Let’s Call Her Barbie

The Learning Curve

The Learning Curve

For weeks now all Stevie’s done is execute Charlotte’s ideas. She works up sketches and flats for Charlotte’s concepts, and upon Charlotte’s approval, Stevie creates the patterns. Once Charlotte approves those as well, Stevie hands them off to Mia, who lays them out in muslin and does the pinning, the cutting and sewing. When they have a sample on the fitting doll—a headless three-dimensional torso of Barbie’s body—Charlotte tells Stevie which fabrics, which buttons, and even what color thread to use. She feels more like a lackey than a designer, and Charlotte has picked up on this.

“Patience, Stevie,” she says. “There’s a learning curve here. Trust me, designing clothes in one-sixth scale is tricky. It took me forever to realize that if I want details like topstitching, pockets, even collars to look right, I have to measure them against Barbie’s head instead of her body.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Actually, it does. There’s a lot of optical illusions at play here,” she says. “The only way Jack could make Barbie look proportional was to cheat everything else. That’s why her head is so large. It’s why he made her neck extra long and so narrow. Honestly, we couldn’t even hold our heads up if we had those same proportions. And yet, on Barbie, it works.” She taps out a cigarette from her pack and strikes a match. “Something else I learned,” she says, leaning into the flame, “is stitches per inch. Normally, you’d allow six, seven, maybe even ten stitches per inch, but for Barbie”—she pauses and shakes out the match—“it’s more like twelve or sometimes even fifteen stitches per inch. You have to remember to make adjustments for things like seam allowance and your thread weight. You can’t use a regular thirty- or forty-weight thread. It’s too thick. Your thread needs to be eighty, ninety, or even higher if you can find it. And on top of all that, Barbie’s clothes have to look sophisticated but still appeal to kids—so they need to be easy enough to button and zip and slip on.”

“I get it. I can do all that.”

“I know you can. And you’ll get your chance.” Charlotte props the cigarette in the corner of her mouth, squints one eye to shield it from the smoke. “Trust me, there’s plenty of work for you to do. Just be patient.”

A few weeks later, after being at Mattel for almost a month, Stevie finally gets a chance to present her own designs. She’s worked late every night for the past week and didn’t get home until after midnight the night before. She’d lost track of time, double- and triple-checking her measurements, perfecting her concepts.

Now, at last, she goes into Charlotte’s office with her sketches in hand. She loves the outfit she created and is certain that Charlotte will be impressed and take off the training wheels. She’s almost giddy when she presents her design, a purple A-line dress with a sweet Peter Pan collar.

Charlotte adjusts her glasses and examines the flats. She isn’t saying anything. There’s no Wow or My goodness. None of the reactions Stevie’s been expecting. Instead, her heart feels a pinch when Charlotte reaches for her pencil and starts jotting down comments in the margins.

“This is a good start,” says Charlotte.

A start? But it’s finished , thinks Stevie.

“What about a name?”

“I’m calling this Apple Delight .” She points out the apple repeat pattern on the fabric.

“Nah, sounds too much like a recipe. You can do better.”

Can she? That was the best she had out of a list of twenty. And by the way, no one said a word that day in the diner about coming up with names. They name each outfit like it’s a lipstick or nail polish, names like Golden Girl and Evening Splendor .

“What about Apple of Her Eye ?” Charlotte suggests. “Oh, and where are we at on the accessories?”

“I have a pocketbook for her—see?” Stevie indicates the sketches on her drawing pad and, as a bonus, holds up a teeny-tiny handbag that she mocked up, made from a paper binder clip. She had to get creative because nothing on such a small scale exists. She remembers sitting at her desk, fiddling with the binder clip when she got the idea. After covering it in some leftover fabric and replacing the pinchers with a delicate chain, she had a Barbie-sized pocketbook.

“Hmmm.” Charlotte taps her pencil and turns the page, expecting more, but it’s blank. “Oh.” She looks up, her bottom lip curled under. “What about the interior? Where’s the lining?

The lining? Stevie didn’t realize she had to be that detailed for a pocketbook the size of a postage stamp.

