Girl Before a Mirror (4 page)

Okay, Anna. Scrap the last several hours. Go back to this morning. What would have made me choose Lumineux . . . no, what would make both Sasha and me choose Lumineux? How do we market this product so both of us want the same thing, as different as we are? Think about our similarities and stop dwelling on our differences and I'll find it. So what do Sasha and I have in common?

A sigh. A long, weary sigh. #nothing.

I find my mug and take a long sip of the now cold tea as I ask the question millions have asked before me: What do women want? And not just from a shower gel. What do I want? I close my eyes and concentrate. Want feels so gluttonous; need feels far more virtuous. Come on, Anna. What do I want?

I tighten my fingers around my homemade mug and remember my birthday dinner. Allison. Michael. Ferdie. Hannah and Nathan. Pink gelato, training montages, and laughing with friends.

What do I want?

I want to be happy and not feel guilty about it. I want to be curious without being called indulgent. I want to be accepted regardless of what I look like, what I do for a living, my marital status, whether I have kids, or whether you think I'm nice enough, hospitable enough, or humble enough to measure up to your impossible standards. I want purpose. I want contentment. I want to be loved and give love unreservedly in return. I want to be seen. I want to matter. I want freedom.

I take another sip of my cold tea. Great. So all I have to do is
encapsulate
that
into a slogan that'll sell some old-timey shower gel and I'll be fine.

I'm screwed.

I turn away from the window and focus on a stack of Sasha's things that she left on my desk. Every single item has a generic alternative, but Sasha has chosen the brand-name versions, proving, once again, that women are intensely loyal to brands. Sasha sought out these particular items, paying way more than she would for the same items without the brand tags or symbols that set them apart. As do I. The tea I buy, the shampoo I use, even the hotels in which I stay—it's a relief when I find a brand that feels good to me. I feel understood. Comforted. The search is over, so to speak.

I put down my mug and walk over to the stack of items. It's a hodgepodge of art supplies and various other digital art things that are way beyond my understanding. She has a Moleskine journal, which I don't dare open, sitting on top of several sketchbooks. At the bottom of the stack is a well-read, dog-eared book. I pick it up.

Be the Heroine, Find Your Hero
, by Helen Brubaker.

The cover boasts the usual romance novel fare: a shirtless man and some damsel in distress. He's sporting manly pecs and his flaxen hair blows amorously behind him while she tries to keep the top of her dress from sexily falling down her generous bosom. I flip the book over and read the back cover copy. Helen Brubaker has apparently, according to her publisher, anyway, cracked the code of dating by applying her abundant knowledge gleaned from thirty years of experience as a bestselling romance novelist.

“Learn how to be your own heroine, so you too can find your own hero.”

Right, because why would you want to spend time learning how to be your own heroine if not for the sole purpose of ensnaring a hero? I can feel my cheeks flushing. As I set the book down quickly, I feel as I did when I was a teenager. I'm sneaking a read of that one Judy Blume book—the one we all know has the racy bits in it—and I'm positive everyone knows . . . everyone knows what part I'm reading and all of a sudden I'm having to explain my curiosity about sex in some bizarre science fictiony courtroom that's inexplicably peopled only with boys I like and my grandmother. And ever since then I have never been able to do it—I could never read one of those books without feeling that flush, unable to stop being utterly aware of how embarrassed I'd be if someone found out what I was reading. It's never about the romance novels; it's about me. And I've never questioned it. Who these people are that would judge me and what conclusions they'd draw. Nope. Instead, I've just stuck to the classics—where the racy bits were never mentioned, just inferred from knowing glances across crowded rooms, and everything hinged on witty banter during a quadrille.

I sit back down behind my desk with the book in hand, deciding not to dismiss it so quickly. I'm not a teenager anymore. Although I do close my door and tell my assistant not to enter for the next half hour as I'll be “on a call.” She is, of course, confused, as I've never done this in the years we've worked together and she knows perfectly well there is no call.

