Girl Before a Mirror (5 page)

“No, I guess not,” I say, unable to look at her.

Sasha hops off my desk and motions for me to get up out of my desk chair. “My turn.” I stand, take my sushi, and settle in one of the client chairs on the opposite side of the desk. “Okay,
The Brubaker is going to be there for . . . it looks like a whole one-day workshop. That would be so amazing.”

“We're just calling her ‘The Brubaker' now?”

“I still don't get what this has to do with Lumineux,” Sasha says, her eyes flicking over to me between orgasmic outbursts about something else going on at this year's RomanceCon.

“I don't know, either. I almost have it. It's . . . it's part empowering women. Part seeing yourself as a heroine. Part escapism. Part of it can be that honor you were talking about. Maybe it's a little bit about . . .” My eyes fall on the photos of the men vying for Mr. RomanceCon, the romance novel cover model of the year. “Maybe it's a little bit about them.”

“It can be all about them if you want,” Sasha says, clicking on last year's winner. “Ryder Grant. Swoon, right?” Sasha says.

“If it's a hero women want, why don't we give it to them?” I ask, motioning at Mr. Ryder Grant.

“I don't—”

“They're having a pageant, right? What if we could impress upon the RomanceCon higher-ups that this year's pageant winner would have the opportunity to be the new Lumineux spokesman? I mean, it wouldn't be guaranteed or anything, but if we land the campaign then—”

“They land the campaign,” Sasha interrupts.

“Exactly. And if not—”

“It's still great coverage.”

“He'd be every woman's hero, so to speak.” I pull over a yellow legal pad and begin furiously writing. “But it's not just that. It's the world. It's that world. There's something . . . The Brubaker tapped into something in romance novels and we can,
too. In finding your hero, you . . . you have to believe that you're worthy of being the heroine, right? That the story . . . this life . . . is about you. And what woman ever puts herself first?”

“Not one.”

“Right. That's what's—”

“That's why I love reading romance novels. It's where I'm allowed to be . . . I don't know . . . it's where I feel like I get to be the woman of my dreams.”

“Right there. That's it. That's what we have to . . . Lumineux Shower Gel takes you to a place where you're the woman of your dreams. Just like romance novels. The pitch would center on women empowering themselves by believing that they can be the heroine of their own stories. Going about their daily grind, but with this thread of that romance novel world. So, coming in from work and having that guy—”

“Navarre,” Sasha offers.

“Yes. Navarre. You walk in from work and there's Navarre cooking dinner and the kids are sitting at the table already doing homework. I'm missing something. I . . .” I think back to this morning. My own list of what I really want out of this life. Sasha is quiet.

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
.

And then it comes to me.

I want to be . . . I want to just be
.

“We just want to be,” I say.

Sasha and I look at each other across the table. That's it.

“I love the idea of these vignettes of a woman's daily grind with some hot guy just amid it all, you know?” Sasha says, motioning for me to switch places with her. I oblige. She picks up her sketchpad and starts drawing. “That we matter. That we're worthy of a hero.” Sasha draws as she speaks, her voice growing stronger and stronger. This is what I want to tap into. “No, that we
are
the hero.” The change in Sasha even thinking about the prospect of being a heroine is what is at the root of this idea. “That we're human. And sexual. And vital. And equal. Every version of us.” Sasha is on the edge of her seat now, pulling different colored pencils from her bag. I wait. She turns the sketchbook to me and I'm blown away.

It's a rough sketch of a woman walking into her kitchen in a business suit to a clearly besotted, gorgeous man looking over at her—he has a dish towel slung over one of his broad shoulders, wears worn-in jeans and an old T-shirt, and is elbow-deep in soapy water. The kids sit around the dining room table with textbooks and school supplies strewn about, and dinner is bubbling on the stovetop. She looks happy.

And in beautiful clean writing, Sasha has written “Just Be” along the top of the picture. The Lumineux logo is on the bottom—nondescript and tasteful.

“Wow,” I say.

“Right?” Sasha says, beaming.

“It's perfect.”

“Lumineux Shower Gel. Just Be,” Sasha says again.

