Pretty in Ink

by Lindsey Palmer

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

"A sharp, hilarious romp through a spot-on believable women's magazine." --Sally Koslow, former Editor-in-Chief of McCall's "An essential novel.  .  .engaging, sensitive, and so much fun.  .  .I wanted to hang out with the women of Hers Magazine long after I'd turned the last page." -Diana Spechler, author of Skinny For years, Hers magazine has been a fixture on newsstands--relatable, reliable, and ever-so-slightly frumpy. But with sales slumping, Hers' editor-in-chief soon finds a pink slip in her inbox. And her ruthless, blisteringly high-heeled replacement may not be finished cleaning house yet.  .  . Leah Brenner suspects she won't be on the payroll much longer either. A telecommuting, breast milk-pumping mom of three doesn't mesh with her new boss Mimi's vision of a sleeker, younger-skewing Hers. Not content with nabbing Leah's office, Mimi's protégée, Victoria, is itching to take over Leah's duties too--and she's not alone. As the summer rolls out, and staffers are asked to give up even their sexiest secrets to save the brand, everyone at Hers --the sycophantic new assistant;the photo editor who's sleeping with her boss;the Ivy League intern with oversized aspirations--will fight to keep her career, and some shred of dignity, intact. Smart, perceptive, and hilarious, Lindsey Palmer's debut delivers an all too true-to-life tale of very different women faced with high-stakes choices in a rapidly changing--yet utterly familiar--world. Publishers Weekly says of Pretty in Ink, "Filled with juicy gossip and outrageous office politics...a dishy, catty book, that's... an indulgent roll in the mud. Palmer writes this side of womanhood brilliantly." Booklist says, "A lighthearted gambol through the ever-changing world of women's magazine publishing, former magazine editor Palmer's debut contains the authenticity of experience and the salacious story snippets fans of The Devil Wears Prada (2003) will appreciate... With different chapters devoted to different POVs, the politics of the magazine industry find full display in this deliciously delectable read." "Tantalizing.  .  . Pretty in Ink is part comic love story and part bloody valentine." ‑‑Devan Sipher, New York Times"Vows" columnist and author of The Wedding Beat "This entertaining debut exposes the catty, crazy and competitive inner workings of women's magazines. A former editor herself, Palmer explores this rarefied workplace and the women struggling to rise to the top--or just hold onto their jobs. A fun, fantastic read." -- Jennifer Miller, author of The Year of the Gadfly

Release date: March 25, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 305

Sample

On May 1, the New York Post makes the news official: Mimi Walsh has been appointed editor in chief of Hers magazine, to replace the recently deposed Louisa Harding. “Mayday!” I say under my breath, a private distress call that will eventually resound throughout the office. I estimate I have one month, tops, remaining in my post. As the former leader’s second-in-command, I am by default a relic of the old regime. I can feel the target on my forehead: mortifying and unmistakable, like a pulsing red zit.

Mimi starts the very next day. It’s a Wednesday, usually one of my work-from-home days, but I make a point of being on-site for the grand debut. A 5:00 a.m. alarm shocks my body awake, and I stumble through thick darkness to my mewling triplets for feedings. One by one I cheer them to suck, suck, suck, like some kind of demented stage mom. When all three are sufficiently sated, I make frantic (and mostly futile) stabs at turning the house into slightly less of a disaster zone. Then Maria, the girls’ nanny and my personal savior, arrives. She humors me while I prep her on the latest baby info that she’s likely known about for days. Next, I devote approximately ninety seconds to yours truly, racing to get myself to look somewhat presentable (I hope) or at least charmingly disheveled (I like to think). On my way out the door, I dig through my purse and replace toys and pacifiers and rice cereal with work folders and my planner and the breast pump. Gunning the gas on the way to the Westfield train station, I pray to dodge traffic cops and then—thank God!—I dash and manage to catch the 8:12 train. The fifty-six-minute ride to Manhattan, cramped with groggy bodies and smelling of burnt coffee, is the most peaceful hour of my day. Then it’s a subway ride and a short walk to the office. By the time I’ve made it to my desk at 9:30, I’m ready for a full night’s sleep.

