Girl Before a Mirror (6 page)

“Hey, how did Sasha do?” Audrey asks.

“She did great. Her artwork is really something,” I say.

“So you're not threatened by her?”

“Why would I be threatened by her?”

“She's twenty-five, beautiful—”

“Oh, no—she's brilliant,” I say, not wanting to blurt out no, those are the reasons your half brother tried to get in her pants
(and failed), but I'll be sure to pass along your “support and encourage women” speech. “She just needed a break. Chuck was right in hiring her.”

“So, you're not—”

“Not at all,” I say.

“Hm.”

“Thank you again and I'll let you know when I hear something,” I say, letting myself out. As I'm walking toward my office, I let the energy of the last several days begin to build. I make myself a cup of tea and walk into my office and close the door behind me. I want this. This account should be mine.

I scroll through my phone, anything to get my mind off The Waiting, and see several texts from Ferdie. I dial his number and wait as it rings.

“How'd it go?” he asks.

“It went really well,” I say, sipping my tea.

“And did they go for it?”

“They said they'd let us know.”

“Ouch.”

“I know.”

“So, I have a thing tonight that I want you to come to,” Ferdie says.

“You have a thing?”

“Yeah.”

“You going to tell me any more than that?”

“I'm sending you the address.”

“It's not The Naughty Kitty, is it?”

“No, definitely not. It's a rink.”

“You skating again?”

“Something like that.”

“You okay?”

“Just come. We'll be there until eight, I think,” he says.

“Okay. I'll be there.” We say our good-byes. I can't worry about Ferdie right now. I've been doing that for the past few years and all the years before that. Ferdinand Wyatt: the King of the Bad Decision. I was so thankful when he found hockey, because it kept him on the straight and narrow or whatever the hockey version of straight and narrow is. He could fight and act out and it was all part of the sport. But when he got injured all bets were off and he was right back to the drugs, the booze, and the terrible women, trying to find part-time work bartending and crashing on people's couches if he came home at all. If he's back at a rink, this is good news.

I find myself just sitting at my desk. Running through the pitch. Thinking about Audrey's reaction. All these accounts—when we're waiting to hear—always feel like a puppy you don't know if you get to take home yet. You're at the pound and your parents are giving you that look like mayyyyybe, so you keep your heart walled up just enough so you're not laid completely bare when the answer turns out to be no. I'd love to work on the Lumineux account. Preeti Dayal seems really great, which just complicates matters. And most of all? The campaign feels . . . important. Which is weird for me. A first. The idea that I could be a part of something significant and make up for some of the less-than-noble campaigns I've done earlier in my career is more than a little appealing. Less-than-noble campaigns that, while not at the root of why girls like Sasha think so poorly of themselves, certainly don't help. Lumineux is different. It feels like it's the manifestation of my Time-Out.

“It's the butterfly,” I say aloud to myself in a particularly dramatic moment after I've built an entire narrative about how the last year was about cocooning and . . . well, you get the idea. Michael's
Rocky
analogy was way better, although I'll never tell him that.

Time passes.

Time slows down.

Time stops.

It's 6:47
P.M.
when Audrey leans against my now open office door, not that I'm staring at the clock or anything.

“So sorry. Lumineux called a few hours ago,” she says. I see Sasha appear just behind her, seemingly from nowhere. “Good Lord . . .” Audrey trails off.

“Sasha,” she prompts.

“Uh-huh. You scared me.” Sasha apologizes and sneaks past her, settling into one of the client chairs in my office.

“And?” I ask.

“They want to see the campaign you pitched through to fruition and then they'll decide. We'll go back in next Monday with everything we've got,” Audrey says.

“So, it's a maybe,” I say.

“But this is good, right?” Sasha asks, looking from Audrey to me, then back to Audrey. Who doesn't even look at her.

“It's definitely better than a full pass,” I say. Sasha looks back over at me. I struggle out a smile for her and she nods, almost agreeing with herself that this is good news.

“Definitely,” Sasha says.

“We'll send the two of you down to that RomanceCon thing. They're sending Preeti, Pretty Somebody, as well,” Audrey says.

“Preeti Dayal; she's in charge of the campaign,” Sasha says. I shoot her a look. The less information Audrey has the better, young Jedi.

“Oh, really? Well, that's a good sign,” Audrey says.

