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“You remember the most important rule here at Paddy Cakes?” asks Cynthia, ratcheting me back to the present.
“Sell more copies?” I reply.
“Exactly,” says Cynthia. “So you can imagine my surprise when I was reading your story ideas for October and saw that you’d pitched exactly the same kind of slush-driven muck that made this magazine tank 20 percent on the newsstand before I got here. I’m going to be blunt, Elizabeth. Your lineup was complete crap.”
“I, uh...” I stammer, not knowing what to say, Okay, yes, I mean I had kind of called it in but still, I didn’t think it was terrible.
“For example,” Cynthia continues. “‘This Sucks: Getting Your Baby to Learn to Latch’—this could go in any magazine. Kiddos even,” naming our more accessible mass-market competitor.
“Right, but I downloaded the notes from this year’s American College of Pediatricians conference. It was about a groundbreaking study with new techniques. It’s a good chance to report on the news...” I say my case.
“Sod reporting the news,” says Cynthia in total disgust, “I want to make news.”
“I totally see what you’re saying.” I gulp in air. “I’ll submit a new lineup by tomorrow.” There is no way I’m going to win this one.
“Make it good,” she says, turning away from me toward her computer. “I’m doing a bit of a rethink in terms of staffing over the next few months. Things may be changing. And while someone in your circumstances may have a little more...leeway...it’s not a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“Yes,” I say, quivering. “No problem.” I get up and walk quickly back to my cube. Jules is there, tapping away on her keyboard, but when she sees the look on my face, she immediately turns to talk me down off the ledge.
I pick up my iced “decaf” and start sucking it furiously. “Cynthia finally brought it up.”
“Seriously! What happened?” says Jules, turning her chair completely toward me as a sign of sympathy.
“Yep. On top of that, she just told me my October lineup was crap, and hinted she may fire me anyway.”
“Eek,” says Jules.
“It’s so unfair. She comes in here, rips up all our stories, leaves us scrambling to write new ones in the time we’re supposed to use for researching new stories, then expects the lineups we pull together in a few minutes to be perfect.”
“It sucks, Liz. I’m sorry. I know she’s come down way harder on features than health.”
“No, not true. Your stories fly through with her. It’s like everyone here seems to get it but me. Write stupid listicles about how you’re lactating wrong and be done with it.”
Jules puts her hand on my arm consolingly. “What are you going to do? Our paychecks have to come from somewhere.”
“I guess I take it personally. I mean, moms out there don’t want to read about the stuff they can’t afford, right? They want real news about baby trends and advice to use in their own lives. That’s what would sell our magazine, right?”
“Maybe, but people seem to like reading the stuff we’ve been doing lately. Like how celebs take off baby weight in two weeks or speed through African adoption agencies. It’s not all bad.”
Jules has a point, but Cynthia’s comments have struck a nerve.
“And she barely mentioned me being pregnant. It’s like she doesn’t even care at this point. Maybe she’s planning on firing me anyway and is just trying to work it out through HR!” I feel tears welling up out of pure frustration.
“Well, you can either get a new job and quit, or, learn to stop taking it personally, just get it done and go home, which is what I do.”
“Hrumph,” I spout, still wanting to sulk. “Okay, fine, if she wants stories like organic peanut butters that will get your kid into Princeton I will give it to her—founded or not,” I say. I type the idea into a fresh text file I have open on my screen, pounding the keys for dramatic effect.
If my work doesn’t improve and Cynthia has a vendetta against me, my fake pregnancy might be the only thing keeping me from getting fired. My chest starts to tighten and a lump forms in my throat. Getting fired would leave me with no options whatsoever.
Finally, the cover story comes back and thankfully, it has me so busy, I can barely register what happened, addressing emails with last-minute questions about the cover story and my other pages that are about to ship to the printer. Another email tings my inbox. From Mom, reads the subject line—she has never realized that people can see where it’s from without writing it in the message heading as if it were a telegraph.
Hi, sweetie. Was thinking, you don’t have to come home for my birthday if you don’t want to. I know you’re always busy with work and your friends. I’d just like some flowers. And a Lancôme lotion—if you can find it with a free gift with purchase. Love you, Mom xoxo.
Of course I’m coming home, Mom. Can’t wait to see you, I email back. I have a five days to get the gifts. I log on to 1-800-Flowers.com, pick out a nice tulips arrangement and use a 20-percent-off code from an email promotion I received. Now I’ll just have to get the Lancôme stuff and a few other things later. I am a good daughter, I tell myself, wringing my hands as I do. I remember the radiation days, when I had to pick and choose being there with her in the hospital over waiting around for copy to come back late on Fridays. Pressing Click, I add more to my credit card balance. She deserves it.
Then, another call sounds from my phone. I know the caller ID number. It’s Ryan. I pick up and try to clear all the lingering hostility from my throat.
“Hey, Deputy Editor Liz, sorry about being MIA—was crazy busy prepping for 100-pound-tumor man shoot. I wanted to tell you about it. Are we still on for our meeting tomorrow?”
