what’s worth overlooking.’

‘He’s confusing.’ He is. I’d say that to his face.

‘They all are. I’ve definitely put up with a lot worse,’ she smiles. ‘There are a lot worse out there. I could do a lot worse.’

‘You could.’ He could be an asshole
and
a homicidal maniac.

She nods down at her hands and then up at me. ‘This is a good thing.’

‘Okay.’

‘It is. So, I was taken by surprise – that’s how it’s supposed to be, right? That’s what makes it romantic.’

‘Yes.’ Every time he takes me by surprise I come over all a-flush.

Seline slides out of the booth, the ring sparkling in the dim spotlight over our table.

‘If you wait a minute, I can pay and then get you that cigarette.’

‘Oh, I’m okay. I just need a good night’s sleep. Thanks, this was really useful. Just put everything on my room. Good luck in the morning.’

‘Thanks.’ You, too.

The Porsche pulls in behind a nondescript stucco building on Melrose, and I climb out at Tad’s prompting, this time fully clothed in my Marc Jacobs capri suit. ‘Just take the back door, there. One flight up.’

I walk past the dumpster to the black metal door and take a deep breath, ready to knock ’em dead.

‘Gi-irl!’ Jeffrey greets me as I step out of the stairwell into the industrial carpeted hallway, lined with racks of short garment bags marked ‘Bovary’. ‘Perfect. Right on time. Kat’s been asking for you. Now I want you to come into the conference room and do your bit. Sell the charity stuff, sell MC’s feminist commitment, but keep it light. Light and bright!’ He grabs the handle to one of two large steel doors and before I know it, I’m staring down at a
dozen people seated casually around a large Plexiglas table shaped, painted, and strung, like a corset.

‘Everyone, this is Girl,’ Guy, swiveling in his seat at the left breast, announces jovially to faces I watched partying in minimal Lycra scraps just a few hours ago.

‘Girlie Girl!’ Kat, in the buckled Dior blouse from
Elle
’s April cover, hails me from the right breast. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ I fib.

‘And this is Liz.’ Beside her sits the buxom blonde from the town car, in a low-cut white jumpsuit that does little to brighten her hung-over pallor. Slumped, she avidly clutches her coffee mug.

The rest of the assembled, Jeffrey’s minions and Bovary’s back-up singers, are all androgynously decked in their
Wallpaper
* hippest, making Guy the only nerd without a leather cuff.

‘Hi.’ I give a collective pink-cuffed wave and drop my bag on the floor. ‘I’m here to take you all through the charity component of what My Company brings to the table. Or corset.’ I reach into my bag for my laptop. ‘So, if you’ll give me a moment to boot up …’

‘Girl, everyone has the sheet you prepared – it’s page
sixteen
,’ Jeffrey says, passing me a binder with a fluorescent arrow marking the page.

‘Oh! … Okay! Right.’ I open to page sixteen to find a revamped version of my National-Organization-of-Women-membership-revoking proposal, only my queries have become assertions, extensively supported with fallacious quotations from nonexistent co-eds: ‘As a Gender
Studies major I depend on My Company for daily reports on improvements in the plastic surgery revolution!’ Like confiscated letters filtered through the Russian Communist propaganda machine, every other word in this bogus document is ‘revolution’. ‘In the future the feminist
revolution
will best be served by the
revolting
women who can adorn themselves in the
revolutionary
war paint of our sisters – Avon, Revlon, Estée Lauder …’ I flip the page over and then flick numbly through the packet. Botched fragments of my ideas are everywhere – phrases stolen from my desk and laptop completely reconfigured, as if edited by Chrissie and her glitter-eyed cohorts. And smattered throughout are my fake lingerie questionnaire results backing it all up. My eyes shoot across the table, locking with Guy’s.

He clears his throat. ‘Yeah, before Girl continues, I want to take a moment to say she’s just done a stellar job of pointing our team in the right direction, getting our compasses set to Bovary. Let’s give her a round of applause!’ There’s an awkward smattering of claps. ‘Yeah, Girl, go ahead.’ Eat me.

‘So …’ I struggle against derailment, ‘my Company’s commitment to women is both philosophical and philanthropic.’ For fifteen minutes I spew everything, from how Guy’s first Gender Studies class at UC Santa Cruz awoke him to the female struggles he’d long taken for granted as a privileged male, to the script’s upbeat version of human trafficking. ‘So, thanks to Magdalene, and the money we’ve given them, after a little rough patch, these young ladies are getting their lives right back on track! To
conclude, My Company has the female mindset in its hard-wiring and women’s interests at heart.’

‘Bravo, Girl!’ Kat throws her thumbs up. ‘But, Jeffrey, darling,’ she pouts, putting a hand on his forearm, ‘that’s really what we’ve
been
doing.’

Perking up, Liz, in turn, puts a protesting hand on Kat’s thigh. ‘To great success, Kat.’

‘But this is a new country, new market, new frontier.’

‘Thank you, Girl, that will do.’ Jeffrey taps my binder as Guy grows palpably agitated. ‘You can meet us back at the hotel—’

‘Oh no,’ Liz protests, ‘can’t she stay?
Please?
Please?’

‘Sure.’ Guy makes room next to him at the table’s cleavage.

‘I mean,’ Kat continues, ‘that’s only been our brand because Europeans are so bloody serious. But if we’re going to launch in the US, we want to do something much more
fun
and really
expansive
– rebrand ourselves a bit. Bovary as
lifestyle
.’ Kat looks around the table at the sycophantic nods. ‘Fabulous. Now, while we’re over here, our goal is twofold. One, find an American firm to help us think American and appeal to the American consumer. That’s why we’re meeting with you and your larger competitors. And, Guy, after several meetings, I see now that you were spot on about one thing at least: what MC lacks in experience, you make up in personal attention in a way that a bloated behemoth like McKinsey can’t.’ She puffs out her cheeks like a blowfish. ‘But we’re not above nicking
their
point, which is that, as a new brand in a crowded marketplace, this launch stands a
much better chance should we align with an established non-competitive product to give ourselves all the benefits of brand recognition. Are you with me? Fab. Let’s show them the video.’ She points at a faux-hawked boy hunched over a keypad. With a few punches, a soft whirring brings a white screen descending over the windows, and the lights extinguish. Kat, illuminated like Evita in the rectangular spotlight, speaks with great passion into the darkness, ‘So here’s what we’ve been obsessing over: working women. We feel working women have lost touch with the fun. They’re
so miserable
.’ She slumps her torso over the table for emphasis. ‘Liz and I’ve been leafing through your
Fortune
and
Cranes
magazines and we’ve been meeting with all these banks over here and it’s the same thing whenever a working gal’s at the table. Utter, utter misery —’

‘Totally.’ Guy gives his heartfelt agreement.

‘Long faces, blah boxy suits, and dreary, dreary, dreary. They look
exhausted
. And the few free bits of their brains are all taken up with Johnny’s soccer practice and little Suzie’s piano recital.
Where’s the fun?
’ She looks around the darkened table. ‘It’s a tragedy. And we want to do something about it. Video, pretty please.’