“There has to be a lining,” Charlotte says, dipping her chin, peering at Stevie from above her eyeglasses. “And where are her shoes? Barbie can’t leave the house without shoes. Think about it, Stevie. Does Barbie need a hat? What about jewelry to complete her outfit?”

Stevie is bent over her sketchpad, taking notes, her ears beginning to burn. She took this job for the money, thinking it would be a breeze and possibly a foot in the door, but if she can’t design clothes for a doll, how is she ever going to create real outfits for real women?

Charlotte has now grabbed her own sketchpad, her pencil moving back and forth. “Why don’t you start working off this.” She rips the sheet from the pad and hands it to Stevie.

She’s growing hot and clammy. This meeting has gone south and she’s feeling that she’s failed, that she’s right back to being Charlotte’s lackey.

As she gets up to leave, Charlotte says, “Wait, where are you going? I’ve got something else I’d like you to take a stab at.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve had an idea for something. It’s been knocking around in my brain for weeks now, but I don’t have time to get to it. I’m thinking of something classic. Something like this—” Charlotte pulls out a folder and hands Stevie a magazine spread. “Think you could work off that?”

Stevie studies the photograph of a sleek model in a Chanel suit standing outside a Paris café.

“That’s just a jumping-off point,” says Charlotte. “Take this and run with it. Make it your own.”

And that’s what Stevie does. Returning to her workstation, she pins the photograph up on her wall and reaches for her sketchpad. It’s Chanel, so it’s a timeless design, and Stevie could replicate it, scaling it down for Barbie. But instead, something takes over her, or maybe it’s Stevie giving herself over to the illusion of Barbie being more than a doll, or maybe not a doll at all. It’s like slipping into another dimension. It frees up her pencil as she imagines all the places Barbie might wear this outfit. In her mind, she follows Barbie around for the day, seeing her riding up in an elevator of some make-believe office building, someone bringing her a cup of coffee. Barbie’s the boss, so she’s taking telephone calls and attending meetings. She goes to lunch with colleagues at the Formosa for dumplings. Back at the office, Barbie checks her appointment book for what’s on tap that afternoon, and in the evening there she is, sitting in Hamburger Hamlet with a group of glamorous friends, sipping an ice-cold gimlet. It’s all so silly, and yet it allows Stevie to push the concept, and in the course of an hour, she’s found ways to make this suit more versatile. She’ll keep the collarless cardigan jacket and the sheath skirt, but the blouse isn’t quite right, it’s too stiff for Barbie. Instead, she’ll design two separate tops—one for the office and one that’s more elegant for evening. She’s picturing navy blue, shank buttons, a decorative hat and a charming little hatbox. Before the day is out, Stevie has countless sketches rendered for a design she’s calling Commuter Set .

While she’s working away, she senses a shift in the energy as Jack approaches, pausing at Mia’s workstation to ask about her son’s broken arm. He congratulates Huntly on taking first place in last weekend’s regatta and thanks Melody for her inventory report. It’s like he’s going from workstation to workstation planting seeds of joy and goodwill.

“How are you doing over here, kiddo?” he asks, stopping at Stevie’s desk.

God, how she hates it when he calls her that.

He takes one of her sketches, holds it up to the light. “Hmmm.” He brings a finger to the tip of his chin. “I’m afraid that cuff’s too narrow.”

Stevie folds her arms. “Maybe you could wait till I’m finished before you start criticizing what I’m doing.” It comes out harsher than it should. After all, Jack is her boss. More specifically, her boss’s boss, but she doesn’t like this guy. Something about him rubs her the wrong way.

“Just thought I’d save you some aggravation further down the line,” he says, amused by her indignation. “I made a similar mistake once upon a time. Trust me, Barbie’s hands will never fit through those narrow openings.”

“I realize that.” Actually, she hadn’t even considered that, but dammit, he’s right. They’re far too narrow. “I’m not finished yet.” She yanks the sketch from him with a little too much force and the corner rips.

“Well, I guess you showed me, didn’t you?” He smiles, and before walking away, he says, “Better get used to a little constructive criticism, kiddo. Don’t take it so personally.”

