Mercury in Retrograde (15 page)

But lately, ever since she'd put in for the promotion, she'd started to wonder if perhaps her blind ambition wasn't really hiding something else. She had a constant terror of failure, remarkable even by type-A standards. It was reinforced by having lost a husband and what seemed to be a picture-perfect life. She felt she hadn't lived up to her parents', Noah's, and everybody else's expectations. And sometimes she didn't even know what she wanted anymore—except to lose thirty pounds and not die alone.

“Dana? You coming?” her secretary's voice buzzed through the intercom.

“Right now,” Dana said, jolting out of her thoughts and rushing down the hall to Mr. Kornberg's office.

Slade Kornberg was the seventy-six-year-old patrician statesman of the office. He'd started the company with the Struck brothers in 1969, and they'd quickly become known as the most successful white-collar law firm in the city—aggressively and, more often than not, successfully, fighting for their clients. His corner office, which overlooked Central Park and the West Side, was decorated in dark wood, dark leather, and brass, just like his favorite reading room at the New York Athletic Club.

When Dana entered his office, he looked up from the stack of papers he'd been reading at his massive walnut wood desk, but didn't move. The light from the green Tiffany reading lamp cast a shadow on his face, making the wrinkles deeper than they actually were.

“Dana,” he said.

“Mr. Kornberg,” she answered.

“Have a seat,” he said, waving toward the closest leather armchair studded with brass nails.

“I see you want to become a full partner.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Even though we just made you a junior partner.”

“I have the hours and I have the skill,” Dana said, getting annoyed. “I do the work anyway, I might as well be recognized for it. And I love the firm and plan on being here my entire career.”

“Smart girl.” Kornberg cackled. “Just what I like to hear; you know that. I agree. You are a suitable candidate despite your youth—which, I won't lie to you—concerns me.”

“But—” Dana said.

“Let me finish,” Kornberg said. “I will bring this up with the Struck brothers and the other partners. We'll give you our decision in two months. Until then, I suggest you beef up your billable hours and bring a cot into work. Full partners have no lives.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dana said, “and may I say—”

“That is all.” Kornberg sighed, turning back to his papers. “Dismissed.”

Dana didn't breathe until she was safely back in her office. The stress of the meeting had tied her stomach into knots, and she felt her appetite slipping away. She felt something on the back of her head and went to scratch it. When she pulled her hand away, there was a clump of hair in it.

Dana was not only losing control, it seemed, she was now
losing her hair.

The next Wednesday, Penelope—swathed in jeans and a green wrap shirt made in a flattering jersey material she'd picked up on the H&M excursion with Lipstick—was assigned Marge's latest ratings-centered idea: “We're doing an in-house catwalk for National Underwear Day!”

“National Underwear Day?” Penelope, seated at a desk in the newsroom, asked as a feeling of doom overwhelmed her.

“Yeah, yeah, it's some Hanes-sponsored thing. A bunch of models are coming over in their underwear and talking about how it's important to wear it. Very topical, what with Paris, Britney, Lindsay, et al. thinking it's optional these days.”

“Oh, okay,” Penelope said. “Sure.”

“And you're doing the interview in your skivvies,” Marge, stuffed into a bright yellow suit, added.

“What?” Penelope squeaked, standing up.

“In your underwear,” Marge said. “Don't worry. Hanes—which, may I remind you, is also a big advertiser on this channel—sent some over. Granny pants and a tank.”

“But…” Penelope sputtered, “but I didn't shave!”

“Should've thought about that this morning,” Marge
snapped. She dropped a package from Hanes on a nearby desk, turned on her cherry-red heels, and headed back to her office. “Coffee. Now.” she demanded as she passed David's desk.

Penelope sat down at the desk and put her head in her hands.

This is so humiliating,
she thought.

She considered calling Dana, who would most likely threaten a lawsuit—why was it that people who worked in the corporate world had no idea what went on in “creative” fields? Dana couldn't understand why everyone didn't wear suits with hose to work and always looked at Penelope after she had once again cursed and, in shock, said, “You talk like that at work?” Instead, Penelope remembered Laura Lopez doing a shoot with the dolphins in the Central Park Zoo in her bikini and thought of Kelly Ripa going into the fish bowl with David Blaine during the magician's supposed “drowning stunt” several years ago at Lincoln Center.

They had it worse.
Penelope sighed. She grabbed the Hanes tank top and matching pair of boyshorts—both in a TV friendly shade of orange—and headed to the bathroom to change. At least the outfit looked like something somebody would wear in the summer. If they were fifteen and at the beach.