At 9:45 sharp, the new boss calls the whole staff into the conference room. Physically, Mimi is the opposite of Louisa—big and broad and blond, where the old boss was petite and brunette and birdlike. She is imposing at the front of the room, like a gorilla who’s already staked out and claimed this new territory as her own.

“I can’t tell you how thrilled and excited I am to lead this team in the transformation of Hers magazine,” Mimi trills. No one points out that “thrilled” and “excited” are synonyms; it’s the type of thing Louisa would’ve had no tolerance for. “This title has such great potential. I can’t wait to share my vision for change, and to pool all of your fantastic ideas and create a sparkling new hit of a magazine.” We plaster on smiles and shift uncomfortably in our wedges and strappy sandals as Mimi casually dismisses the magazine we’ve proudly been producing month after month for years—we are a team that has stuck together.

Mimi continues: “A little birdie told me this office is known for—how shall I say it?—a laid-back schedule.” If by that she means working from nine-thirty to six instead of nine-thirty to midnight like many publications, then she’s right. “There’s nothing wrong with laid-back, of course, but that’s what weekends are for, right?” Mimi emits the first of what we’ll come to know as her notorious “Ha!”s, a staccato syllable closely resembling a real laugh, but lacking the latter’s underlying sense of humor. “Although the truth is, weekends might become a bit of a mirage this summer, too. We’ll be working hard to prep the relaunch for the November issue,” she says. “I hope you’re prepared to have your lives turned upside down for a while.” Nervous titters all around.

“OK, now introductions!” We go around the room and state our names and titles. “I’m Leah Brenner, executive editor,” I say with as much authority as I can muster, but I fear I sound like a fraud. Plus, I’m worried my heavy eyelids are drooping dangerously low, so I keep pinching my thigh; I can feel the beginnings of a bruise. To my left is Louisa’s old assistant. “I’m Jenny,” she says, “and I hope to be your assistant.” Mimi lets out another one: “Ha!” followed by, “You’re funny.” Within hours Jenny will be a goner.

I scan the room—everyone smiling anxiously—and I feel a surge of pride, marveling at this team of capable and decent workers, all of whom are clutching at the last threads of their jobs. We’ve all heard the urban legend about the new editor in chief who took over a publication—which one, who knows?—and didn’t fire a single person from the old staff; it’s apocryphal, of course, along with the Montauk monster and the chronically single New Yorker who on the night of her thirty-fifth birthday meets the man of her dreams, a rich doctor with a penthouse on Central Park West, and within the year has a giant rock on her finger and a fetus in her belly. Fairy tales. In my head I sing a doom-spelling ditty—dum, dum, dum, dum, DUM!—a handy distraction from the rest of the meeting.

That afternoon, I force myself across the threshold of my new boss’s office to introduce myself privately. I feel as if I’m walking off a cliff’s edge, until Mimi surprises me by inviting me in. “Sit down, make yourself comfy,” she says. “We’ll chat and get to know each other.”

I nod and nod as Mimi rambles on about how easy her new commute is, and how nice it is to finally work near an express train. “Where do you live?” she asks, but before I can answer she barks out, “Jenny, grab me a coffee,” and then starts in on the total gridlock that is Manhattan and how hailing a taxi these days is pretty much a request to sit in traffic and listen to honking horns and a man babbling in a foreign tongue and meanwhile to pay for the privilege. I’m just beginning to make out my thoughts over my buzzing anxiety when Jenny arrives with coffee, and Mimi says, “Thanks, dear. Oh, I should tell you—because there’s no point beating around the bush—I’ve already hired on my old assistant to take over your job.”

