Girl Before a Mirror (20 page)

It's Monday morning.

The Lumineux waiting room. I half expected Audrey Holloway to be waiting here for us. And when she's not it's the least calming revelation in history. She's waiting. Biding her time. This campaign belongs to Sasha and me. It's ours because we have come to embody it. With everything I've learned and cried about and excavated over the last week, it all comes back to this.

Just Be.

Sasha and I sit in the corner with Jake, Lantz, and Josh, who look even more unbelievable in this everyday environment. A few businessmen sit on the other side of the waiting room. I catch each one of them looking at the three men, trying to flex nonexistent muscles and, finding themselves wanting, going back to scrolling their smartphones. Sasha is quiet. She is tight and elsewhere.

We stopped for bubble water and I had antacids ready for her before we got our first cab. But I know—from firsthand
experience—how rocky the terrain is at the beginning of a Time-Out. It's not much better a full year into it, truth be told.

I think about what Helen wrote in my book that change doesn't happen just because we think something is wrong. Change happens because we think something is wrong and then don't stop fighting until it's right. It was a cruel wake-up call when I realized just because I had become aware of the blind spots in my life, that didn't mean that I automatically got some secret key that'd take me to the next level. No. It sucked. For a very long time. Every day. There was a reason I went underwater. My parents are never going to be who I want them to be. Ever. The glimmers I think I catch sight of every now and again are just that—glimmers. They're not the promise of depths I've yet to uncover or tips of some love iceberg I am on the verge of crashing into. They're aches from a phantom limb that never existed.

So, now I know. They're never going to be the people I want them to be. The thing about living in a fantasy world is that anything can happen there. In this fantasy world my parents could turn around one day and gift me with the love I've always wanted. And my childhood could be erased and replaced with the happy one I always dreamed of. Now, with the cold truth of who they are out in the open, comes the task of resetting the bones that were broken and learning how to walk again.

Learn how to walk so I can run.

By the time we reached the waiting room this morning, Sasha was off the rails. She showed me the back-and-forth she had with Chuck Holloway late last night. All in text, of course. She was questioning everything as we took a cab over to Quincy
this morning. Maybe he's the one. Maybe he's the one I was supposed to be better for.

“I just heard myself say that,” she said and let her head fall against the window of the cab. “Be better for.” The words are barely spoken, but the breath of them fogs the cab window. “I just want someone to love me, not want to possess me.”

I know there's nothing I can do for Sasha as she begins to see her life in the light of day. But I try. I reiterate that Chuck's in the past and whatever he thinks he gained from trying to play her didn't work and the joke's on him and and and . . . but I can tell she's not buying it. Because it's not about Chuck at all. Just like it's not about Lincoln and it's not about my parents. It's about us.

Time ticks by. Slow. Slower. Sloooooweerrrrr. I try to make idle conversation, but everyone is nervous—including the contestants. If we land this campaign, each one of their lives will dramatically change. Booking a gig this big—to become the spokesman for a product—is something every one of them has been waiting for.

The door opens and Preeti emerges. I can't help but smile. She came out to get us herself.

“Ms. Wyatt. Ms. Merchant. Gentlemen,” she says, making eye contact with each one of us. We stand and follow Preeti through the same hallways we did when we first made the Just Be pitch.

We file into a much larger conference room. The number of executives, if it's at all possible, has multiplied once more. No all-glass walls this time. In addition to the executives actually in the room, there are also a few watching from laptops and screens; it looks like something out of a science fiction novel. The executives are milling and talking, refilling coffee cups and grabbing
pastries from the large buffet table placed just under the picture window with the Manhattan skyline just behind it. Sasha sets up her artwork on the two easels at the front of the room, turning them around so we can unveil them at the right time. I notice her hands are shaking.

When Josh, Lantz, and Jake enter the room, the executives fall silent. They find their seats and a few even manage to close their mouths. And I forget about Phoenix and Audrey Holloway and “Thunder Road” and drunk tanks and hockey rinks and Lincoln and cowardly white knights.

I'm on.