Half an hour later, as the scantily clad models assembled on the studio's sofa, Penelope emerged from the bathroom, ready to work.

She held her head high and marched over to the IKEA sofa on set, announcing to no one in particular, “I'm ready! Let's do this!”

“Well, hello,” Trace, who'd sneaked up behind her, said, leering. Penelope turned toward him. He was staring at her chest, and his just-dyed mustache, which still had remnants of his lunch crumbled in it, was twitching. “A little underdressed,
aren't we?”

“Not because I want to be,” Penelope snapped, taking a step back.

“Hmmm, what's this?” Trace said, leaning in toward her right breast. Before she could stop him, his hand shot out and with his thumb and forefinger, grabbed a long loose blond hair that was on the undershirt, tweaking her nipple on the way. “Can't have you shedding on air,” he said, winking at her.

Penelope, in a state of shock, just stood there, mouth agape, too stunned to do anything.

In her mind she'd already grabbed the offending hand with the hair still in it, leaned toward Trace, and hissed, “I may have to do this shoot, but if you ever—
ever
—touch me again I will call my lawyer Dana Gluck and slap a lawsuit on you so fast your head will spin.”

But in reality all she could manage was a meek, “Get off me…jerk.”

Trace turned a lighter shade of shoe leather under his tanned makeup and said, “Well. That's the thanks I get for trying to help out the freshman!” before walking away.

“Fresh
woman
!” Penelope snarled after him.

Eric, giggling, came over and slapped Penelope on the back. “Nice job, kid. I got it on tape. Now that was good TV!” Stew put a microphone on her and whispered, “Don't worry. We'll get him. I'll spray some mace over his makeup. He'll be out sick for a week with hives.”

Thomas, who'd been putting microphones on the models, rushed over.

“You okay?” he asked. “I'll back you up if you want to talk to Marge about that.”

“Whatever,” Penelope, still blushing furiously, said. “Forget it. I've worked in frat houses before. Let's just do this.” She took her seat in the interviewer's chair.

One of the four leggy models, all of whom were dressed in bra tops and string bikini underwear, looked at Penelope's hairy legs and sniffed, “Ew,” just as Thomas counted down, “Three…Two…One…”

“Hi, and welcome to New York Access,” Penelope chirped to the camera. “But more important, welcome to the Hanes National Underwear Day celebration!”

Ten minutes later the segment was over. Two minutes after that, Penelope was once again wrapped back in her green shirt and jeans and was busy wiping off her makeup in the makeup room when Thomas came in.

“Look, about what happened before,” Thomas said. “Trace was completely out of line. That will
not
happen again, I promise.”

“It's okay,” Penelope said, rubbing a towelette over her face. “Thanks, though.”

“On the bright side, I think the shoot went well, and I think Marge is—”

At that moment Marge walked in the room. “Marge is what?”

“Happy?” Thomas squeaked, keeping his eyes diverted. The yellow suit was too bright. It was like looking directly into the sun.

“Damn right I'm happy! Good shoot,” she said gruffly. “Genius idea of mine! Amazing!”

“Wow,” Thomas said after she left. “I don't think I've ever seen her so satisfied.”

“Yeah,” Penelope agreed, sitting in one of the makeup chairs. “She looked like a pleased piece of lemon meringue pie.”

“But not as tasty.” Thomas laughed, putting his arm around the back of Penelope's chair.

“Hey,” he said, turning to face her, “would you like to, maybe sometime, um…”

“Yeah?” Penelope asked, feeling her stomach tie up in knots and her heart start to pound through her chest.

“Well, I was thinking we could—”

Just then Laura Lopez, back from the junket for the new action flick,
Stargate IV,
starring the buff Danish action star Dane Butch and the newest big screen nymphet Bebe Williams, swooshed in.

Damn you for the interference, Laura Lopez. A pox on Natalie Morales for you!
Penelope thought.

Laura flung the latest copy of
Y
at Penelope. “You think you're so great,” she snarled. “Well, I've been working here a lot longer than you, sister, and no one—
no one
—does the job better than Laura Lo-PEZ. You better watch it.” She stalked out, returned to her cubicle, and pinned a photo of herself sandwiched between Dane and a waifish Bebe to her celebrity wall.

“What the hell is the matter with her?” said Penelope. “What's with the
Y
?”

“You didn't know?” Thomas asked.

“About what?” Penelope said, fidgeting in her chair.

“Turn to page seventy-four,” Thomas said. “I figured you'd seen it already. I know you're friends with someone who works there….”

Penelope picked up the magazine and flipped it open to the relevant page. And there it was. On the top of the gossipy “Spy” page.