I gasp, then pray it wasn’t audible. I avoid Jenny’s eyes, fearing I might tear up. Jenny, always the professional, nods once and straightens her spine, doing her best to act as if Mimi just told her about a new filing system. “It’s nothing personal, of course,” Mimi says, then sips at her coffee. “Ooh, that’s way too hot. I nearly burned my tongue! Anyway, you’re welcome to stick around and collect a paycheck until the new girl arrives, or you can cut and run today. Totally your choice.” She smiles at Jenny as if she’s just offered her a pick between a trip to Paris or Rome.

“I’ll clear out my things by the end of the day,” Jenny says, then makes her exit. I silently cheer her bravery.

“All right, then.” Mimi turns to her e-mail with a level of focus that lets me know I’m dismissed, too. I slink out of her office, guilty with relief that the first ax has not fallen on me.

It would have been a different brand of cruelty had Mimi insisted Jenny stay on to train her replacement. But the result of Jenny’s swift departure is that when the new assistant arrives a week later, the girl’s job initiation falls to me. “You know the most about Hers, right?” Mimi asks me in a way that an undiscerning person might interpret as flattering. But I know what’s coming. “Please be a doll and fill Laura in on the workings of the office.” I nod. What else can I do?

Mimi introduces a girl a full head taller than me with the posture of a weeping willow. “Laura Maxwell, pleased to meet you,” she announces, extending a hand as broad as a basketball player’s. Her grip crushes my own.

With as much grace as I can muster, I show Laura around, introduce her to Ed, the mail manager, and explain the e-mail server and copy routing system. I notice that Laura has frizzy hair and visible panty lines. I know I’m being unkind, but I believe I deserve to. I can feel all the editors’ eyes on me as I parade around the new assistant; she’s like some honorary guest and I’m her lowly tour guide. I’m trying hard to hide my humiliation.

In the kitchen, I demonstrate how to work the finicky coffee machine, jiggling the button that gets it up and rumbling again. “Mimi mentioned she likes her coffee black,” I offer, trying to be helpful.

“Oh, I’ve assisted Mimi before,” Laura says. I think I catch the hint of a smirk. “Back at the old office.” Right.

So then Laura knows what she’s in for. She knows and, with free will and open eyes, has signed on. She’s chosen to deal with the unreadable requests that Mimi scrawls in blood-red ink on Post-its and then drops onto our desks dozens of times a day. She’s chosen to field the endless list of ridiculous requests (yesterday Mimi complained of blisters caused by her teetering heels and sent our sweet intern, Erin, off to a pharmacy deep in Tribeca for a special brand of bandage). And she’s chosen to endure what I’ve officially named The Mimi Diatribes—those one-sided conversations that last up to half an hour, and make you feel like you’re on the dark side of a two-way mirror. During my seven days of service so far as Mimi’s deputy, I doubt my new boss has taken one real look at me. I keep waiting to be informed that she’s already hired my replacement, too.

Laura knows all of these quirks about Mimi, and still she’s chosen to saunter with her scuffed-up flats and unflattering T-shirt dress right into this battle zone, where I suspect the bloodshed has barely begun.

Rewind four months, back to January, to what should be a season of new beginnings—though for Louisa it’s the beginning of the end. On a day marked by the latest in a long stint of snowstorms, I face the morning marathon with my ten-month-old daughters, and then wrestle against a wall of sleet and wind to make it on time from New Jersey suburbia to midtown Manhattan. But my car takes forever to start, the streets are slippery, and the subway stalls; when my office computer blinks awake it flashes 9:37 like an accusation—late. I suspect my always-punctual boss has beaten me to work, a premonition confirmed when Louisa wanders by my office and drops her glance to my snow-soaked boots. Busted. I refuse to wear the sleek, heeled ones that are trendy this winter—I’ve seen several of the fashion-y girls go slip-sliding across the ice while wearing them, and I’m horrified that any company would design winter boots with no traction. Still, I prefer to change into my heels before Louisa’s arrival, to always look the professional part.