Apparently Ms. Helen Brubaker knows what women want. And I need some answers. From anyone. I Google “Be the Heroine, Find Your Hero” and millions upon millions of entries pop up instantaneously. Helen Brubaker has been on every morning television show; she's been written about in
every top magazine, newspaper, website . . . you name it. And there she is meandering through the First Lady's garden deep in conversation. How have I not heard of this book before? I pick up the phone and dial.

“Art room,” a student answers.

“Is Mrs. Alvarez there?” I ask. The student puts her hand over the phone.

“This is Mrs. Alvarez,” Allison says.

“Have you ever heard of a book called
Be the Heroine, Find Your Hero
?”

“Yeah, why?”

“What?”

“It's everywhere.”

“How did I not know about this?”

“Because you live under a rock, my dearie. Oof, my next class will be here in ten minutes. I've still got to get their stuff out of the kiln. Talk later?”

“Sure.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.” I set my phone down and continue researching online.

To say the book is a phenomenon is an understatement. It's bigger. Cult big. Religion big. It's the book of the moment . . . it's the everything of the moment. It's way more successful than any other dating book. The hook? It's a dating advice book that uses romance novels as a modern-day guide for women who are searching for their Mr. Right.

Sasha comes back with our lunch to find me fully engrossed in her book.

“I'm so sorry, I saw it there and—” I drop the book. I can feel
the flush in my cheeks as the embarrassment settles in the pit of my stomach. This is my teenage nightmare.

“Oh, I don't care. I can't believe you don't have your own copy.” Sasha sets down the food and starts pulling out containers, condiment packets, and little utensils.

“Thanks for picking up lunch,” I say, scanning the food.

“Don't worry about it. You'll get dinner.” The stark reality that we will be stuck in this office overnight hits me. I'll get dinner. Right, because we'll still be right here at dinnertime and breakfast.

“I've never even heard of it,” I say, bringing the conversation back to the book. I take my container of sushi, pull my chopsticks out of their wrapper, rub them together to protect myself from splinters, and dive in.

“It's all about how romance novels have it right. First you have to consider yourself the heroine and then you attract the hero. Make your man slay dragons and save the world before he gets to ravish you,” Sasha says, settling into the chair across from me with her sashimi.

“Are we saying
ravish
now? Are we ravishing now?” I ask.

“Fingers crossed.” Sasha smiles. It's taken her all morning to loosen up, but even then it's still only confined to my office. Whenever Sasha walks out to get coffee or make a copy of something, I can see her purposefully shove her shoulders back with a little shake of the head and a huffed breath. I watch her walk through the bull pen, not actually looking at anyone yet completely aware that they're all looking at her. And then she closes the door to my office and she takes all those airs off like a heavy winter coat.

“But, at its core, the book is about becoming your own heroine,
right? It's supposed to be empowering. I mean, isn't the title based on that Nora Ephron quote: ‘Be the heroine of your life, not the victim'?” I say, flipping through the pages.

“I mean, maybe—but Brubaker's is better. Be the heroine, so you can find a hero. Be the heroine—”

“Find your hero, yep. Wouldn't want to . . . sure, I got it. But if we used this book as a jumping-off point, we might have something,” I say.

“What . . . I mean, how would that work?” Sasha eyes the Chinese takeaway container of rice but takes a long drink of her bottle of water instead.

“Clearly, this book is what women want right now. Whether it's the book itself or the message. If we could tap into that trend . . . that idea of empowering women or seeing ourselves as romance novel heroines or whatever it is. That's it. It's exactly what we're looking for, don't you think?”

“That's brilliant,” Sasha says. She smiles and I can see her mind start working.

“What else do we know about this Helen Brubaker?” I ask. I find her website and click around.

“She's kind of a legend,” Sasha says.

“Seriously,” I say, reading the biography. I click on the tag
Books
. “She must have written over a hundred books.”

“That's why she's such an expert,” Sasha parrots. I click on
Events
to see if there's one where we can see her speak or if she's into that sort of thing at all. I don't know what I'm looking for yet, but I know it's somewhere down this rabbit hole. I scan through her various speaking engagements, book signings, and
Be the Heroine
retreats, and find an event coming up where Mrs. Brubaker will be.

