The Pink Ghetto. Liz Ireland
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She looked surprised. “They were looking for someone. But they didn’t call me back, either.”
“You applied there?”
She laughed as though I had delivered a zinger. “My resume has been to every company in this whole damn town. I’m not going to get myself out of this place depending on telepathy, you know. Did you interview at Warner?”
“Uh, no…I did interview at a trade publication. I think it was legal books…”
Andrea shook her head disdainfully. “Oh God! You’re better off here.”
An uneasy feeling nibbled at me. Could it be a good sign when the first coworker I met was scrambling to find a job elsewhere?
“I noticed Random House was looking for a full editor,” she said. “You didn’t apply there, did you?”
“No.”
She nodded. “Probably best not to waste your time. I interviewed with them before I came here.”
“What happened?”
“They hired someone else. Jackasses!”
We faced forward for a moment.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Four years.” Before I could register whether I thought this was a long time or not, she answered the question for me. “I know, I know. I gotta get out—but the market is so tight right now.” She sighed. “My luck, I’ll probably spend the rest of my life in an efficiency in Queens.”
The doors opened, and Andrea waved me out with a sarcastic flourish. “Welcome to Alcatraz.”
First stop on the tour was the receptionist desk, where the woman with the Peter Pan collar still sat at attention with her headset, looking like the proverbial operator standing by in those TV commercials of old. And was that actually a cameo she was wearing today?
“Muriel, this is…um…” Andrea darted an uncomfortable glance at me.
“Rebecca,” I said.
“Yes, Rebecca, I remember you,” Muriel said. “Kathy Leo alerted me to your arrival this morning, so I have already put you into our message center.” She whirled a little plastic caddy around to the point where my name in a red colored tab was prominently displayed. “This is where you may retrieve messages left in person, or urgent messages that callers do not wish to leave on your answering service. But please keep in mind that the answering service is the most efficient way of retrieving your messages. I do my best to relay communications efficiently, but the human factor is always fallible, and I have noticed that some people forget to check for their message slips. So do set up your answering service at your earliest possible convenience. Your extension is fifty-six, which is written on the phone in your office, along with detailed instructions about setting up your personal recorded message. Of course if you have any questions, I will be more than happy to help. Welcome aboard!”
She ended her introductory monologue with a smile that was one hundred percent lips.
I felt like I should applaud. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Rebecca.”
Andrea tugged impatiently on my sleeve. During Muriel’s monologue, she had removed her raincoat and shaken herself out a little more, spilling droplets on Muriel’s carefully tended simulated wood grain work surface.
“Let’s show you to your cave so you can dump your junk and start to dry off,” she said, ignoring Muriel’s pursed lip parting glare. When we were out of earshot, she said, “She’s always like that.”
“Like what?”
“Prim,” Andrea grumbled. “I don’t know how she keeps it up. It makes me wonder if she’s not moonlighting as a lap dancer.”
We made our way through a labyrinth of hallways that I vaguely remembered from my last visit. As we were turning a corner, Andrea looked around furtively and asked, “When you were at Random House, did you talk to Margaret Wyberry?”
“I didn’t interview there,” I reminded her.
“Oh, that’s right.” She let out a puff of breath. “Oh well. I’ve heard there isn’t a lot of opportunity for advancement there anyway.”
“Is there here?” I asked.
She arched her brows. “Why? Are you bored already?”
“Well, no…I…” I had just been making small talk.
“Here!” She stopped at a small windowless office and flipped on the lights. There was a seascape watercolor gracing one wall and a large empty peg board over the desk. Andrea gestured grandly, like the hostesses on The Price is Right. “Home sweet home. I stole your chair and gave you my shitty one. Hope you don’t mind.”
I looked at the desk chair, which looked like standard issue office rolling thing. “I’m grateful not to be sitting on a plastic crate.”
“That’s only the ed assists,” Andrea joked.
I took off my coat and tossed it on the spare chair in the corner. As I did so, I noticed a bookshelf with piles and piles of manuscripts on it. “What’s that?”
“Your inheritance.” Andrea went over to inspect it. “Looks like slush, mostly, but there are a few agented proposals in here…” She whistled. “This one’s cover letter is dated 2003! Damn! That Julie had more nerve than I gave her credit for.”
“What happened to Julie?”
“It was very sad. One day she decided to end it all right there at her desk.”
I swerved in alarm, whereupon Andrea blasted out a laugh. “Kidding! She got knocked up.” She sighed. “That’s one way off the treadmill.”
“Yeah, but then you have a baby to deal with.”
Andrea snorted. “Here you have twenty.”
I looked at her, puzzled.
“Otherwise known as authors.” She gave my suit a once-over and whistled. “Snappy!”
“Thanks—it’s a hand-me-down.”
“What, are there tycoons in your family?”
“In my roommate’s family, actually.”
“Nice!” She frowned. “But can you breathe?”
I sucked in. I had never gotten around to those sit-ups.
Or starving.
When we ventured out again, our first stop was Rita’s office, which was dark. “She must still be downstairs,” Andrea said.
In the cubicle outside Rita’s office, there was a commotion, and we turned as one. Before, I hadn’t noticed anyone sitting there. “Lindsay?” Andrea asked, her tone doubtful.
A figured hunched on her hands and knees on the floor jerked up, banging her head on her desk. “Shit!” she cried. Then she saw me. “Oh—sorry.” She jumped to her feet and darted out her hand for me to shake, then thought better of it since it was holding a paper towel that was dripping some sort of fluid all over the carpet.
And that wasn’t the only odd thing about her. She was wearing a nubbly tweed jacket over what appeared to be an old taffeta formal. I usually wasn’t too judgmental about outfits. I had been around theater people, so I was used to creative dressing. But this girl looked bizarre. Plus, I have this thing about taffeta. I don’t like it. (It’s a long story.)
“I’m having the worst morning.” Lindsay gestured to her desk, where an overturned Starbucks cup told the whole tale. “I spilled my latte all over this manuscript. Rita’s going to kill me!”
Andrea waved off all her worries. “It’s