“You'll judge the pageant and see if you can get as close to this Brubaker woman as you can. If she signs off on the campaign? It's a lock for us,” Audrey says.

“Judge the pageant?” Sasha asks.

“It's basically casting, so yeah. I'm sure Ginny Barton will be amenable,” I say, hoping beyond hope that that's actually true. Sasha nods.

“The business office has your travel arrangements,” Audrey says, checking her phone. I nod. Audrey waits.

“Thank you so much,” I say.

“Dad was really interested in this when I spoke to him earlier,” Audrey says.

“That's nice to hear,” I say.

“I didn't know that Lumineux was connected with Quincy Pharmaceuticals,” she says.

“Is it?” I ask.

“Hm,” Audrey says. She taps the side of my doorjamb a couple of times and heads back down the hall. Ugh.

“Close the door,” I say to Sasha.

“I hate that she always forgets my name,” Sasha says.

“Oh, she remembers your name,” I say.

“What? Well, why—”

“It makes you feel forgettable. It's a power move,” I say absently.

“That's terrible,” she says.

“It is, isn't it,” I say.

“What are you . . . shouldn't we be happy? This is good news, right?” Sasha asks.

“I don't trust her.”

“Who . . . Audrey?”

“The whole ‘we' thing and ‘us' and that last little bit about her dad being into this campaign?” I say.

“Him being interested isn't a good thing?”

“It is if she gave us credit for it, which I will bet my entire year's salary that she did not,” I say.

“Why would she do that?” Sasha asks.

“Why?”

“Yeah.”

“Why would Audrey take credit for an account that could land this agency one of the largest corporations in the world on the eve of her creepy, sexual harassing little half-brother getting control of the company?”

“Oh . . . now I get it.”

“Bloody Mary indeed.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“So what do we do?” Sasha asks.

“We go to RomanceCon and we make ourselves indispensable to the client.”

“Make sure they won't forget our names,” Sasha says.

“Exactly. So that in the end, it won't matter what Audrey or Charlton want. It's what Preeti Dayal and Lumineux wants. And we have less than a week in Phoenix to make Preeti Dayal want no one but us,” I say, thankful that in calming Sasha down I'm also calming myself. Having to be positive for her has kept me from spiraling. That and the pure panic and exhaustion of
the last thirty-six hours. Fingers crossed I don't have a moment's peace in the coming days.

“Okay. This is good. We can do this,” Sasha says, standing and gathering her things.

“Definitely. Definitely. What are you up to tonight?” I ask.

“I've got a date,” Sasha says, standing.

“Nice. Don't stay out too late. We have a plane to catch first thing,” I say, swinging my workbag over my shoulder.

“Yep,” Sasha says.

“See you tomorrow morning?” I begin walking down the hallway.

“Anna?” I turn around. Sasha continues, “Thanks for today. You were . . . thanks for being nice . . . nice to me.”

“You're welcome,” I say. A smile. An exhausted, starving, why-did-I-agree-to-go-to-an-ice-rink-tonight-of-all-nights smile.

The cold of the rink feels good. I buy a hot dog at the concession stand along with a soda and some peanut M&M's. I eat the hot dog while I'm waiting for some kid to put relish on his dog and then I go back to buy another one. I'm beyond starving.

I walk toward the bleachers and my entire life with Ferdie comes rushing back. How many hours, days, and lifetimes have I spent in the bleachers of some hockey rink? I settle in and bite into my (second) hot dog, putting my soda and M&M's just next to me on the bleachers. I'm glad to be here and not spinning at home in a haze of to-do lists and travel arrangements.

A gaggle of tiny boys in giant hockey pads moves across the ice in a chaotic, swirling eddy of cracking hockey sticks and shouts for them to slow down and listen. It's a game of epic proportions
between the teeny-tiny red team and the teeny-tiny blue team. Despite their attempts at being rough and scary, they are beyond adorable. I scan the bleachers for Ferdie, thinking he's up next in some kind of ornery adult league they've got going on here. My eyes are drawn back to the ice as a ref has to pull one teeny-tiny red player off a teeny-tiny blue player like they're overexcited puppies in a box.

Ferdie.

I lean forward, almost choking on my hot dog. Ferdie's faux-hawked curls creep out from under his helmet as he holds the teeny-tiny red player under one arm with ease, trying not to laugh at the windmilling arms of the teeny-tiny blue player who is after them both. The black-and-white-striped long-sleeved shirt hides most of Ferdie's tattoos from the boys who would definitely think they were way too cool.