“What's RomanceCon?” I ask, clicking on the link. I turn the computer screen so Sasha can see it, too.

“It's the annual conference for romance novels in Phoenix,” Sasha says, leaning forward.

A click and my entire computer becomes a circus of reds and blacks. Large, flowery script writing announces RomanceCon all along the top of the website. I flick through photos of lines of fans wending their way around hotels, huge romance novel covers blown up and hanging aloft, and beautiful men in various states of undress like some kind of debaucherous slideshow.

“It's a conference about romance novels,” I repeat.

“All the famous authors are there. They have tons of panels and workshops. A huge book signing, nightly parties—
theme
parties—and then? They have a pageant for the guys on the covers.” Sasha takes the
Be the Heroine
book, closes it up, and points to the ridiculous he-man on the cover. “Him. Those guys. Can you imagine?” Sasha has now draped herself across my desk and is speaking more animatedly than I've yet seen her.

“No, I cannot. I can't imagine what any of that would actually look like outside of my nightmares.”

“Is Helen Brubaker going to be at this year's?” Sasha pulls my computer screen toward her, helping herself to my mouse as she ably clicks around the website.

“Do you read these? Romance novels?”

“Of course. I love them!” Sasha finds the schedule of events and begins scrolling through for Helen Brubaker.

“But aren't they . . . I mean, come on,” I say, keeping the flush at bay.

“Have you ever read one?”

“No.”

“Then you can't say anything.”

“I just—”

“What I find is that the people who insult romance novels the most have never tried to actually read one.”

“I haven't tried letting a wild dog bite me in the face, either, but—”

“Uh-huh,” Sasha says, her eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“What's your favorite movie of all time?” Sasha asks, now sitting on my desk.

“What?”

“Just answer the question. What is your favorite—”

“Ladyhawke.”
No doubt.

“Ladyhawke?”

“It's this 1980s cheesefest with Rutger Hauer, Michelle Pfeiffer, and a very young, adorable Matthew Broderick,” I say, my voice now animated.

“I've never even—”

“
Isabeauuu!
” I say, my fist shooting into the sky.

“What now?”

“Oh, that's what Navarre yells. He's the captain of the guard and she's the beauty that the evil guy coveted. But she loves Navarre! So”—I dip down and my voice becomes serious—“the evil guy cursed them. By day she is a hawk and by night he is a wolf.”

“She's a ladyhawke. Ah. I see,” Sasha says, laughing. I shoot her the side-eye as I try to decide if she's making fun of me or not.
Hmpf
.

“He had this amazing black horse,” I say, sighing.

“Did he now,” Sasha says, taking a delicate sip of her water.

“And there's this brieeeef moment at sunrise and sunset when they can aaaalmost touch each other, but
no
! It cannot be!” I say, exhausted by it all. I lie back in my office chair, succumbing to the utter brilliance. “I've been waiting for Navarre my entire life. Navarre or Han Solo.”

“So, that's what it's like to love romance novels,” Sasha says.

“What?”

“What if I told you
Ladyhawke
was stupid?” she says.

“Um, what?”

“Yeah. It's cheesy and lame and who cares,” she says.

“But
Isabeauuu
!” I wail. Sasha just looks at me. “Also, you just said you haven't even seen it, so . . .” Sasha arches an eyebrow. She waits.

Oh. Wait.

“Ah,” I say. Sasha smugly eats another piece of her sashimi and lets her genius wash over me.

“And before you say it's not, it is exactly the same thing. I've been reading romance novels since I was thirteen. And the way you lit up when you talked about that
Ladyhawke
movie?”

“That
Ladyhawke
masterpiece, you mean,” I say.

“I'm just saying.” Sasha shrugs. “There's nothing wrong with thinking men should be a bit more like Navarre and a little less like”—she motions to the bull pen—“guys who only want one thing.” She looks down at her lap and starts picking at her fingernails. “Nothing wrong with a little honor.”