Chapter 6 A Flattering Turning Radius
Chapter 6
A Flattering Turning Radius
E arly at work the next morning—so early that I was still sipping my iced espresso I picked up every day on the way in—Phoebe leaned into my office.
I’d worked several jobs before landing this one at BME. It had been a fluke that the first one had landed me in media planning, as an assistant to a studio executive at Disney. Yes, I’d studied marketing in college, but I’d spent my undergrad years working on creative strategies, designing ads, writing copy and building pitch decks. I showed up to the informational interview my friend’s mom had snagged me with my creative portfolio in hand, only to be asked in increasing detail about my Microsoft Excel skills. Before I knew it, I’d been offered a temp gig in the media planning department, covering assistant duties while the team interviewed to find a long-term assistant.
For all of those dreams of being some modern Peggy Olson, I really was skilled at Microsoft Excel. And all of those brilliant ideas dreamed up by the other Peggys and Dons of the world had to go somewhere , and the somewhere was what media planners handled. We were the ones to figure out what TV show to run the ad in, or where the beautifully designed billboard should be located, or how much to spend buying sponsored posts across social media platforms.
It had never been the side of advertising I was interested in, but even straight out of college I was savvy enough to know that, even in Los Angeles, studio jobs didn’t necessarily come along every day. It was close enough to the work I actually wanted to do, so I threw myself into the work. I was offered the long-term job, and before I knew it, I was years into a career in media planning. Sometimes Will told me he was sorry my creative dreams had died—which was rich coming from someone going over lines of code every day—but I really didn’t see it that way anyway. There were still ways to be creative within my role, it just looked a little different than I’d planned.
And, truly, what about life didn’t?
Before BME, the work had been stressful. Clients who couldn’t make decisions and then blamed me when media opportunities were no longer available. Bosses who asked for fifteen different versions of the same report and then sent over emails to clients taking none of that info into account. A cost-effective and brilliant plan basically laid to ruin because the creative shop couldn’t get client approval on the ads in time and yet somehow blamed my team. When I landed the interview at this new female-led boutique entertainment marketing agency, I was excited but knew realistically that it would likely be more of the same. Yeah, film and TV were a lot more interesting than that six-month stretch when I got placed on an agency’s consumer-packaged-goods team and did research on potential mouthwash consumers, but the pressure was a lot more , too. There was only one season premiere, there was only one opening box office weekend, and execs were always eager to blame any failure on the marketing team. It often created a culture of fear, and I wondered if it was worth it, just because it was more interesting to market the latest season of my favorite premium cable prestige drama than Listerine.
Then I’d interviewed with Phoebe and felt the vibe shift almost immediately. She’d come from the same sorts of roles I had—only more creative and much further up the chain of command—and didn’t want to keep living in that world of fear and blame, either. She built her own company so she could do the work she loved but in a world that rewarded not just hard work but collaboration and cooperation. It was, by far, the most functional place I’d ever worked, and I admired Phoebe beyond how I’d ever thought of a boss before.
Which is why it was most assuredly not great that I was pulling some sort of shenanigan on her, no matter how chill Chloe was about the whole thing.
“May I?” Phoebe asked, gesturing to my door. Oh, god. But I nodded, since she was the boss, and she stepped in and closed the door behind her. Oh, god times two.
“I should say—”
“I’m so sorry, Clementine,” Phoebe said, running a hand back through her short hair. “I feel terrible.”
I didn’t know how to respond or what she could have to feel terrible about and I also didn’t know why I’d blurted out I should say because what should I even say? So I took another sip of my iced espresso instead of trying to finish my sentence.
“I know that sometimes the queer community—especially, I know, lesbians—have had a history of excluding bi and pan folks, or denying their queerness. But I want you to know that I don’t feel that way at all,” she said in a heartfelt tone. “I’m well aware that bi-erasure and such is rampant in the queer community, but I do my best to push back on that whenever I can. I married a bisexual person, after all! I’m friends with plenty of people who identify as bi or pan.”
I noted her slightly higher-pitched tone, the quicker cadence of her speech, and I realized for maybe the first time that I’d ever witnessed, Phoebe Reyes was nervous .
“All of that talk the other evening about straight people being capable,” she said, shaking her head. “I apologize.”
“Oh,” I said. “I’d practically forgotten about that.”