“Last time I was in this room, I asked the eternal question: What do women want? Well, I went out and found it.” And the room breaks into laughter as the three men just stand there. Swoon-worthy and every woman's fantasy. I command the room. The pitch. The speech. The practiced gestures. Ten minutes and thirteen seconds later and I've got everyone on the edge of their seat. If they're not riveted to what I'm saying, they're staring at one of the men. And if they're not staring at one of the men, then they're ogling Sasha's artwork. The redesign of the brand. The social media campaign. The revolution we mean to cause. We're going to change until it's right.

It's sweeping.

It's grand.

It's epic.

And then the unveiling:

J
UST BE
.

L
UMINEUX
S
HOWER
G
EL

T
HE EVERYDAY LUXURY ALL WOMEN DESERVE
.

And the executives applaud. They actually applaud. A few stand. Including Preeti. And I finally breathe. And smile. A demure bow. A “thank you for your time” and we are being shown out into the waiting room.

“We're going to give you your answer today. We'll deliberate and let you know. Please, have a seat in the waiting room,” an executive says, closing the waiting room door behind him. And it's like a gut punch. My smile fades, Sasha's face drains of color, and the three men just sit down on the long couch.

“You did great,” Josh whispers, leaning over.

“Thanks,” I say.

“It couldn't have gone better, I don't think. Right?” Jake says, scooting in closer to the conversation.

“I mean, they applauded,” Lantz adds.

“I can't believe they're just going to blurt it out right here. I mean . . . just out in the open like that,” Sasha says.

“We're going to be fine,” I say, trying not to vomit. “We're going to be fine.”

And we wait.

No one takes out a smartphone.

No one picks up a magazine.

No one speaks.

The waiting room is silent except for the receptionist who's answering the phone and transferring the hundreds of calls that come into just her small corner of Quincy Pharmaceuticals on a minute-by-minute basis. I look around. Hands clasped. Everyone looks straight ahead. Just when I think I have my nerves under control, I feel my face redden, my stomach drop, and my mind launch into a whole new assortment of emotions.

I did my best.

I gave it everything I had.

But that doesn't stop me from replaying every moment, every second, every word of the pitch meeting.

After a full hour, the door opens. Four executives walk out, along with Preeti. Sasha and I stand. I breathe. Breathe. Hold it together.

“Ms. Wyatt. Ms. Merchant?” A tall, gray man in an expensive suit speaks. The men stay seated behind us. “That presentation was—well, it was like I was finding religion or something. Ms. Dayal was right to take that initial meeting.” I look over at Preeti and she's beaming. I can't help but smile. Sasha whispers a reverent thank-you, and I'm afraid she's on the verge of one of her curtsies. She fights the urge this time. “We are excited, Ms. Wyatt. We haven't been excited about Lumineux in a very long time. Congratulations. The account goes to Holloway/Greene. I look forward to working with you. We'll contact you this week and get things going.” I can hear the stifled cheers from the men seated behind us. Sasha lets out a sort of half cry, half squeal . . . then a sniffle. I look over and she is very quietly and elegantly crying.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now get to work,” the executive says with a wry smile. I nod and thank him again. I am barely holding it together. He scans the waiting room and each cover model gets a “well done” and a hearty handshake from the tall, gray man. I shoot one last glance to Preeti, and she looks as if she's a proud parent watching her child at a Christmas pageant.

The quartet of executives say their farewells and walk back through the waiting room door. Leaving us by ourselves. The men high-five each other, shaking hands and giving congratulations
all around. The minute the door closes, I turn to Sasha and pull her in for the biggest hug.

“We did it,” I say. She just nods. Over and over again. Repeating my words. We did it. We did it. Sasha and I break apart and it's hugs all around. Jake scoops up each one of us. Lantz is all hearty handshakes, and Josh is near tears with gratitude and thanks.

“Let's get out of here before we really embarrass ourselves,” I say, and everyone agrees, laughing and texting their respective partners, families, and representation. I take Sasha's hand and we're down the hallway, down the elevator, and through the lobby. She's sniffling and just keeps saying, “I can't believe it . . . I can't believe it.”