“Wow,” Penelope said, in a bit of a daze. “I've never been called chic before.”

“Watch your back,” Thomas said. “Laura and Kandace won't take this lying down. They've been trying to get press on themselves for years.”

“Well, it's not my fault—I didn't ask her to do it. I didn't even know about it.”

 

A few minutes later Penelope sneaked to the back of the office by Storm's desk and dialed Lipstick's cell.

“Hey, Lips,” she said when Lipstick picked up. “I saw the piece.”

“Oh! You did!” Lipstick said. “I was saving it as a surprise. Normally we close the magazine two months before publication, but I had done a piece on Calvin Klein and his new pet mini-tiger and it was in
Women's Wear Daily
three weeks ago, so I had to fill the space last minute. I hope you don't mind.”

“Mind? Nah, not really,” Penelope said. “But I think it may
have gotten me in trouble with Laura and Kandace. Thomas says they're gunning for me.”

“Oh, dang, I'm sorry. I was only trying to help you by raising your profile and showing Marge how fabulous you are. Only a month into the job and people are paying attention! And, okay, kind of an ‘eff you' to the
Telegraph
.”

“Yeah, that made me laugh,” Penelope agreed.

“Seriously, though, the stuff Marge has you doing lately is the funniest thing on TV right now, and Jack loved the piece. We could probably do a profile in a couple months if it works out.”

“Ack,” Penelope said, feeling her gag reflex starting to kick in. “Um, not sure about that. But thanks. I appreciate the support. Nobody'll notice anyway, I'm sure. You coming to yoga tonight?”

“Of course!” Lipstick said. “But I'm a little nervous. I have to register the designer for my table at the Met today. I'm dying. What if everyone finds out?'

“Who cares?” Penelope shot back. “You make great stuff. I bet they're all just jealous they don't have one of your dresses.”

“Well, I have had a few queries asking where people can buy them.”

“See? Now, what are you calling it?”

“Dauphin.”

“Dolphin?”

“No, Dauphin. It's the French word for successor.”

“Niiiiice. Take that, Bitsy Farklestein!”

“Farmdale.”

“Whatever.”

“Also,” Lipstick's voice dropped to a whisper, “Something weird is going on. I think someone is following me.”

“Oh, come on, Lips.” Penelope laughed. “That's retarded. I love you, but you do tend to be a tad bit dramatic.”

“No, really. For the past week, I swear some weird lady with
a wig cut just like Anna Wintour's bob with big black sunglasses and a brown overcoat has been popping up everywhere. And every time I look directly at her, she runs away. She was there this morning when I left for work. Last night when I left the bar with Zach—”

“Zach?” Penelope cut her off. “Who's Zach?”

“Oh, um, that guy who, ah, lives on the third floor—remember the one I told you about who helped me move in? The artist?”

“Yeeeeah…”

“Well, I finally got around to thanking him—I knocked on every door on the third floor. So embarrassing.”

And it had been. Lipstick, always one to send a handwritten thank-you note immediately after every event and flowers if it was a sit-down dinner, had been so busy, she'd let her manners lapse over the last month or two. The night before, she was trudging up the stairs after covering another society party following a full day of work and thinking of yet another dress to create, when she spotted paint splotches on the linoleum floor on the third floor landing.

That looks familiar,
she thought, as she remembered the Moving Day from Hell.
That guy Zach must think I'm incredibly rude. I should thank him. And he was so cute.

After she'd tossed her Dior bag into her apartment and applied some lip gloss—ever since the car incident that earned her her nickname, Lipstick never actually wore lipstick—she marched down to the third floor in her black Louboutin heels,
Dior skirt, and a cowl-necked top of her own creation.

Hmm, which one would he be?
she thought, looking at the four apartment doors: A, B, C, and D. She knocked on the nearest entrance. Nothing. So she moved on to the next apartment, knocked, and heard a man's voice say, “Coming, coming. Hold your horses.” Two seconds later a grizzled man in his sixties wearing only a stained pair of tighty-but-not-so-whiteys and clutching a Coors Light opened the door.

“Yeah?” He belched, scratching his distended, hairy belly. “Whadda you want?”

“Oh, sorry,” Lipstick said, not entirely sure where to look, “I'm looking for Zach. Does he, um, live here?”

“I live here. Alone!” the man barked. “I'm not gay!”

“No, no, of course not. I didn't mean to imply that. Not that there's anything wrong with being gay—”

“Says who?” He grimaced.

“Well, perhaps that's a conversation for another time,” Lipstick said. “Do you know where Zach lives? He's an artist?”