“Sure.” He’s with a young woman Nell has met a few times in passing, someone from editorial. She’s in her mid-twenties, and she wears a white lace dress over black jeans and orange ballet flats. Her hair is arranged into a perfectly messy bun, and she holds a folder in her hands.
“You know Clare?” Ian asks. Nell nods and straightens her back, aware of the pull of her shirt and the way it puckers between the buttons. She still hasn’t found the time to shop for clothes that fit. Ian saunters to the window and perches on the sill, moving aside some of the framed photographs of Beatrice that Nell placed there earlier this morning. “Second day back, huh? How’s it going?”
“Brilliant, thanks.”
“Yeah? It’s okay? Being back at work?”
He’s wearing two different-colored socks, which Nell assumes is deliberate. “It’s an adjustment. But I’m happy to be back.”
“Yeah, I know how it is.”
She smiles. No, he doesn’t. He’s a forty-four-year-old single man, rumored to be dating one of the assistants of Wedded Wife, the company’s bridal magazine. What does he know about leaving a baby, practically still a newborn, at a day care for nine hours a day?
“I have to say, I’m glad you’re back,” Ian says. “We’ve lost so many good people to their babies since I’ve been here. They take their maternity leave, tell us they’ll be back, and then, wham!”
Nell raises her eyebrows. “Wham?”
“Yes, wham. A few days before we expect them to show up at the office, we get the call.” His voice gets a little smaller. “‘I can’t do it. I can’t be away from the baby.’ I’m glad that’s not you.”
The image flashes in her mind. Knocking this wanker to the ground, straddling him, grinding his face into the carpet. “Thanks a million, Ian.”
“Sure. And now, Clare and I need some help.” He gestures at Clare to come forward. “We’re disagreeing on a cover and decided to come straight to the expert.” Clare removes two printouts from her folder and lays them side by side on Nell’s desk. They’re mock-ups of this week’s Gossip!—the company’s largest magazine—showing the actress Kate Glass, who recently gave birth. She stands on a beach in two different poses, wearing a bikini top and shorts, holding the American flag, under the bold headline How I Got my Body Back.
“What do you think?” Ian asks Nell.
“What do I think?” Nell is aware that Clare is looking at her expectantly.
“Yeah. As a new mom, how does this resonate with you?”
“Lemme see.” Nell picks up the images. “Well, I’m very pleased to hear this.”
Ian’s head is tilted. “Which part?”
“That she got her body back.”
“Crazy, right?” Clare says. “This is just five weeks after she had a kid.”
“Wow,” Nell says. “That must have been terribly difficult for her. Trying to care for an infant, and all without a body.” Nell addresses Clare. “So what happened? Had someone stolen it? Were those abs recovered at a CrossFit in Cleveland by a search party?”
Ian laughs. “Told you she’s hilarious,” he says to Clare, his gaze on the printouts. “It can be a little silly, I know. But these postpregnancy covers kill it every time. Women love this stuff.” He studies the two samples, side by side. “I’m wondering if we should photoshop out that flag she’s holding.”
“I don’t think so.”
“No?”
Nell can’t help herself. “No. All new mothers typically remember to pack their American flag for a day at the beach.”
He laughs again weakly. His impatience is apparent.
“Sorry,” Nell says. “It’s just . . .” She glances at Clare. “This particular magazine. Not my favorite among the ones we publish.”
“I know, I know. But remember. If we didn’t have the ad revenue from Gossip! we could never publish Writers and Artists.”
“Okay, sorry. Let me give it another go.” She surveys the images again. “I like this one,” she says, holding up the image in her left hand. “And lose the flag. It’s ridiculous.”
Clare executes a soundless clap, her rose-painted fingernails just in front of her mouth. “I told you that’s the better photo.”
Ian nods as he collects the images, his face pensive. “I don’t know. I still think we’re making a major mistake.”
“A major mistake?” Nell waves her hand dismissively. Having a photo of yourself taken at a bar, drunk and overweight, wearing maternity pants two months after having a child, and then having that photo distributed to the residents of Brooklyn: that’s a major mistake. This is foolishness. “It’ll be fine. The photos are nearly identical.”
Ian is shaking his head again. “That’s not what I mean.” He returns to the window, gazing out at Lower Manhattan, to the Hudson River a few blocks away. “It’s a mistake not to go with a cover story on Baby Midas.”
Nell keeps her expression blank as Ian turns to look at her.
“But we’ve gone over it a million times,” Clare says. “Everyone will do a cover on that. We’re banking on getting all the readers who are having Baby Midas fatigue.”
“But nobody is having Baby Midas fatigue,” Ian says. “People don’t want to read less. They want to read more.” He looks at Nell. “Right? Don’t you want to read more?”
“No,” Nell says. “What is the point of constantly covering the story? Besides ad revenue, I mean. That family needs—”
“But who is Midas’s dad?” Ian is becoming more upset. “Why is she not saying anything about this?”
“I heard it is a sperm donor thing, and—”
“Fine, Clare, fine. But then why not come out and say that? Why not talk to Oprah, like so many moms in her situation have done before?”
“Oprah retired.”
“You know what I mean, Nell. It’s what we’ve come to expect, and Gwendolyn Ross knows that. She was raised in the press. Why is she being so silent? What is she hiding?”
“Remember, we’re doing six pages on her,” Clare says gently. “All we’re talking about is the cover.”
“I understand. But are readers even going to get to that story? Wouldn’t it be smarter to stay focused on Midas? It’s time to get some answers. We have a stringer out in Queens, trying to get the nanny to talk. From what I hear, she never even saw a baby. She didn’t go into his room. But that stringer sucks. And this Jolly Mama phenomenon? We could do weeks on that.”
“I think we should rise above it,” Nell says.
He snaps his head toward her. “Rise above it? That’s not our job, Nell. Our job is to create it.”
She knows the argument is futile. “Well, either way, I still agree with Clare about the cover. I’d be more apt to buy the magazine with Kate Glass on it.”
Ian sighs. “Okay, fine. Hope you guys are right. Our numbers are down. The lady upstairs isn’t happy.” He rises from the sill. “Guess we should all get back to work.” He walks toward the door and then stops. “Oh, and jeez. I almost forgot, Nell. The other reason I came to talk to you. We’re sending you away.”
“Away?”
He laughs. “Don’t look so scared. I mean we need you to go on a trip at some point in the next two weeks. Four days. To”—he pauses for effect—“the Bahamas. They’re considering it for the new server facility, and they want you to go. Meet the key players. Part work, part perk. How does that sound?”
“Four days?”
“Yeah. It’s right on the beach.”
“Sounds great,” Nell says, forcing a smile. “I’ll pack my flag.”
Nell reads the same paragraph in the training manual for the fourth time, willing herself to concentrate, but the thought inches back in.
Four days away.
She can’t think about it. Sebastian’s first curated exhibit opens in three weeks. He’s been working late every night and won’t be able to get back to Brooklyn by six when the day care closes. Who will pick up Beatrice? How will Nell pump enough milk for four days? How will she stand to be away from the baby for that long? She pushes away the thought, the trip, her reality (maybe her mom can use a few vacation days, drive down from Rhode Island), and tries to concentrate, but she’s too distracted. She minimizes the pdf.
She’ll quit.