—

“I just don’t like the guy,” Stevie says to Patsy that night after work. They have decided to forgo the volleyball game and bonfire at the beach and have instead ended up at a taco joint for margaritas. They’re sitting outside at a bright orange picnic table, surrounded by a trellis of bougainvillea. There’s a basket of chips, lined with greasy waxed paper, and a dish of salsa. Stevie resists, knowing that if she starts on them, there’ll be no stopping.

“You gotta get to know him,” Patsy insists, propping her sunglasses up on her head. She has high cheekbones and a smile worthy of a toothpaste commercial. “Give him a chance. Seriously,” she says. “You will love Jack. He’s a great guy. I mean it. And he’s a genius. He told me once that his IQ is 140.”

Stevie laughs. “And you believed him?”

“I’m not kidding, he’s brilliant.” She tucks her long blond hair behind one ear and leans in closer still. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Yeah, sure,” says Stevie, licking the salt from the lip of her glass.

“He gave me my first orgasm.”

“Who? Jack?” Stevie nearly drops her drink.

Patsy nods, her eyes growing wide. “I mean, I thought I’d had an orgasm before, but then I was with Jack. The first time I had sex with him I thought, ‘Oh my God, now I get it. Now I get why sex is such a big deal.’ And man oh man can he kiss. Hands down, Jack Ryan is the best kisser ever.”

Stevie is stunned and a little nauseated. She can’t imagine kissing Jack, let alone having sex with him. “But he’s so short.”

“Don’t let that fool you,” says Patsy. “He has more inches where it counts.” She giggles. “I’m serious, the man is extremely well-endowed.”

Stevie shakes her head to clear the image. “But wait a minute”—she reaches for her first chip—“he’s married, isn’t he?” She recalls seeing pictures of his wife and two young girls on his desk.

“Well”—Patsy shrugs—“yes and no.”

“How is someone married and not married?”

“He and his wife have an understanding. And he’s completely up-front about it. He told me right away—he said, ‘You know I’m married, right?’ And his wife knows he fools around. Like I said, they have an understanding.”

“How convenient.” Stevie dips another chip in the salsa.

“One thing you need to know about Jack,” Patsy says, sounding very serious, “he never lies. Not about anything. He told me right away that he doesn’t believe in monogamy.”

“That’s charming—Jesus, Patsy, how long have you been seeing him?”

“ Was. I was seeing him. It’s over now. But we were together for”—she tilts her head, calculating—“I don’t know, maybe six months or so.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, I was madly in love with him, but he told me it was time for him to move on.”

“And you’re okay with that? You have to see him every day.” Stevie helps herself to another chip and then another after that, promising herself it’s the last one.

Patsy laughs. “He’s still a great friend. I can talk to him about anything. And if I need help with something, he’s right there. He fixed my oven the other day. There was something wrong with the starter jet or something like that. Anyway, he’s generous and kind. Honestly, he’s one of my favorite people on the planet.”

Stevie gives this a moment to settle in. She’s nervously eating at this point and takes one last chip before nudging the basket away. “Does Ginger know about you two?”

“Oh, poor Ginger.”

It’s no secret that Ginger is pining away for Jack. And she’s not the only one. There’s Mia, Wendy, Gina, Laura and half the secretarial pool. And now Patsy, too. All of them swear that Jack is an excellent boss. Especially if you’re a woman. If you work late one night or come in over the weekend, you’ll find flowers or a box of chocolates on your desk the next day. Some of the women have taken his gestures as a sexual overture, but they’ve been wrong. At last year’s Christmas party, Ginger had too much to drink. Jack drove her home, only to have to pry her hands off him before tucking her into bed. The next day she claimed amnesia. Another girl who’d undressed and waited for Jack on his bearskin rug was tenderly handed back her clothing and told she’d make some other man very happy. She resigned one week later.

Patsy puts her sunglasses back in place. “Don’t be so hard on Jack. You gotta get to know him better.”

On the drive home that night, Stevie is still stunned by Patsy’s confession. Patsy and Jack? She can’t comprehend it and that business about orgasms. She’s not sure she’s ever had an orgasm, but according to Patsy it’s the sort of thing that if you’ve had one, you’d know it. The only man Stevie’s ever been with is Russell, and given what happened, she links sex with pregnancy, not with pleasure—and certainly not with orgasms.