“No, I know better than to assume someone’s sexuality and then put them into the position of having to nod and agree with an untruth or out themselves on someone else’s schedule. I just thought—no, it doesn’t matter what I thought. And I’m also sorry for all of that some of my best friends are bi -ing I did just now!”
“I was with Will for a long time,” I said. “You didn’t know. And it sounds like some of your best friends are bi.”
Phoebe laughed, but her expression softened. I’d always liked that she could be tough as the industry required when need be but it never seemed to compromise who she was the rest of the time. “I also hadn’t realized that you and Will had broken up. Not that you’re required to report that to your boss, of course.”
“I just don’t like talking about personal things at work,” I said, in as nice a tone as I could muster. Because now it felt like this was all personal. Since brunch yesterday, the personal was extremely unavoidable.
“Of course,” Phoebe said with a nod. “But—”
“But Chloe didn’t tell me brunch involved you, so, here I am,” I said, still trying to sound nice.
“No, of course she didn’t,” Phoebe said with a laugh. “But—sorry, how awkward is this?”
“Oh, god, very ,” I said, thrilled we could just acknowledge that, and we laughed together.
“I know we are both cautious of not overstepping any boundaries of professionalism, but I’ll still say that I hope this present awkwardness doesn’t negatively affect your relationship with Chloe.”
“Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head as if the notion was ridiculous. After all, for reasons entirely unknown to Phoebe, every related notion was ridiculous.
“Chloe’s one of my favorite people in my entire life,” Phoebe continued. “She’s family to me. I wouldn’t stand in the way of her happiness merely because of some light office awkwardness.”
“OK,” I said, and Phoebe chuckled.
“I’d say that you’re off the hook and we never have to discuss this again, but unless you broke up with Chloe yesterday for throwing you to the wolves and by the wolves I mean me , it seems that we’ll be seeing plenty of each other now.”
“I didn’t, so, yeah. I guess so.”
“We’ll navigate it,” Phoebe said, sounding a lot more like her usual confident self. “And I’ll follow your lead—no one here needs to know the details of your personal life, and no one in your personal life has to know any details about your job.”
“Besides you,” I said, and we both laughed again.
“Besides me, exactly.” She gestured to my door. “I have a thousand or so emails to get through, and I’m sure you do too, so I won’t keep you any longer. But, truly, I’m sorry for any assumptions I might have made, and I’ll do better moving forward.”
“It’s really—” I caught myself because what even was it? It didn’t feel right granting someone forgiveness when you were the one caught up in some fake scenario that might look a lot to an outside party like lying. I guess to an inside party, too.
Luckily Phoebe was already on her phone and headed out, so it didn’t seem to matter that I never finished my sentence.
Chloe texted toward the end of the workday, a vague What are you doing tonight?
Errands I should have run yesterday I typed. Two glasses of wine and a large French brunch had not been conducive to the productivity I’d imagined for the rest of my Sunday. Why?
Why the air of suspicion? Was just going to ask you to grab drinks if you were interested, but sounds like you’ve got boring things to worry about instead.
Excuse me, nothing is LESS boring than making sure Small Jesse Pinkman has enough food and treats to survive in the manner to which he’s now accustomed.
I went back to the post-campaign report I was analyzing, but my phone buzzed again. And then it buzzed several more times in succession.
You’re right, that isn’t boring. If you’re going to some fancy hipster pet store, let me tag along. Fernando is dangerously low on several items vital to his comfort level as well. Also this is your warning that you just got added to the group text chain.
I scrolled back on my phone and saw that, already, the conversation was about eleven messages deep from unknown numbers about brunch options for next Sunday.
FYI a warning tends to come BEFORE and not after something’s already happened.
Chloe responded with a gif of Dana Scully with a caption that read If this is monkey pee, you’re on your own. That made me burst into surprised laughter.
Wait, what does this have to do with anything? Honestly I’m a little afraid to ask.
Ask for forgiveness, not permission. And distract them with hot fictional FBI agents. Are we going out for organic pet food or what, Clementine?
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d run boring errands with anyone other than Will. Were errands a couple thing? Was Chloe somehow planning for us to run into her friends, caught in the act of the mundane intimacy of pet-food shopping? Had I overthought this? No one, of course, had taught me the right level of thought I was supposed to put into a real-life fake-dating scenario. In fact, nothing beyond romance novels had prepared me for such a situation at all.
