Bicoastal Babe (3 page)

“I don’t know. It seemed like it all came at once and I couldn’t deal. Everything in me just shut down.”

“Rock bottom,” Danielle observes.

“Nowhere to go but up,” Scott adds.

The three of them look at each other with pointed eyes. I know that look. I’ve seen it before. Something must be up.

“Okay, you guys. Spill it.”

Danielle approaches cautiously and sits down on the toilet seat. “Listen, Lindsey. We know that you’ve been hurting, and that you’ve had a pretty tough month. But Scott’s right. There’s nowhere to go but up. So with that, we have some very exciting news for you.”

I have to say, my barriers have been crushed, and I am now feeling grateful for the tough love and compassion of my friends. “What is it?”

“My pedicurist’s husband works as a creative director at Gordon-Taylor, and I talked to him about you.”

Gordon-Taylor Advertising. Chicago’s largest and most prestigious ad agency. Where
every
advertising professional would die to work. I’ve been trying to get them to consider me since the day I graduated college. I’ve sent them about a hundred resumes. And I’ve never heard a word.

“I convinced him to make a couple calls, and guess what? They agreed to interview you!”

I am skeptical. “How’d you do that?”

“It doesn’t matter how I did it. What matters is that you have an interview on Thursday, and this is an opportunity of a lifetime!”

“I’m telling you,” Scott puts in, “this is a great break.”

“You’ve been dreaming about this forever,” Holly reminds me. “It’s your big chance, Lindsey. Aren’t you thrilled?”

Good question. Am I thrilled? I can’t tell. I can’t feel much of anything.

“Is it for media buying?” I ask.

“Of course! And you’re the best media buyer there is. You’re going to knock them off their feet.”

“I don’t know…” I’m hesitant. I’ve been out of touch with the world for so long that I can’t imagine bucking up for a job interview – much less at Gordon-Taylor. And the truth is, since the day I stopped working, I haven’t really missed it. At all. Buying blank media space for magazine and newspaper ads has never been my idea of a stimulating career. But I got so good at it – and so busy at it – that I kind of forgot about its lack of meaningful substance. And besides, it paid the bills.

“Wow. That’s incredible.” But my voice betrays my words. I close my eyes and sink farther down into the tub.

As Holly pours cups of warm water over my head to rinse my hair, I can hear her voice, outlining all the reasons that I should be ecstatic. I can also feel a slight vibration of annoyance coming from Danielle. I’m being pretty apathetic, considering all the work she’s put into giving me this opportunity, and I feel bad about that; I really do.

They’re right. I know they’re right. It’s hard to remember what it feels like to have energy, to feel alive, to look forward to something. But my friends’ busting into my apartment has touched me, maybe even sparked a glimmer of inspiration that I forgot was possible. I can’t stay like this forever. I have to take my first step back toward the land of the living. And they’re staring at me, waiting for some indication that their efforts haven’t been completely hopeless. At this point, there’s really only one thing to say.

I open my eyes and smile at my friends. “Will you help me pick out an outfit?”

Y
ou’d think I was preparing for the Academy Awards. Holly and Danielle didn’t just help me pick out an outfit; they had scheduled a manicure and pedicure, haircut and highlights, dermabrasion facial, and a three-hour Bloomingdale’s shopping extravaganza, complete with one of the store’s personal shoppers.

Not that getting through the day was easy. I started off feeling guilty, like a lazy slouch who doesn’t deserve such pampering. Then awkward, like an impostor who’s trying desperately to hide her incompetence behind a seventeen-dollar lipstick. Then I felt exhausted, because it takes a lot of energy to get gorgeous when you’ve spent an entire month undoing every semblance of attractiveness you’ve ever acquired.

But as I glanced in the window on the way out of Bloomie’s, I saw the reflection of a girl who actually looked like she had it going on. Amazed, I stared at my bouncy blond blowout and new Armani pantsuit, and I realized that not only did I look like a new woman – I was starting to feel like one.

And now, as I enter the lobby of Gordon-Taylor, I’m actually starting to detect a twinge of excitement.
If Steve could see me now,
I think. Then I quickly squash the idea. Who cares what Steve thinks? This is about me. I embrace this quick nip of confidence, which is quickly replaced by a flash of nervous terror as I approach the desk.