“You don't think it's stupid?” Ferdie asks after the game is over.

“Stupid? No way. I think it's amazing.” We walk to the Metro, his giant hockey bag swung over his shoulder.

“The pay is nothing, but these other refs are telling me you can really make a lot of money doing this.”

“I think it's great,” I say, looking up at him. “You look happy.”

“Happy.” He lights up a cigarette.

“Now if you could just stop smoking,” I say.

“But smoking makes me happy,” he says with a wink, flicking his lighter off and sliding it into his pocket. We are quiet as we walk. “I haven't been happy for a long time.”

“I know.”

“Feels scary,” he says, not looking at me.

“Absolutely terrifying,” I say, unable to look at him, either.

So when people say Phoenix is a dry heat, they clearly mean that this is what it feels like to be cremated. For the first few feet outside the airport, I'm in denial. It's not that bad, I keep saying to myself. My sunglasses fog up during the Rental Car Shuttle ride. I can't take a full breath. The sweat is immediate. And then it's just basic survival skills as Sasha and I try to find our rental car. We are like two dying rodents stranded in the heat of the desert and all we want is shelter and water.

We find our rental, load our luggage into the nonexistent trunk, and proceed to silently suffocate as the air-conditioning takes its sweet time. Sasha and I just stare dumbly at the vents. Waiting. Unable to think or do anything else.

Then we're cast out onto various freeways that loop and swing around the sprawl of Phoenix, a city that looks like someone spread out a huge sheet of sandpaper and started setting little Monopoly houses on top of it. We were unable to get into the conference hotel, so I made sure we're staying at the same place as Preeti Dayal—the Arizona Biltmore. Her husband
enjoys playing golf, according to her secretary, with whom I have become friendly. When I see her in the lobby, I'll feign surprise.

As we drive through the streets of Phoenix I notice immediately that, although the houses look normal enough, it's as though some giant has come along with his thumb and just smashed them a little bit farther into the ground.

“There aren't any windows,” Sasha says, dabbing her face with some cosmetics product I would have no idea how to use.

“What?” I ask.

“Look. The buildings. No windows,” she says. She's right. While there are windows, they're definitely not the same kind of windows I'm used to. They're screened and awninged and used sparingly, if at all. It seems as though Phoenix's entire architectural sensibility is simply “batten down the hatches because it is hot as hell.”

We pull up to the Arizona Biltmore and everything changes. The beautiful Frank Lloyd Wright–inspired 1929 resort is right out of a picture postcard. The first thing I notice is the green. As with the windows, I realize I hadn't really seen any lawns or flora and fauna. Here at the Biltmore? We're surrounded by golf courses and palm trees and lush gardens. I never knew green was such an extravagance.

The valet takes the keys to the rental and motions for Sasha and me to pull our bags out of the trunk. We fall in behind the so very blond women and their aging husbands.

By the time Sasha and I haul our luggage into the lobby of the hotel, I've never been happier to feel the cool whoosh of air-conditioning in my life. And I've lived in the South. We check in to the hotel and head to our rooms, blissfully surrounded by air-conditioning.

“The kick-off toast starts in an hour,” Sasha says as we wait for the elevator.

“Kick-off toast?” I ask.

“Sure. It's right before the Opening Night Bacchanalia.”

There's just so much wrong with that sentence.

Sasha continues, “It's all in here.” She hands me a printout of the RomanceCon schedule. “We have to be in the Silver Ballroom in an hour.”

Once the elevator doors close, I scan the schedule Sasha just gave me. The doors ding open and I gather my stuff just enough to walk the few feet out of the elevator and into the hallway of our floor.

“‘Walk the plank at the Pirate Booty Ball'?” I read in a tone that is half wonder, half fear.

“Isn't it great?” Sasha beams, looking at the arrows posted on the wall, as she gets oriented with where our rooms are.

“‘Get wet down under at the Mermaid Bash,' and finally, lest we forget: ‘noir it up, gangsta style' is the theme of this year's pageant.”

“I can't wait!” Sasha squeals. All of my belongings are strewn at my feet as I scan the parties over and over.

“That's
gangsta
with an
a
,” I say, finally handing the printout back to Sasha. I collect my things and check my room key, and we continue trudging down the hall to our rooms.

“We're right across from each other!” Sasha says, gesturing back and forth at our rooms.

