Helen told me that Kitty Montgomery was the new editor of Daisy Chain. Austen’s other teen magazines had ceased publication, so Kitty was carrying the flag for the teen demographic. “She’s a huge hit,” Helen said. “Mr. Austen’s so pleased, he’s had her up to his place on the Vineyard twice.” Helen explained that in her monthly column, Kitty was fond of sharing photos and tragic stories from her teenage years, when she was a gangly, pebble-chested misfit from the suburbs of New Jersey. As Helen took a phone call, I perused several of Kitty’s columns and read about her being beat up by other girls and shoved into lockers by boys. Her mother compounded her misery by never letting her wear makeup or use a razor. In contrast, at the end of each column there was a photo of Kitty as a glamorous grownup, one who had miraculously shed her hideous adolescent skin and emerged, victorious, like a grand white snake. In her current photos she was perched on the corner of her desk in the Austen Tower; visible behind her were the plains of New Jersey, the land of her former tormentors, so small and insignificant.
“Given Kitty’s popularity, she’s swamped with correspondence from readers,” Helen explained when she finished her call. “They’re inspired by Kitty and how she transformed herself. They desperately want her advice and contact her through the Dear Kitty section of the website. It’s like a flood.” I waited for Helen to explain what any of this had to do with me. I knew there was the prospect of a job, but I assumed it was something tucked away in the subscription department.
“The legal department would prefer that we send out cookie-cutter form responses to the readers, but Kitty won’t hear of it. We’ve decided to indulge her and hire someone to take on the responsibility of responding to her girls, as she calls them, by offering big-sisterly advice and encouragement, that sort of thing. This is private correspondence, so it doesn’t appear in the magazine.” Helen looked at me and paused. “I think you might be perfect for this. I’ve sent others up there and none of them have worked out, but you,” Helen said, putting her glasses on and eyeing me, “you’re different.”
I knew what my former boss had said about me.
“You want someone to respond to these readers while pretending to be Kitty?”
“I wouldn’t think of it as pretending. You’d be a team.” Helen folded her arms across her chest, which was not two separate breasts but just an enormous shelf. “You’re older than the other girls we’ve considered for the job, and you’re different from them in many ways. Most of them are—Well, you know the type. I hear that you’re smart, but I don’t mind that. You’d write in Kitty’s voice. You wouldn’t have to believe what you’d write; it only matters that Kitty would believe it and write it if she had time. I think you’d have insight into the problems our girls have—that’s what’s important.”
I should have been grateful for the possibility of a job, but I felt defensive and was trying to hide it. “What makes you think I’d have such insight? You don’t even know me.”
“I’m guessing,” she said, and we both knew what she meant. I hated it when others alluded to my size, despite the obviousness of it. It was as if they were confirming that there was something wrong with me when I’d hoped they hadn’t noticed it.
I appreciated Helen’s offer, but the thought of working in the Austen Tower every day was unappealing. I imagined it was like a fifty-two-story high school, full of cliques and whispers. Helen must have begun working at Austen Media decades before she morphed into the large postmenopausal woman who sat before me.
My instinct was to flee. I initially refused Helen’s offer to meet with Kitty, but both of them were insistent. When I finally met Kitty in her office, she suggested I could work from home. “It was human resources’ idea,” she said. “As you can see, my assistant has his desk out in the hallway. We’re a bit tight for space.” Working from home made the job more appealing, but I said I would need to think about it. I had never been the type to offer advice, and I wasn’t sure I had the right qualifications for the job. Kitty thought my reluctance meant I was playing hard-to-get, so she began to pursue me with heartfelt emails, flowers, even a scented candle that was delivered via messenger. I was not used to being courted and sought-after. The feeling was mildly intoxicating.
It had been three years since I’d taken the job, three years of responding to messages in the café. I arrived for my monthly meeting with Kitty, stepping off the elevator onto the thirtieth floor, where I was greeted by massive Daisy Chain covers, which might have been meant to intimidate enemies, like the buildings and monuments in Washington, D.C. I sat on the lip-shaped loveseat outside Kitty’s office and waited. Our meetings rarely lasted more than ten minutes, but I never managed to leave the Austen Tower in fewer than two hours, thanks to Kitty’s frenetic schedule. I would have preferred to catch up by phone, but Kitty demanded that we meet.