Shoot, that’s right. Tomorrow’s Friday. “Hey, Ryan, I’m so sorry, but something’s come up and I can’t make the office meeting tomorrow.” I’m secretly bummed, thinking how it would be nice to see him again. He takes it in with a pause.
“Okay, how about next week?”
I sigh, worried. There’s no way he can come to the office now. If he did, he’d see me in full expectant-mother glory. “Ryan, I’m so sorry, but things have unexpectedly gotten much, uh, busier here during the day.”
“Oh.” He pauses. “Ditching me for karaoke lessons,” he deadpans. “I understand.”
I can hear the laugh in his voice.
“Okay, I have an idea. How about drinks?”
“Really?” I’m taken aback.
“Yeah, sure. What about McGann’s on Eighth?” I know McGann’s well. Ford and I used to sneak there for postwork bitch sessions.
“Okay, that could work.”
“How about tonight? Seven thirty?” Ryan jets back.
“I’d love to,” I say without thinking.
He says “great” and we click off. I notice that, for once in a long time, I am actually excited. The sensation, though foreign, reminds me almost of how it was in high school or college, when liking a guy was all about the feeling it gave you—not some inherent marriage potential—the “PH.” I decide not to check his Facebook profile or status all day so I won’t have his life fresh in my memory bank as he’s telling it to me—not that I haven’t already memorized his date of birth (February 15) and favorite movies (Shawshank Redemption and Rudy). I power through the rest of the day, and for some reason, the C-section rewrite pours out effortlessly.
Six (#ulink_03862c8d-da47-55ce-af7d-88019f39d979)
McGann’s, a prototypical Irish pub in Hell’s Kitchen, sits just far enough away from both Ryan’s office in Times Square and mine. It’s an easy choice and I love that Ryan picked a casual Irish pub over a fancy lounge-type place, which can often set a too-formal tone. I hope he’s there before I am so I won’t have to sit at the pub’s bar alone, baby bump in my purse.
All my worries go away when I see him, already perched on a bar stool, with a worn paperback and a shot of Jameson in front of him. The glowing fire in the middle of the room relieves the chill in my bones from the rain outside. Paintings, European football memorabilia and old-fashioned Guinness ads line the cream walls. Tiffany lamp sconces give the whole bar a glow. I’ve forgotten how much I like this place.
“Buckley!” he says enthusiastically as he gets up.
“Hey there, Mr. Murphy,” I say, trying to cover up my nerves with as much confidence as I can muster. He leans in to kiss my cheek while I reach out to shake his hand. We laugh at the mix-up and I try to babble on through it. “Starting strong, I see,” I tell him, nodding at the Jameson. His warm smile makes me a little less anxious.
“Oh, that’s not for me. That’s for you,” he says drily, dropping the amber drink in front of me on the bar. “I figured I’d try to get you all liquored up so I can steal Paddy Cakes’ fall lineup,” he says, taking my coat and finding a spot for it under the bar.
He pulls out the bar stool from beneath the rough-hewn counter, and I try to hop onto it with as much ladylike grace as one can have in big rubber boots and a dress. I take a sip of the whiskey, while I face toward the bar and start to fiddle with the bar menu, trying not to let on that I’m worrying if someone I know will stop by and catch me here, drinking.
“So, I don’t know if you caught our ‘Mega-Multiples’ show the other night, but people have been saying it’s Emmy worthy,” says Ryan, dusting his shoulders off for effect.
“Yeah,” I respond. “Not too bad. Pretty good for a novice. You, you know, didn’t catch all the nuances of our article. How long have you been at the network again?”
“You’re right,” he says finally, returning the joke. “It didn’t do Paddy Cakes’ Pulitzer-winning prose justice.”
I roll my eyes—we both know that’s not the case.
“So, I bet you’re going to be taking over Alix’s job in a year’s time,” he says, mocking my seriousness a bit.
“Probably,” I say with false smugness. “And what about you—this Emmy should seal your career trajectory, too. Have you picked out your corner office yet?”
Ryan takes a big sip of his whiskey. “Already got one,” he says, flashing a grin.
“Corner office?”
“Emmy.” He looks down offering only a bashful, yet sly look. Out of the corner of my eye, Seamus, barman with white hair and a bit of a belly beneath his black vest, is wiping down the bar and gives a nod.
Holding back how impressed I am, I reply, “Good. Because I only associate with smart, successful people.”
“Bet you do,” he teases.
“So I bet you must love all the parenting stuff you’re doing,” I say sarcastically, filled with weariness from the past week. “If someone says the words baby, bun, bump or bundle, I think I’m going to shoot myself.”
Ryan seems to get my meaning, yet he clears his throat. “Well, it’s not all bad—some of the moms are smokin’ hot,” he says with a cheeky smile. “Anyway, I’m done with the parenting stuff for the next month or so. I’m probably going to be going on the 100-pound-tumor man shoot in the Amazon pretty soon.”
“Ah, more Emmy-caliber stuff,” I chide.
“You’re just jealous,” he says, flashing a hot grin.
“I am,” I tell him solemnly, and from the electric flash of his eyes, he seems to understand.