“Morning check-in?” I chirp. Louisa nods, but there’s something—a twitch of the upper lip, perhaps?—that betrays anxiety. After three years as her number two at Hers, and many years before that as teammates at other titles, I can read my boss’s face like the pages of a magazine. I can also read her outfit, the way she parts her hair, and her decision to leave the office door closed or open or slightly ajar. I’ve memorized her favorite adjectives and most despised adverbs, her children’s birthdays, and the two perfumes she likes to spritz simultaneously to blend into her signature scent. Sometimes it’s occurred to me that I myself possess neither a signature scent nor a list of my favorite adjectives, but usually I’m too busy tending to Louisa to focus on such details.

As I sit with my boss, reviewing the status of the next issue’s features and watching her sip her hazelnut dark (Louisa likes Dunkin’ Donuts, but drinks it from a Starbucks mug—the one chink in her armor of self-esteem), I consider that she has a meeting this morning on the thirtieth floor, the Schmidt & Delancey corporate suite, otherwise known as Head Honchos Headquarters. We’ve just completed Hers’ third redesign in a year, and today Louisa will introduce the newest vision to Corporate. I imagine the PowerPoint through its soundtrack—I compiled it, so I know it by heart. The presentation will encapsulate Hers magazine’s conception of the modern thirty-something American woman. As with everything I work on with Louisa, I can’t help but feel proud.

The story is, several years earlier, Louisa inherited a title so tired and frumpy that she had to search a dozen New York City newsstands before finding one that stocked a recent issue. Hers had become a suburban midwestern magazine, most of whose readers inherited subscriptions from their mothers. (My own mother, the consummate snob, scoffed when I accepted the job at Hers, but then her own editorial career took place exclusively in the elite echelons of only the highest-brow magazines.) Back then, the Hers covers offered promises that seemed ripped from 1950s home economics course catalogs—“Secret tips to whip up your best chocolate souf-flé!” “Pretty patterns for your sharpest holiday outfit!”—and the people pictured on the pages were plain and doughy, the theory being that readers would prefer to see women who looked like them rather than beautiful, intimidating models.

Until this past year, each of Louisa’s redesigns has nudged Hers a bit sleeker, more sophisticated, upmarket. Recently, in response to readers’ ongoing economic woes, she’s reverted a bit to the magazine’s roots, including more bargain items and money-saving tips. I can tell it pains my boss to commission stories on supercouponing and bargain-basement items that can pass for designer, but she’s submitted, admitting it’s the way the wind’s blowing. For this most recent transformation, she’s been worrying about including a $250 Club Monaco blazer in the PowerPoint (she hasn’t said as much, but I’ve seen her add and then remove and then add the blazer again while tweaking the slides).

“The final cut,” Louisa says now, loading up the completed presentation on her laptop. I crouch next to her chair, thrilled as always to be in such close proximity to my boss. Not only has Louisa kept in the Club Monaco blazer, but she’s displayed it on the first slide; the sight sends a shudder of fear down my spine. Louisa flips through the rest of the presentation, and I notice she’s made some changes since I last saw it: slides of socialites and runway fashion mingle with those of gourmet meals prepared in lovely, aspirational kitchens.

“It’s stunning,” I say, because it’s too late to change anything. I feel a premonition of doom.

“Oh, good. Abby wanted me to lead off with the budget dining piece, but good lord, how depressing.” I nod like an idiot. “I’m going for sparkle and magic and drama—the kind of magazine that makes you dream.” Louisa makes eye contact, her irises shining with excitement, and—I can’t help myself—it’s contagious.