“That we are,” I say, sticking my room key into the slot. Green light. “See you in an hour?”

“I'll be right here,” Sasha says, standing in her now open doorway with a smile that belies what we've endured already
today. I let my door close behind me and the silence surrounds me like a dream.

What I want to do is flop onto my oversized king bed and sleep like the dead. What I do instead is unpack my clothes and hop in the shower before I can think better of it. In what feels like thirty seconds, I'm trudging back down the long hallway, getting our car from the valet, and driving through the dusky streets of Phoenix on the way to something called the Silver Ballroom somewhere in the bowels of the designated RomanceCon hotel for the kick-off toast. This event apparently comes before the Opening Night Bacchanalia. I haven't eaten anything since this morning, except the remainder of the peanut M&M's I found in the bottom of my purse—at which point I sadly reacted as though I'd found a million dollars.

“This kick-off toast better have something to eat on par with this little hole-in-the-wall Mexican place I found online,” I say, waiting at a red light. “I haven't had good Mexican food since we lived in San Diego.”

“You lived in San Diego?” Sasha asks, her neck damp with sweat after only two minutes in the 112-degree heat.

“We lived everywhere. My dad is in the military,” I say.

“Like how many places?” Another red light.

“Seventeen before I graduated from high school,” I say.

“Eesh,” Sasha says, propelling me back into the land of now, where sharing isn't something I usually do. I was lulled into it from starvation and the thought of good Mexican food.

“It was fine,” I say, wanting to stop this line of questioning immediately.

“Brothers or sisters?”

“Ferdie. A brother.”

“Ferdie?”

“Ferdinand. My mother's French Canadian.”

“Younger or older?” Is this the world's longest car ride?

“Nine years younger.”

“That's a lot of time to be on your own before he came along.”

The GPS robotically tells me that the RomanceCon hotel—
thank God
—is just up on the right. With all the excitement, I act like I don't hear that last comment. Sasha is right, of course, but she doesn't need to know that. We valet and then run into the hotel so as not to get all sweaty again.

And then all hell breaks loose.

RomanceCon explodes all around us. Romance novel covers are everywhere: on people's room key cards, on the doors to the elevators, and hanging high above the hotel lobby. It's almost shocking to see a man with a shirt on at this point. Packs of women swirl and detonate all around us. Laughter, hugs, and happy reunions inject every inch of the hotel with an air of excitement.

“Ms. Wyatt?” A round woman dressed in full Roman garb approaches me, although she looks like the version of a Roman woman who would festoon a jar of jam.

“Yes?” I ask, startled yet somehow comforted.

“I'm Ginny Barton. I'm the president of the League of Romance Novelists.” She looks like she could just as soon offer to help me with my math homework than tell me the lovely story of her heroine's “mossy grotto” and how it “burns from want.”

“Of course! Thank you so much for everything you've done to make this possible. We so appreciate it,” I say.

“We stuck out that much, did we?” Sasha says with a smile.

“Just a bit,” Ginny says.

“Such a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm Anna Wyatt and this is Sasha Merchant. We are looking forward to working with you,” I say, switching into work mode. Sasha is breathlessly taking it all in, flashing a huge smile for Mrs. Barton.

“Ginny Barton,” she repeats, shaking hands with both Sasha and me. “We at the LRN couldn't be more excited about the prospect of Lumineux soap using one of our heroes. It's just all so thrilling.” Ginny has led us to a series of escalators and we follow her up, up, and up.

“We hope it works out. It's an exciting campaign,” I say. We come to an upper floor and . . .

“Welcome to RomanceCon, ladies,” Ginny says.

All I can do is stand there with my mouth hanging open.

In just one short escalator ride, I've entered an alternate universe that makes Wonderland look sedate.

Hundreds of women thread and weave through this upper lobby area, their salon-ready hair now coiffed with olive branches, togas draped with precision, while historically accurate costumes parade past us. The volume is hovering at near-deafening levels. We are propelled into the thick of it.

“I've just died and gone to heaven,” Sasha squeals. I say nothing. There are no words. “Take your time. Breathe. I'm here and I won't leave you.” Sasha is throwing my own words back at me. She gives me a wide smile and we enter the fray. As we are herded into the Silver Ballroom, Sasha continues to point out famous author after famous author. They are part of it all, bedecked in their Roman best and taking pictures with fans. I tell her she should go up to them. Say something.