“That's it.”

We haven't slept. Sasha and I board the Metroliner that will take us into Manhattan for the big pitch at the Quincy Pharmaceutical headquarters—the very high-rise I vowed to return to several months prior. For the last twelve hours, I've subsisted on nothing but romance novels—flushed cheeks be damned—black tea, and these terrible green juices I'm trying to work into my diet. As we settle into our seats, I realize I've fallen into an alternate world where gauzy curtains and hot Sahara nights have become the norm. Is that businessman's shirt going to be ripped from his body, only to hang on his biceps in tatters? Is the man with the bicycle going to growl my name as we reach the apex of our passion as one? I've gone from teenage prude to an adult who can talk and talk about romance novels . . . without actually letting them affect me in any way, of course. I've sped right past flushing cheeks all the way to dissecting overt sexuality as if it were a splayed-out frog smelling of formaldehyde. Regardless, I have at least two and a half hours on this train before the biggest pitch of my
career. Sasha and I hunker down and use the time to prep and perfect our pitch. We both know the stakes couldn't be higher—or at least one of us does.

When we arrive in Manhattan, my first hurdle quickly becomes how not to walk into Quincy headquarters looking like a pit-stained wretch who likes getting her hair licked by a cat. We duck into the elaborate, art deco bathroom in the lobby of the Quincy building in Midtown to collect ourselves. It's hard not to compare myself to Sasha as I stand next to her at the mirror, reapplying lipstick and trying to make something of my hair. Pushing six-foot, she's all legs, she has black pin-curly hair, and she actually knows how to put on eye makeup. But then I remember what it was like to actually
be
in my early twenties and all that envy disappears. The tiny apartments, the paralyzingly low self-esteem, the terrible jobs with a parade of incompetent bosses—wait, that actually doesn't feel as far away as I smugly thought. What I do know is that in my twenties I thought happiness was always out there—that job, that man, that body. After my year on Time-Out, I now know that happiness is within—or at least I know it just enough to be pissed off that it's not, despite what I do for a living, something I can buy.

“You ready?” I ask, looking at Sasha in the mirror of the bathroom.

“I feel like I'm going to throw up,” Sasha says.

“We'll be fine,” I say.

“This is my first pitch,” Sasha says, unable to look at me.

“I know,” I say.

“Last week I was freelancing whatever art work I could find and paying the bills by working as the coat check girl at a club Chu—Mr. Holloway, I mean—a club Mr. Holloway frequented,”
she says, bending over the sink. I am quiet. “He caught me doodling once. Said his family owned an ad agency and that they were hiring.” She tugs a paper towel from the machine and dries her hands. “Looking back, of course, I should have known. He switched the meeting at the last minute to a dinner.” She doesn't look at me. “I didn't know until I got there that the address his assistant gave me was for his apartment.” She tosses the balled-up paper towel toward the bin. It bounces off the rim and falls to the floor. A little scornful laugh and she walks over to pick it up. “There I am riding up in the elevator, still trying to make up other possible scenarios, holding my portfolio and practicing the pitches I had for Holloway/Greene clients I'd researched beforehand. I even bought an outfit I couldn't afford.” She bends over, picks up the balled-up paper towel, and throws it away. This time, it goes in. “This outfit, actually. Anyway, I figured out pretty quickly that it wasn't my art degree from NYU or the time I spent interning in France or my apprenticeship at
Vogue
or any number of sketches I tried to show him that night that got me that meeting.”

“What a douchebag,” I say. “Not to mention blatant sexual harassment. You have a pretty good case, should you—”

“I don't need a sexual harassment case, Ms. Wyatt. I need a job.”

“But—”

“And I've had much worse.” She finally looks over at me. She couldn't be more than twenty-five? Twenty-six maybe? But in that moment she looks ancient. I nod. She continues. “He was nice.” A look from me. “In the beginning.”

“I'm so sorry you had to go through that.” She looks surprised.
“That must have been . . . well, you must have felt so alone. Is that it—is that the right—”

“No, that's exactly it. I thought I met a nice guy and was finally going to get a real job. Turns out . . .”