Even as a young girl, I had dreams of scaling the ladder of career success. My twin sister, Cara, teased me mercilessly, but I found her tree-climbing, tag-playing notions of fun to be frivolous. My favorite way to spend a Sunday was dressing up in my mother’s silk blouses and pencil skirts and then sitting at the kitchen table—my makeshift desk—with a big stack of paper (blank) and a coffee mug (empty), and shouting out orders to my minions (pretend). My mother would marvel at my corporate setup and call me her little child in chief. Cara would roll her eyes at this display of affection, but I noticed that my mother didn’t coin a pet name for her. While Cara busied herself converting the contents of our recycling bin into her latest costume for a play, I pored over Pottery Barn and Crate & Barrel catalogs, admiring all the sleek trappings of what I imagined to be success. I pictured people oohing and aahing when they saw Adult Me: “What a brilliant, powerful woman,” they’d whisper, just as I knew they did about my mother. I couldn’t wait to grow up.

In my senior year at Columbia, I made it my mission to read the memoirs of all the world’s most powerful women—including the CEO of Schmidt & Delancey—and to memorize all their secrets to success. Nearly every woman talked about the importance of attaching yourself to a star in order to rise along with her and get genius guidance along the way. When I first interviewed to be Louisa’s assistant fifteen years ago, back when she was a senior editor at Modern Woman Today, I knew I’d found my star. Here was a person who could help me launch the big, ambitious career I’d always dreamed of. So far that instinct has served me well.

But I’m not the only one who’s in awe of Louisa. When she gathers the staff together to unroll a fresh vision or explain a new direction, she inspires like a preacher. She’s not a perfect editor, or boss, but she commands respect and admiration, and everyone believes in her. Or rather, they did until recently. I fear even my own faith in our leader is slipping.

When Louisa returns from the thirtieth floor, she breezes past my office without a word, and I suspect the head honchos might not share my boss’s confidence in the redesign. Louisa’s assistant, Jenny, calls me and, in a voice so calm I can tell our fearless leader must be frantic, says, “Will you kindly come down to Louisa’s office, and please pick up Abby and Mark along the way?” The managing editor, creative director, and I file into our boss’s office on tiptoe. Jenny gently replaces the door in its frame.

Louisa’s workspace is rimmed on three sides by floor-to-ceiling windows, which means only thin panes of glass separate us from a raging snowfall outside; we’re surrounded by storm. “It’s not good,” Louisa says, the wind howling and whipping against the glass. I feel desperate to flee.

“The problem is obvious,” says Mark, our creative director, his voice like shards of glass. “This magazine is schizophrenic. Over the course of one year, we’ve altered the fonts, the logos, and the colors three separate times. Our fashion has gone from runway to bargain bin and back. You’ve renamed the health pages ‘Monthly Checkup,’ then ‘Rx for a Healthy You!’ then ‘Doctor’s Appointment. ’ You’ve made us move beauty from the front of the book to the back of the book, then back to the front. The changes are manic!”

Louisa sighs, and I feel a bit sick. It’s true what Mark’s saying: Someone who picked up a copy of Hers at the hair salon last June and then bought another issue at the airport over Christmas might not have known she was reading the same magazine.

“OK, let’s all just relax,” says Abby, our always calm and reasonable managing editor.

“We’ll work it out,” I say, my conviction weak despite my words.

“Hey, Jenny,” Louisa calls out to her assistant. “Grab me lunch, will you? One California roll, one spicy tuna, and a seaweed salad”—her usual—“and, um, four Peppermint Patties.” Candy—a definite sign of trouble.

Leaving Louisa’s office, I feel the attention from the trenches hot on my cheeks. Though they’re trying to hide it, it’s obvious that every staff member is staring from her respective cubicle, desperate to glean a glimpse of the goings-on behind Louisa’s door. As far as I’m concerned, they’re lucky to be spared the details. Jenny is off fetching Louisa’s food, and on her desk I spot a prescription for Ativan. It’s in Louisa’s name. I discreetly tuck it under a folder, which I notice is labeled, “Any decent public schools in NYC?” I shove both documents into Jenny’s top drawer, then retreat to my office.