“Have you two ever thought about opening your own agency?” Jake asks, as the bustle of New York moves and flows around us.

“Sure, who hasn't?” I say. He looks at me. Pointedly. “Now? You have got to be kidding me.” I can't help but laugh. I look around for a place for us to raise a glass. Something to mark the occasion. I see a restaurant—just next to my favorite bakery—on the other side of the street and decide to make our way over there. “We just landed our biggest account. This is going to change everything at Holloway/Greene. They can't shove us back into the pink ghetto now. No, Lumineux first, Quincy next,” I say.

We did it
. After a lovely celebratory brunch, I take an early train back to D.C. We were supposed to return tomorrow, but I decide to take this extra time to see what's going on with Ferdie before the madness of the Lumineux campaign really takes hold.

On the return train trip I send an e-mail to Helen letting her
know we got Lumineux and then another e-mail to Ginny Barton thanking her for her hospitality and letting her know we landed the account. I then e-mail Charlton Holloway with all the details and the timeline for the campaign. We'll be launching in October. I'll debrief him when I return to the office tomorrow morning. And then I'm sketching out ideas and writing copy and thinking up social media this and hashtags that and billboards and commercials and then—quite miraculously—I just stop. Close my laptop. Order a nice cup of tea and some shortbread cookies. And allow myself to bask. I'm just smiling, watching the landscape speed by. Work is back to being fair again. Finally. Something makes sense. Sasha and I came up with the best campaign and we landed Lumineux.

It's odd finally seeing myself as the seasoned warrior that I've become. The panning shot of the soldiers as they ready themselves for the onslaught and now I finally see that I'm the one with the scar running down half her face and that these eyes . . . ohhhh, these eyes have seen some horrors. And that that's a good thing. Age. Wisdom. Being forty. I like it here. I take a sip of my tea and can't stop smiling. I earned here. This cup of tea. These shortbread cookies. This landscape speeding past me. The Lumineux campaign. I also know that it took what it took to get me here. That if I would have gotten a big campaign like Lumineux any earlier I wouldn't have believed I deserved it. Or I would've believed that I deserved it for reasons other than my own talent and skill.

Timing.

I think about Lincoln and me. Was I just putting off the inevitable by inviting him to my birthday dinner or was I giving us a chance to actually become something real? Something unhurried.
I don't know. But I do know that I'm not done believing in us yet. Like I said to Hannah at my birthday dinner, I was so ready to be with the wrong kind of men that I realized how unready I was for the right one. Lincoln is the right one. Just not right now.

Maybe that's what growing older does; it puts things into perspective. Love. Success. Self. Every day it feels like I battle the illusions of my past—unlovable, unwanted, insignificant. These are the fishhooks from my childhood that get snagged into my adult life's tapestry. And they yank. And they catch. And they try to pull at who I really am. And on the good days, I can pluck them out and toss them aside, but on the bad days, I can only talk about how scared I feel and that the fishhook hurts and maybe, because I don't have the strength to, could a friend lend me a hand and dig it from my flesh for me? And so it goes. Day in and day out. No automatic key to the next level. I must take this step by step. Floor by floor. Every day the fishhooks dull just a bit and every day I get a bit more skilled at unwinding them from myself.

And once again, by overthinking something, I've thought myself right out of feeling pleasure firsthand. Fishhooks? Jesus. Just . . . why can't I just sit here and drink this tea and bask? Smile. Let the joy wash over me.

I always love watching that part in the Olympics when the athletes are on the podiums, medals around their necks, and the first notes of their national anthem are played as their flag ascends into the heavens. Everything they've done has led up to this moment. And to watch them run through the gamut of emotions, tears, a smile, taking in the crowd, trying to sing along with the song, disbelief, and then this panic that the moment—
the moment
—is almost over and have I felt it enough, have I properly chronicled every second of it so that I can relive it . . . and then the song ends and the athletes come out of the haze and just wave their hands over their heads in thanks.