Diary of a Working Girl (26 page)

But today I just say, “Absolutely perfect,” and start going off about the articles I’ve written (as I do still need to remind him that I am an intellectual literary sort outside of being his assistant, even if I am maintaining the role of unimportant underling while on the telephone).

“I’d love to see some of your stuff,” he says, and I remember who the articles are for and decide to change the topic. I’ve talked myself up so much already, I might be a bit embarrassed and deflate his image of me. I’m quite sure he wouldn’t see a woman’s closet in the same way I would.

“So, what can I do for you?” I ask.

“Meeting in my office in five. Grab John, too. And one more thing—I’m glad you opted against Military-Shlump-Shower-Cap-Chic today.”

I’d almost forgotten.

“John!” I scream over the maroon cubey wall.

“Yes, dear,” he moans like a beleaguered husband, and I think in wonder, how he has really warmed up to me.

“Tom wants us to meet in five minutes in his office.”

“Cool. I’ll swing by and pick you up and we can catch a ride over together.”

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I love office humor. It’s a whole other sort of humor that you just don’t get when you’re sitting by yourself at a computer all day.

At home, I used to laugh really loudly and then comment about whatever it was that was funny, in hopes that one of my neighbors might think I lead an interesting life and ring my bell to start up a conversation. Not surprisingly, this never worked.

I

“So, looks like there has been a lot of movement in the telecommunications sector as of late, what with the merging of companies that have Internet telephone capabilities and those that have vast numbers of traditional telephone customers already. I have in mind a couple of companies that I think would hugely benefit in the long run by pairing their assets and I’m going to need to get together a massive proposal by the end of the month.”

John and I are shaking our heads mechanically in our meeting, as one feels they ought to when someone is delivering a long-winded speech, wondering where to rest our gazes, fidgeting with invisible strands of hair, lint, etc. John is eating a doughnut at the same time and I am in wonderment of how I don’t even want a doughnut because I am now so focused on being slim in order to feel my most sexy when having sex with Liam. Sex really does wonders for diets. I should write an article about this. (I would just like to point out that I am still listening while all of this is going through my head, because listening, thinking something else, and taking notes at the same time are skills I have mastered as an interviewer/writer.)

And Tom goes on: “John. I need you to run the numbers on these two companies.” He hands him a computer printout. “Really look at it from every angle. I need numbers of clients who 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 204

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use the telephone for business, for business and personal, for personal only. I need average usage per month. I need peak hours. I need customer interest surveys on new service areas. I need concerns over these new service areas, frequently asked questions, et cetera. And of course, I’ll get the other guys to do the merger projections.”

“No problem,” says John, who I’m sure is happy to get this project, because when he is not running numbers and doing research, he is really doing nothing at all. I suggested the option of writing a novel in his spare time, but he put the kibosh on that notion, saying he would rather research things on the Internet. Different strokes . . .

“And Lane. I have a bunch of letters on Dictaphone for you to draft here. But as soon as all the data starts rolling in, I would like you to take a more active role in this project. I know you’re good at creative presentation, and I thought about what you said about the job advertisement, and I’d like to see how you would organize and design a piece like this.”

I am loved and appreciated and actually sense my brain getting larger inside my head. I know I can do this, because I have written many press releases and marketing materials in the past (maybe not many, but the ones I have done were fantastic), and feeling very qualified and professional, I venture, “Will I be getting a raise for a change in job duties?”

First Tom looks at me as one would a woman barking at an empty subway seat, and then that one-sided smile pops up, and he says, “Smith Barney does not give raises after the first three weeks of employment, Lane.”

I had to try. “No problem,” I say with visions of Prada heels being snatched from my hands.

“But I will, however, take you both to dinner at a fabulous 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 205

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restaurant of your choosing when we are all through. And make it a nice, expensive one. It’s on the company.”

This is a very wonderful prospect and I am still feeling all fuzzy from being appreciated and sort of promoted, and so the world is right once again. “Great. I know this really great new restaurant that serves ten types of caviar and makes these fantastic flavored blinis, and I have the perfect outfit to wear that I just picked up at . . .”

“Lane, why don’t we just get started on the project first? Okay?”

I make an aye-aye, sir salute with my hand (all of a sudden worrying that I’ve perhaps done the SS salute by mistake).

“Just remember, Ab Fab, this is not a proposal for a hair salon or a clothing boutique, so try to stay away from flower images and any shade of fuchsia, lavender, or teal, okay?”

And you might think that sounds condescending, but it’s not, as Tom knows I am smart (he has just told me this) and he is just teas-ing, as he likes the opportunity to call me Ab Fab and use it in con-text. I enjoy being thought of as the fashionable, young member of the department anyway, and so smile and ask, “What about baby pink? It’s all the rage for lips right now and since the piece is all about communications, it might come together nicely.”

He just shakes his head and turns (I see the half-smile before his back is to me though) and says, “Alright kids, that’s all for now.”

Over the next couple of weeks, the project is shaping up nicely, and I get to schedule meetings with the design and reprographics departments to choose paper and graphics and fonts. I am an integral spoke on the wheel of a very important American institution.

And this project is sort of what I imagine being an editor is like.

Often, when I finally see my published articles, I am disappointed by the design chosen and imagine what I would have done if I’d been given the choice. I always thought I would be really good at 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 206

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that. And bringing the fruits of my labor to Tom at the Friday afternoon meeting during my second week on the project, I can see he is truly impressed.

“You really have a flair for the creative, Ab Fab.”

When he says this, I want to say something that might be helpful about his tie collection, but stop myself.

Only it comes out anyway. “You know, I can really work wonders on men’s wardrobes, too.” My eyes widen with the knowledge of what I’ve just let slip and my mouth takes on the shape I imagine it would if I’d swallowed a bug.