As the wintry days drag on, heavy and cold with dread, I savor even more than usual the two days a week I work from home. My home office is far from glamorous; unlike my roomy space at Hers that looks out onto Central Park, my basement work area is cluttered and windowless. But it’s quiet and calm, a temporary escape from Louisa’s naked looks of need and the worry that she now wears on skin’s surface. Plus, at home I’m treated to occasional visits from a daughter who manages to escape Maria’s watchful eye and clomp-crawl her way past my door.

“Hello, love,” I say, bending down to pull Daisy onto my lap.

“Ma-ma.” I grin with pride at this word that she’s recently learned to say, her first. Daisy’s tiny fingers go right for the gold—a 14-carat hoop hanging from my right ear. I swat her away. Thankfully I’ve honed laser-fast reflexes during my ten months of motherhood, and so far my daughters have failed to inflict serious injury in pursuit of my baubles. My husband, Rob, believes my refusal to stop wearing dangly earrings around our babies’ grabby fingers is masochistic and insane. In truth, it’s vanity; I haven’t managed to kick the last ten pounds of baby weight, and damn it all if I’ll be denied my shiny jewelry, too.

Maria swoops in and reaches for Daisy. “You’re not allowed in there, chica,” she says, pinning me with accusatory eyes. She’s right; I preach “Do not disturb” during office hours, but half the time I’m alone at the computer I pine for the particular company of my three squirming babies; sometimes I go so far as to snatch one up. (Inconveniently, as soon as Maria is out the door for the day and I am inundated with nothing but baby time, I long for sweet solitude.)

My phone rings, three p.m. on the dot, my husband as reliable as a clock. “Baby,” he says. “How’s the editing?”

“Hey, apple of my eye. Peachy as pie. How’s the designing?”

“Fruitful. Very fruitful.” I still love this silly routine that we’ve developed over nearly a decade as partners. “I’ll pick up a rotisserie chicken on the way home. How’s it going really?”

“Oh, I dunno. I Skyped with Louisa earlier to review page proofs, and I’m worried she’s losing her knack, like she can’t tell what’s good and what’s not, what matters and what doesn’t. Or maybe I’m just going a little crazy myself.”

“I’m telling you, it’s too much time spent holed up with all those crazy women.” I roll my eyes, knowing what’s next. “You need some distance. I signed up for subscriptions to a few Vermont papers so we can check out the listings.”

“Oh, goody,” I say, not bothering to mask my sarcasm.

“Just to look, Leah. Just to dream. Picture it, you and me cozied up under a blanket with a fire going in a big old farmhouse, the girls running around some giant swatch of land, all of us planting vegetables and raising chickens—we’d have fresh eggs!”

“Newsflash, Rob: We have fresh eggs here, from a lovely little place called Stop & Shop. No shitting chickens, either.”

“Just think about it, OK? Imagine all that extra time you’d have with the girls.”

I feel a pang. Rob can be good at this, and sometimes I even fall for his fantasy of what my freelance writing career out in the country would look like—batting around great ideas with enthusiastic editors, interviewing brilliant experts about fascinating topics, and pouring my heart into groundbreaking features for big, important publications. In reality I know freelancing is 90 percent hustling and churning out rehashes of the same articles over and over and 10 percent fighting against the spiral down into derangement due to lack of human interaction. Rob is lucky he can do his web design job from anywhere.

“If we moved to Vermont, we wouldn’t have Maria,” I say. “I’d keel over and collapse within a week.”

“Baby, you can bring Maria in your luggage. Just poke out some air holes.”

“You are terrible,” I say, picturing our white family packing away our Colombian nanny in a suitcase and tossing it in the back of our station wagon. God, somebody’s probably done such a thing. “I have work to do. Bye, sweetheart.”