The receptionist looks up, clicking her nails on the counter. “Name?”

“Lindsey Miller.”

“And the company you’re with?”

“I’m… I’m here for an interview.” I glance at my notepad. “With Liz Gordon.”

She checks her list as I lean forward and ask quietly, “Liz Gordon – is that as in, Gordon-Taylor Gordon?”

She smiles. “It sure is.”

I can’t believe it. At an agency of this size and magnitude, why would one of the owners take time to meet with little old me about a stupid media-buying job? Very odd.

“Please have a seat.”

There is nothing more nerve-racking than waiting in a lobby for a job interview. You’re wearing a suit, and you’ve got that “I’m here for an interview” look about you that seems to invite curious stares from everyone who walks by. And you’re nervous already, and probably have to go to the bathroom, but don’t want to leave in case they call for you.

I open my notepad and stare at my resume. Every bullet point that seemed so perfect last night now appears to have been written by a drooling cave monkey. I don’t know why I even came. Liz Gordon is going to laugh in my face, berate me for wasting her time, and then make sure I never work in this town again. I feel sick.

“Lindsey Miller?”

I look up to see a young, fresh-faced woman with a clipboard, beckoning me to come forward. I jump up to shake her hand.

“I’m Patricia, Liz Gordon’s assistant. Follow me.”

Up fifteen floors on the elevator, Patricia eyes me up and down.

“What are you interviewing for?” she asks.

“Oh, it’s a media job. I’m actually surprised to be interviewing with Liz Gordon.”

“It’s like that for everyone. She calls it the Passover. She’ll spend five minutes with you, then approve you or reject you. If you get approved, you’ll start the real round of interviews.”

Oh, God. I have five minutes to make a great impression. Deep breath.

The elevator opens into the biggest, most beautiful office space I’ve ever seen. All around, people bustle with positive, welcoming energy. I feel happy just standing there.

Patricia leads me down the hall to an enormous corner office overlooking Lake Michigan. “Here she is.”

She knocks on the door and sticks her head in, then beckons me inside. Liz Gordon is standing by the window, on the phone. She’s tall and polished, very cosmopolitan. With a quick glance over, she motions me to sit down and waves Patricia out.

“Whether or not they like the campaign is really not the point. If you want middle-aged married men to buy the product, you have to first remind them how dull and pathetic their lives are. That’s how you establish need and convince them they must have what we’re offering,” she commands into the phone. “I’m not changing the ads. Take it or leave it.”

Liz hangs up the phone and sits down across from me at her desk. She opens a folder and pulls out my resume. She looks up at me and smiles. I smile back.

“Lindsey Miller. Nice suit. Very hot.”

“Thank you,” I say. “It’s great to meet you. Your agency is beautiful.”

“It’s a lot more than that.” She smiles again. “You’ve got five minutes.” Looks at her watch. “So tell me. Why do you want to work at Gordon-Taylor?”

Here we go. I’ll start with something complimentary. “Everyone wants to work here.”

“Don’t be a sheep, Lindsey. If everyone wanted a hot poker in the eye, would you join them?”

“Well,” I stammer, “I’d at least have to wonder if they knew something I didn’t.”

She laughs and I relax a little.

“So why media buying?”

“I’ve always worked in media buying. That’s my specialty.”

“Are you good at it?”

“Yes, I am. Very good.”

“I see.” Her eyes move up and down my resume. “Tell me what you don’t like about it.”

“What I
don’t
like?” Is this a trick question?

“That’s right. What you don’t like. You can’t be completely happy in your career. Nobody is. Especially people with boring jobs like media buying. So tell me what you don’t like.”

This has to be a trick question. Must approach with caution. Three minutes left.

“Uh… well… I guess I don’t like that there’s not a lot of variety. It’s not exactly…”

“Challenging? Stimulating? Filled with ways to tap into your suppressed passion and creativity?” Well, she hit that nail right on the head.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“So if you could have any career in the world, what would it be?”

I don’t know what the hell this woman is looking for, and I’m terrified that any answer will be wrong, so after a few moments of panic, I feel myself defaulting to what I always do best: stuttering and stammering incoherently.