“Yep.” A beat.

“I didn't sleep with him that night.” She turns to me. “I need you to know that.” I nod and she allows a small, relieved smile.

“You don't have to—” I pause as Sasha runs into one of the stalls and throws up. “Explain yourself to me,” I say to myself as she retches into the toilet.

“Breathe. There's a cafeteria past the elevators. We'll get you a bubble water. Here's some antacids,” I say, pulling a bottle from my purse and dropping two tablets into the palm of her hand. She pops them into her mouth as I throw the bottle back into my purse and am finally ready to go. She takes a big, deep breath. “It'll settle your stomach.” Sasha gives her lipstick one more pass and we're out of the bathroom. After a quick stop at the cafeteria we're armed with bubble waters and speeding up to the executive floor within minutes.

“Anna Wyatt and Sasha Merchant from Holloway/Greene to see Preeti Dayal,” I say to the receptionist. The entire Manhattan skyline is just behind her. Beautiful.

“Yes. There you are. Have a seat and they'll be right with you,” she says. Sasha and I sit down on a long, gray, modern couch along the far wall next to a couple of men. It's quiet in the waiting room. We all keep to ourselves and are either scrolling through our phones, looking over paperwork, or quietly whispering to whomever we arrived with. I let myself stare out onto the Manhattan skyline and go over the pitch. A deep breath.
And over. And over. Like a script. Hand gestures, when to show the artwork, when to smile, when to lean in, when to make that joke, and when to tell a “personal” story. Visualizing Preeti Dayal leaning forward in her chair with a smile or a question as she gets more and more engaged in our vision.

The door to the waiting room opens and the assistant gives us a regal nod. I gather my things and walk toward the door, Sasha at my heels. A deep breath. I open the door and walk through to the inner offices of Quincy Pharmaceuticals. There is an assistant waiting for us outside the conference room about six feet down the hall.

“We've got this. They're going to love us. Just breathe,” I say to Sasha, who looks as though she's on the verge of losing it. Upon my urging, she takes her first breath since we left the waiting room.

“I am reaching some dizzying heights over here, Anna. I'm panicking. I can't feel my feet. I—”

“Take your time. Breathe. I'm here and I won't leave you,” I say.

“I am seriously about to start crying right now,” Sasha says.

“This means a lot to you. That's a good thing. Let's let your art do the talking for you,” I say, as we finally stand in front of the assistant. Sasha nods, clearly holding back tears.

“Ms. Wyatt. Ms. Merchant. They're ready for you,” the assistant says. Again with the
they
. I thank her and enter the conference room. The full-to-bursting conference room.
They
. The large windows frame the Manhattan skyline once again and it is breathtaking. A long, glossy wooden table stretches down the middle of the room and the entire room is completely walled in with floor-to-ceiling windows. The pitch of my career is going to
take place in a glorified goldfish bowl with ten times the number of people I'd prepared for.

“Ms. Wyatt, it's a pleasure to finally meet you. After we spoke yesterday, I did a little digging. I love what you did on the Tyler Sheeran clothing line. Making that little singer's clothes actually palatable was herculean to say the least,” a woman at the far end of the table says.

“Thank you,” I say, scanning the faces of the other executives in the room. I can actually feel Sasha buzzing from here.

“I'm Preeti Dayal, senior vice president at Quincy Pharmaceuticals, and I'll be spearheading the Lumineux campaign. Your phone pitch was intriguing, Ms. Wyatt. I wanted to see what my colleagues thought of it, if that's okay with you.” I nod and smile (or at least that's what I think I'm doing) as Preeti goes around the room introducing various executives. The introductions fade into that single moment of silence I've been waiting for my entire life. The moment before the moment. A deep breath.

“What do women want,” I say. The men in the room restrain their eye rolls as Preeti leans forward. The next several minutes are a blur as I wind my way through the pitch. The nodding heads of the Lumineux executives. A shared laugh here and a funny anecdote there. Lumineux Shower Gel.
Be the Heroine, Find Your Hero
. Sasha's artwork garners a real smile from Preeti and in an unguarded moment, another executive actually mutters, “Wow.”