Through my office door, I hear Maria singing, “Hasta mañana, nos vamos a la cama,” a tune the girls love regardless of whether it’s actually bedtime. Maria is a gift. When she gets finicky Rose to go down for a nap or tickles Lulu’s belly and makes her explode into hiccup-y laughs far more excited than I can elicit, I feel not at all wistful in the ways I’ve heard some working moms talk about their children’s caregivers. I’d clone Maria if we could afford to shell out double her salary.

It’s around the time the frozen ground begins to thaw (when you may as well face it that whatever shoes you wear will end up matted with mud) when Louisa’s and my private language starts deteriorating. It used to be, we could maintain an entire conversation with glances and gestures. Louisa would conclude a meeting and offer hearty assurance to some VIP and then shoot me a split-second peek that meant, “No way in hell!” or “Thank the Lord that’s over,” and I’d nod politely and understand just the right way to dismiss the visitor. But lately Louisa’s looks have become garbled. Now she fixes on her Competent Editor mask and forgets to remove it when we’re speaking privately.

The day it proves to be all over is one of those unseasonably warm days in April. Ed the mail guy enters Louisa’s office bearing a bouquet of lilacs; I wonder who’s sent them and why: her husband as a gesture of support? a public relations rep eager as always to woo? the corporate suite as some kind of final offering?

“Thanks, those are my favorite.” Louisa’s voice is wooden, like she’s reciting lines, like she doesn’t remember that of course both Ed and I would know what her favorite flowers are. She stares perplexedly at the bouquet, looking as if she’s aged about a decade.

“We’ll have Jenny put them in water,” I say, going to grab a vase.

I’m still sitting in Louisa’s office, awaiting instructions from our formerly fearless leader who’s now putzing around her space like she’s lost, when Jenny patches through a call from the teacher of Louisa’s five-year-old son. “She claims it’s urgent,” says Jenny, who knows closed-door meetings are usually noninterruptible. Louisa puts the phone on speaker.

“Hi, Ms. Harding,” we hear over the line. The teacher sounds nervous. “We had a double recess today. You know, because of the nice weather. So we stayed at the playground through what would have been reading. I know, I know, reading is important. But the kids were excited, and—” I start to zone out, wondering if the $40,000 sticker price for the private school where Louisa sends her kids includes this kind of mundane daily update from the teachers. My ears perk up when I hear the words “sprained ankle.”

“Is Jasper OK?” Louisa gasps, her voice shrill.

“Yes, he’s fine. He fell from the monkey bars, but he’s all right. The nurse set him up with an ice pack and a cherry Popsicle, but we do need you or your husband to come fetch him immediately and take him to a doctor.”

“I’ll be right over,” Louisa says, then hangs up.

“Shit,” she shrieks. “Shit, shit, shit.” She shrinks in her seat and her eyes go misty and brim over with tears. The fact that I’ve never heard my boss curse, never mind seen her slump or cry, makes me want to break down, too. I manage to maintain my composure, and offer Louisa a tissue. She draws me in for a hug, which shocks me into silence. With her mouth inches from my ear, she whispers, “An hour ago they fired me.”

At first I say nothing. Still pressed up against her body, I can feel the narrow fragility of Louisa’s frame—my shoulders are a good six inches broader than hers. She’s like a frail kid. This realization stirs up my anger. My boss is like a child, delicate and innocent. How could they do this to her? “But, but . . .” I stutter idiotically.

“I know.” Louisa plucks the tissue from my hand and blows her nose, a horrible honk. “They’re morons.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Louisa inhales deeply and looks up at me. “I’m really sorry.” She smoothes out her skirt, sighs, and then emerges from her office into the maze of cubicles.

“Louisa, what’s wrong?” I hear Mark ask. “Are you OK?”

“Jasper broke his foot,” she responds, hurrying out of the office. Jenny has to chase after her with her purse.

Louisa doesn’t return that afternoon. Our managing editor, Abby, calls a staff meeting. We shuttle into the conference room, and every. . .