“Oh, no. I couldn't! What would I say?” Sasha asks, as we take flutes of champagne off a silver tray now that we're
safely inside. We settle ourselves near the back of the Silver Ballroom—a dimly lit, soon-to-be-unveiled masterpiece, I'm sure. The chandeliers twinkle above us, but I can barely make out the Roman columns on either side of the large stage that anchors the entire ballroom. “Should we have dressed up?” Sasha asks, tugging at her tailored blazer, deciding to unbutton it in a moment of pure abandon.

“We can't be the only ones not dressed up,” I say, scanning the ballroom filled with everyone dressed up and not one person—

“What do you think?” Ginny Barton asks.

“We're feeling a tad underdressed,” I say.

“Not to worry, the editors and agents don't dress up, either,” Ginny says, pointing out the sleek-looking women dressed all in black peppering the otherwise debaucherous festivities. “People will just think you two are in publishing.” I see a woman in a beautiful tailored suit approaching us. She's probably trying to flock with her own kind. Then I recognize her. I hear Sasha let out an involuntary gasp as the woman—and the two assistants who trail her—nears.

“Helen! So good to see you,” Ginny says, extending her hand to the woman.

“Oh, please.” Helen Brubaker pulls Ginny in for a hug. They separate from each other and Ginny resituates her toga.

“This heat is killing me, Barton. You guys ever think about having this thing somewhere other than Phoenix?” Helen Brubaker's smoky rasp harkens back to every diner waitress who called you honey and kept your coffee topped off. Her rough-edged accent contrasts with her designer clothes, and I can't help but gawk at the tasteful yet very expensive jewelry that
accessorizes her lithe, yoga-ready figure. Even though Helen Brubaker is clearly in her late sixties, she just looks . . . vital. Alive. Polished. Wildly intimidating. And now I'm staring.

“You know we love it here,” Ginny says.

“That's ridiculous. No one has a strong opinion on Phoenix. Although maybe that's its allure.” Helen laughs.

“Helen Brubaker, this is Anna Wyatt and Sasha Merchant from that ad agency I was talking to you about,” Ginny says. The entire crowd begins to notice that Helen Brubaker is among them. The side-glances, the gossiping behind cupped hands, the selfies that just happen to be standing in front of Helen. She is unfazed.

“Oh sure. You guys are coattailing my book, right?” Helen takes a flute of champagne from a passing tray and downs it.

“I assure you—”

“I'm messing with you, hon. You need to loosen up,” Helen says, hitting me on the back as if we're longtime friends at some beerfest.

“I'm a huge fan,” Sasha ekes out, her eyes fixed on the floor.

“Aren't you cute. Thank you, sweetheart,” Helen says, ruffling Sasha's perfect black ringlets.

The room falls into darkness.

The entire crowd erupts in applause as my fingers tighten around my flute of champagne.

A single spotlight illuminates a huge banner high above the Silver Ballroom. The man pictured is muscular and bedecked in a pair of jeans, cowboy boots, and a worn-in cowboy hat. According to the western typeface emblazoned across the top of the banner, his name is
COLT
. The crowd goes wild. Another spotlight and this time it's
BILLY
and he's a gladiator in the arena—a
hot gladiator in an oddly sexual arena. Another spotlight and now we've got
JAKE
, the come-hither fireman.
LANTZ
, with his tangle of reddish-blond hair and scruff, stands on what looks like a moody moor in just a kilt. He's shirtless, of course.
TRISTAN
is done up in his steampunk best: top hat, goggles, a tweed vest, and pinstripe pants.
JOSH
, with his tousle of black hair and piercing blue eyes, is perfect as any woman's Austenian fantasy in his historically accurate garb. And finally, my personal favorite,
BLAISE
. Blaise's blond hair is swept up and he appears to be sporting some kind of sparkly lotion, vampire fangs, and a brooding stare. The spotlights fall from their banners and circle as the electro music builds and builds. The crowd goes wild.

“Welcome to RomanceCon!” a voice booms over the loudspeaker. The music kicks in and a flood of silver confetti falls from the ceiling as the stage comes to life—all seven men posed like Grecian statues in various stages of undress.

Each man comes forward as the announcer calls his name to applause and catcalls.

“This must seem so strange to you,” Helen says, noticing that I have yet to close my mouth, choosing just to let it hang open.