The Lumineux Shower Gel spokesman will be none other than the top winner of the Mr. RomanceCon pageant and Helen Brubaker, the woman who wrote
Be the Heroine, Find Your Hero
, will be doing a workshop at the conference. It's the perfect opportunity. We find our hero and the workshop will be free
market research, if not an opportunity to try to get Mrs. Brubaker on board with our campaign. After thirteen minutes and twenty-four seconds (I timed it last night), I conclude the pitch with “Lumineux Shower Gel. Just Be.”

“My wife's book club is reading that
Be the Heroine
book,” an executive says. Several of the other executives concur.

“And the pageant for those guys? That's a real thing?” another executive asks.

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“And that . . . Romance whatever . . .” he asks.

“Con,” Preeti adds.

“They're okay with us inserting ourselves—” A giggle from one of the younger executives. “You know what I mean. Jesus, Ken.” Another stifled giggle from Ken, the guy most likely to chime in with “That's what she said.”

“Ms. Wyatt?” Preeti asks.

“We have been in communication with Ginny Barton, the president of the League of Romance Novelists,” I say, trying to make a harried e-mail exchange in the wee hours of the morning sound way more substantial.

“Sounds like they're superheroes or something,” an executive says.

“Well—”

“Don't even think it, Ken,” Preeti says. Everyone laughs. Ken flushes red and checks his phone.

“The League is in charge of the Con. President Barton has been most helpful. She's extremely excited about the prospect of aligning with Lumineux Shower Gel,” I say.

“It sounds like you've covered all your bases, Ms. Wyatt,” the older executive says.

“I have. Like President Barton, I am extremely excited about the prospect of aligning with Lumineux Shower Gel,” I say.

“Well, thank you, Ms. Wyatt. Ms. Merchant. We will let you know,” Preeti says, smiling.

“Thank you for this opportunity. It's been our pleasure,” I say, gathering my things. The assistant opens the glass door and we are led out of the conference room. We walk down the long hallway, out into the waiting room, and straight out to the elevators. Sasha and I don't say anything as the elevator speeds down. The doors open and we both silently walk out into the ornate Quincy Pharmaceuticals lobby.

“I can't—”

I interrupt, “Not here.” Sasha nods and I notice her eyes are rimmed with red. “We did great. Breathe.” Sasha nods again, but with the pitch finally behind her she begins to fall apart at a more and more rapid rate. I hail a cab and we are whisked away to Penn Station. We're back on the Metroliner in no time. We find our seats, and it is then and only then that I tell her the truth about the pitch. To say the look on her face is terrified and/or horrified would be an understatement.

“So, they weren't looking for an ad agency?” she finally gasps.

“No.”

“And we just . . .”

“Yep.”

“There is no way . . . I am so glad . . . you were so right not to tell me that,” Sasha says.

“I figured,” I say.

“I didn't know you could do stuff like that,” she says.

“Well . . .” I trail off.

We walk back through the pitch and relive every moment.
Every word and every reaction. We dissect everything. We order many cocktails and I roll through the junk food I bought in the snack car after forgetting to stop for lunch. Sasha is beginning to calm down as we fall silent for the last hour of the train trip.

The client liked the pitch. I could feel it in the room. I know I nailed it. I know that we deserve that account. And now? I've just got to wait to hear if Lumineux Shower Gel agrees with me.

We get back to Holloway/Greene and I stop by Audrey's office to debrief her.

“Sounds like you guys really went for it,” Audrey says. I don't know what that means. Is that good . . . is that . . .

“It was a good day,” I say.

“But they didn't buy it in the room, so . . .”

“They didn't
not
buy it in the room, either.”

“Oh, absolutely. We do so appreciate the attention you give to even the smallest of accounts,” Audrey says.

“Well, thank you for your part in it,” I say.

“Oh, it was nothing. I'm always looking for opportunities to support and encourage women in this business,” she says, her hands in the prayer gesture and her cinnamon-roll air in full effect. “I'll be sure to keep Dad in the loop on this.”

“Well, I'll let you know when I hear something.” I turn toward the door before I have to say thank you again.