“Political journalist? Chemical engineer. No, too serious. Restaurant critic. Yes. Yummy. No, wait. Too frivolous. Sex therapist. Ha! That was a joke. Okay, what about marine biologist? X-ray technician. Paralegal.” (Pause.) “No, you’re looking for something creative.” (Another pause.) “Oh, hell, I don’t know. Does shoe shopping before a fabulous night on the town count as a job aspiration?”

She watches me carefully, then gets up and goes toward the door. Shit. I blew it. I wonder if Armani will notice that I’ve already worn the suit when I try to return it.

But instead of booting my ass back into obscurity, Liz Gordon shuts the door and sits back down.

“Funny you should mention that.”

She picks up the phone. “Patricia, have them pull the car around to the front.”

Tick. Tick.

“Tell me, Lindsey. What was the last restaurant you’ve been to?”

“The last restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“Uh…” I honestly cannot remember that far back. But then it hits me – lunch earlier today. “I had lunch at Kittichai.” Kittichai is a chic new bistro that requires reservations a month in advance. I don’t know how Danielle got us in.

“Really?” Liz looks surprised. “I know top-level executives who have a hard time getting a table there. Impressive, Lindsey. What’s the last iPhone app you bought?”

Why is she asking me these things? I only have one minute left to convince her to pass me on. I begin to panic.

“Liz, I’d like to ask…well, it sounds like you’re getting ready to go somewhere and it’s just that… I’m not sure what any of this has to do with media buying.”

She tosses back her head and laughs. “It doesn’t, darling. I’m only trying to assess how cool you are.”

Isn’t that like asking someone their religion? Or their sexual preference? Or how well they like their steak cooked? What the hell does any of that have to do with job performance?

“Yes, but…” I stammer. I’m dead anyway. I might as well get some dirt on this place to pass on to Danielle’s pedicurist. “Isn’t that line of inquiry a bit…” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Politically incorrect?”

She laughs again. “Forget it, honey. You didn’t get the job. So who cares? Why so threatened by a little small talk? Tell me, when was the last time you were in the Dolce and Gabbana section of Saks?”

Is she making fun of me? Telling me I didn’t get the job, then asking me these inane questions to watch me squirm? It was a mistake ever to leave the apartment. I need this humiliation like I need a hole in the head.

I stand up and grab my folder.

“Ms. Gordon, I appreciate the opportunity to meet with you. I’m sorry that you’ve decided to ‘pass over’ me without even bothering to inquire about my skills.”

I can feel tears welling up in my eyes. Passover indeed. I have to get out now, before giving her the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

“Thank you for your time,” I whisper.

I turn to leave, but I can hear Liz Gordon jump up from her desk. In a flash she’s in front of me, holding her hand on the door so I can’t escape.

“Lindsey, wait. Don’t go.” She smiles, almost kindly. “Listen, it’s only four thirty, but I have dinner plans with a horror bitch of a client later tonight and I could use a stiff martini to get me in the mood. Would you like to come have a drink with me?”

I was wrong. I might not be dead quite yet.

•   •   •

Two hours and three martinis later, I am having the time of my life. I’m finding that I actually
like
Liz Gordon, though I’m still baffled as to why I’m here. We’ve covered the new spring colors, celebrity gossip, boyfriend woes, and the fact that her old advertising agency is now run by a bunch of morons from the Stone Age… and believe me, I’m
all
about the questions.

I read once that when being interviewed, it’s best to distract the interviewer by asking constant and persistent questions about his or her own life and career. People love to talk about themselves. The point is to engage them in a lively conversation, yet steer the exchange entirely away from yourself. This takes up time, creates an atmosphere of easy affability, and minimizes opportunities for you to make an ass out of yourself.

And it seems to be working. So far I’ve quizzed Liz on all her favorite designers, restaurants, magazines, vacation destinations—anything I can think of, right down to her favorite lip gloss flavors. And she seems to actually like me. I’m even daring to think that Liz may have reconsidered the Passover thing. But we still haven’t talked about the job. And I’m getting a little tipsy to be professionally presentable.

“Liz, can I ask you a question?”

“Fire away, darling.”

“Advertising is your life. So I’m surprised that you find the media part of it so boring.”