“All right. Let’s have it,” he says, head shaking. “What’s wrong with my wardrobe, Ab Fab?”

I begin to explain that it is really the fault of the girlfriend when a man is dressed poorly, a point that is half joking and half serious, as everyone knows this is true, and most men can’t dress for crap—

except for Liam, of course, who wears those beautiful blue shirts that bring out his eyes, and . . . and really that’s mainly all he wears.

Odd, actually. I picture a closet like Lisa’s filled only with blue shirts. Press a button and a cool breeze of blue shirts goes whizzing by. Only, I rather hope a tour of his closet would be more like,

“And this is the shirt Lane tore off me in the movies, and this one is the one that lay on her floor for a week while we had a nonstop sex-a-thon.”

Anyway, I already know Tom is not the sort of guy who reads
GQ
for the fashion and couldn’t care less about looking anything besides professional and clean-cut, which is merely a job requirement. He did look so nice when I’d run into him on the weekend though in his simple, risk-free jeans and T-shirt. A makeover would be so much fun!

I decide to start small, although I can’t help but wonder why his 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 207

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girlfriend, if she is as awful and controlling as John says, lets him walk out of the house in those ties. Although, judging from her Glamour Shot and dragon nails, I guess it’s entirely possible she’s actually picked them out. Had them monogrammed on the reverse side.

“It’s really just the ties,” I say, as gently as one can say such a thing.

Tom is amused, rather than hurt, but mocks like I’ve just stabbed him in the heart anyway. “Well, what do you propose I need to change about my ties?” he inquires, staring down at the one he is wearing today, which is some sort of homage to modern art—

Mirot, I think.

It looks strikingly similar to a shower curtain I had from IKEA, in my college dorm room.

“It’s the kitsch factor, really,” I say. “A tie is supposed to subtly enhance your suit, not the other way around.” I cock my head here, to appear sweet, and not like an evil enforcer of the laws of fashion.

“Well, then how about you take me shopping for some new ties after work one day next week? I’ll have to look presentable when the big meeting comes around.”

This is a fantastically fun proposal, and I think, a really cute article idea for a men’s magazine. Perhaps
Men’s Health
or something like that. “Mr. Corporate Ups His Stock With a Makeover.” I really like that one. I mention it and say that if we get the article placed, he could probably get all of the ties for free.

“What’s wrong with my stock?”

“Oh, I just . . .” I’m fumbling for an answer that doesn’t sound mean, because really, what
is
so bad about his stock?

He saves me. “It was a rhetorical question, Ab Fab. Just let me know.”

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Tom doesn’t really seem like a person dying for his fifteen minutes of fame, so I skip the part about how they’ll probably want to do a photo shoot if the article is a go.

I can’t help but ask this though: “Won’t your girlfriend mind another woman picking out your ties? That is a very territorial sort of thing, speaking as a woman.” If Liam’s assistant had him galli-vanting around town, peeking in his dressing room, and straighten-ing his trousers, I’d probably turn to stone and crumble into a sandy heap formerly known as Lane Silverman.

He glances at the Glamour Shot of Whitney—with her hazy soap opera eyes and feather boa—and his look turns cold.

“It’s fine,” he says and turns away. “All right. Back to work.”

She really must be awful.

I

I type up a quick pitch to
Men’s Health
, and e-mail it over, since they already have me on file from the tons of past rejections. I feel hopeful, because things have been going well in the breakthrough department since the
Cosmo
thing (which I’m going to start figuring out how to tackle straightaway), and so I mention that assignment and the one for the
Post
, to bolster my reputation.

Perhaps now I really can just get any assignment I want. Imagine the possibilities. The blank wall in my apartment will soon be covered over with framed copies of my
Vogue
column, next to snapshots of Liam and I—surely there’s room for both—and I am considering a rich mahogany for the frames when an e-mail signal appears at the bottom of my screen.

Lane,

Thank you for your article inquiry, and although it is a good idea, we really only work with VERY seasoned writers, and I am afraid 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 209

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you just don’t have enough experience under your belt right now.

It does sound like you are doing lots of things at present, so I am sure in a couple of years, we will be able to work together. I am sorry to be so frank, but today my inbox has been flooded with pitches, and I must tell the rules to all, so I can free myself from having to answer all of these inquiries and concentrate on things that NEED to be done.

Best,

Jim

It has been a little while since I have gotten such a rejection.

And the memory of the regularity of these things, when I was stuck in the pitch-reject loop all day, every day, brings back that cold, empty feeling that makes me want to lie on my couch eating anything and everything with a fat content over fifteen grams.

But then I think of Tom and John and what has just happened in that meeting, and the really important assignment I have been trusted with here (surely worth millions of dollars to the company) and it doesn’t actually seem all that bad. It is not the first time since I began working here that I am happy to have some positives balancing out the negatives.

I recover almost immediately. Which allows my mind to begin thinking clearly again, and consider other publications that might want my piece. The
Post
! I already have a contact there, and they did say I should continue to contribute ideas. Now I’m thinking.

So I pop off an e-mail to my editor over there. With renewed hope I continue working on the big phone proposal.

My editor over at the paper answers almost immediately with an enthusiastic thumbs up, and while Tom acts like it’s just another item on his To-Do list, he is, I think, a bit excited about the venture.

The following Friday, Tom and I are scheduled for a grand tour 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 210

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of the best men’s clothing shops in Manhattan in search of not only ties, but also new suits, button-down shirts, shoes, and everything. I have called ahead and spoken with the publicists to okay the photographer, and, of course, for some of the promised freebies—which I don’t think Tom is quite as enthusiastic about as I am. I guess after spending years with no money in your pockets, you have a very esteemed view of freebies, but if you have money in your pockets, they just occupy more space in your closet. Nope.