We chitchat more about the “Mega-Multiple” show, and he asks if I liked the way it turned out; I let him know that in all honesty, I did. I tell him more about my job at Paddy Cakes, revealing a bit about Cynthia and Alix. It’s nice to be able to talk shop to someone fresh about all this media stuff. From the slight bags under his blue eyes, and shaggy brown hair two weeks overdue for a cut, I can tell he seems to understand where I’m coming from. After we’ve made our way through our first drinks, our guards start to drop a bit. Should I see if we want another drink? “Seamus, another drink, please?” he says, drumming the bar with his fingers.
Seamus comes over to us. “Yer usual, mate?”
“You got it. It’s a perfect night for it.”
“What?” I ask.
“Rusty nail. Seamus makes some of the best in the city. Or are you a lavender martini type of girl?” He looks at the back of the bar, and for a second his focus seems elsewhere.
“Um, no, I will have you know that I’ve had my fair share of rusty nails over the years.” When I speak the words, he turns back to me with a smirk.
“Well, I’m glad, or I’d have to kick you out of the bar,” he says, signaling the bartender to make it two. “And you know,” he says, “I only associate with total boozehounds.”
“Ha. But it’s been a while. Can you remind me what’s in them again?”
“Equal parts whiskey and Drambuie with an orange twist.”
“Interesting. How’d you get into them?”
He pauses. “It was my dad’s drink and I guess I picked it up from him.”
Seamus hands us two yellowish-brown cocktails. The taste burns a bit, but it’s sweet. “Mmm,” I say. “I could get used to this.” I look down.
“That’s the plan,” says Ryan, catching my eye.
As we’re rounding out drink number two, we fall into a flirtatious rhythm, but his jokes are all tinged with trepidation, like he’s being careful not to cross the professional line. The topics fall into the safe categories: sports teams (he’s Phillies, I’m Mets) and my affinity for the geeky History Channel shows about Nostradamus, his for geeky man shows like Top Gear, though he does keep high-fiving me when we share a common viewpoint. I notice how easy it is to talk with Ryan.
“Sure you can handle it, Buckley?” he says, placing a hand on my back jokingly as Seamus puts the third rusty nail down on the counter for us.
“Oh, I can handle it,” I reply, gaining a little more confidence.
“All right, I’ll give you the third one, but only if you’ll tell me a secret,” he says, pretending to hold the tumbler from me.
Maybe it’s the alcohol, because all of a sudden, I feel myself getting a little brazen. I lower my head flirtatiously and look him directly in the eye, giving him the too-long stare, a move I’d perfected in my early twenties. “Like what?”
“Well, it doesn’t exactly seem like Paddy Cakes is your end-all-be-all career choice. Say the magazine folded tomorrow, and you could do anything you wanted—a secret dream—what would it be?”
I immediately blush thinking, if you only knew.
“Waiting, Buckley.”
I take another second. Up until this point, with everything meternity-related, I hadn’t actually taken much time to ponder what I really want, only what would keep me from getting fired. But to my surprise, the answer comes to me quickly. “Easy. Quit my job. Travel the world and write about it.” My shoulders drop in relief.
He immediately smiles and softens his eyes. “So underneath that gorgeous magazine editor exterior, you’re really just a frustrated travel writer. I knew it.” His compliment makes my cheeks warm, and I look away. When I return, I notice he’s looking at me, staring.
“It would be amazing if one day my blog MoveableFeast would somehow get picked up and turned into a book like one of Bill Bryson’s travelogues or Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London.” I’m not sure what makes me reveal this, but for some reason I feel like it will intrigue him. “But, I haven’t really been keeping it up. I’ve been so busy. And it’s not really that good.”
“You really know how to sell yourself, Buckley.”
“Huh,” I say, only now recognizing he’s right.
“I can tell you’ve got a book in you. You know, a secret adventurous side.” He winks, and his compliment makes me blush outwardly and gulp inwardly. This time I smile, feeling a little more courage.
“Okay, I’ll send you my next travel story tomorrow and you can tell me what you think,” I tell him.
“I’d love to read anything you’ve written,” he says, returning a more earnest expression, then smiling, as if he’s thinking about something.
“Okay, so what’s yours, Mr. Rising Star? Take over the network by bringing all of Paddy Cakes’ best stories to life?”
He scrunches his nose, as if to say “not even close.” He looks down for a few seconds. “Okay, don’t make fun of me, Buckley, but I’ve got a secret plan, too. After a few things fall into place, I’m going to quit Discovery,” he says, clearing his throat, “then once I raise funding, I’m going to produce and direct my own environmental documentary.” He pauses, interested in my reaction.
I can’t help but smile widely and there’s a look in his eye—one of hopefulness.
Then he gets suddenly quiet. “Did you know that there are actually about thirty-one forms of electromagnetic energy that are self-reproducing and completely sustainable? Companies are doing this right now, and if we were to switch over from petroleum and natural gas, we could power the world’s energy three times over.”
This sudden revelation of a geeky side makes my heart warm. “I thought it was just wind power and solar power.”
“Yes, there’s that, but there’s also this type of magnetic force field called a toroidal field. There’s a company out in Palo Alto working on it. I saw them give a TED talk last year and have been in touch with them since.”