Chloe texted me her address, and I swung over and parked on her block. Her apartment was a second-story walk-up in a nondescript building off Commonwealth Avenue. Once she let me in, though, I grinned at the bright décor filling the space; it was less twee and maximalist than my décor, but overall not a dissimilar vibe.
I stepped in to check out a framed geometric print, but I’d barely managed to move when a small blur of brown frizzly fur barreled at me.
“Hey, buddy, this is my friend Clementine,” Chloe said, dropping down low so she was at the same level as the dog, who had ears like if a teddy bear was … pointy. And stressed out. “Clementine, Fernando.”
“Is he named after the Abba song?” I asked, and she cracked up while the small terrier gave me what I could only read as a suspicious and questioning look and then barked about seven times in high-pitched succession.
“Not entirely,” she said, scratching between his ears. “I found him wandering traffic on San Fernando. But, yes, the Abba song sealed the deal.”
“Your place is cute ,” I said, gesturing at the walls, filled with artwork in bright shades. I was still figuring out mine, now that I wasn’t compromising Will’s minimalist style with my own, which was … decidedly less so. “Your apartment’s big enough to have a front room!”
“I know, I pay next to nothing and it’s enormous. My landlady’s super old, though, and I know her kids will wait about five minutes after she dies to jack up my rent.”
“Fingers crossed she lives forever,” I said. “I mean, not just because of your rent.”
“LA’s a seller’s market,” she says. “It’s OK if it’s just because of my rent.”
We both laughed, and Fernando sniffed my legs and shoes with the energy of an anteater on cocaine. I found myself hoping I was making a good impression on him, Chloe’s actual best friend. His tail wagged as he continued sniffing and the sharp barks had decreased both in volume and quantity, so I glanced at Chloe, my eyebrows raised.
“Wow, you are desperate for his approval,” she said, and I wondered if I was that obvious or if she could just read me that well. “Let’s go.”
I followed her out the door and then she led us behind the building to a parking lot where she unlocked the doors to an old light-blue Bronco. Up until that moment I hadn’t thought much about what Chloe drove, but this vehicle did seem right.
“Pet food and then human food?” she asked.
“Does human food mean the grocery store or does it mean dinner?” I asked.
“Great question. I guess it could mean either, but I meant dinner where I paid someone to make food for me.”
“Dinner where someone else makes food for me sounds great to me, too,” I said, even though—what even was this? For some reason my only instinct at the moment was to go with the flow. “So does every brunch option of the thirteen or so that’s been floated in the group chat for next week. Is it always like this?”
“ Always ,” she said, shifting the manual gearshift as she took off down Sunset.
“Fernando’s really cute,” I said. “He doesn’t seem like a demon at all.”
Chloe let out what I could only describe as a guffaw . “I didn’t say he was a demon! Only a snarly asshole.”
“He didn’t seem like that either,” I said. “Well, too much like that.”
“Yeah, well,” she said, shooting me a look, “he liked you. But don’t let that go to your head.”
“Too late,” I said, and we both laughed. Chloe drove to the pet store in Los Feliz that had a mural of strangely proportioned animals on its front windows, including a dog that looked like ALF. Inside, I grabbed everything Small Jesse Pinkman needed while Chloe lugged around a giant bag of dog food.
“You must be strong,” I said, and immediately regretted it because complimenting someone’s strength always carried at least a whiff of flirtation. As of now, I couldn’t even tell if Chloe was someone I’d flirt with for real, if the situation was different. It was hardly that she wasn’t hot—because of course she was. And of course I could feel that she knew that, the way I felt certain anyone who could be described as a real live wire walked around with a few extra helpings of confidence. When I’d imagined my hypothetical queer future, it had hardly been with a real live wire though; whoever I fell for, I was sure, would feel safe and comfortable, just the way Will had from almost the very first moment.
“I do OK,” Chloe said seemingly effortlessly despite the giant bag in her arms. “It’s important in my line of work.”
“Do you have to groom giant dogs?” I asked as we walked up to the checkout.
“Sometimes I do, yeah. Me and a Great Dane, it’s weird how equally matched we are.”
The cashier glanced between us. “I’m ringing these up together?”
“Absolutely,” Chloe said before I could even wrap my head around being read as a couple by a complete stranger. It was more, it hit me, than mildly flattering.
“I can Venmo you for that,” I said as we carried our purchases out to her Bronco. Her purchases, really.
“Nah, let me do at least one nice thing for Small Jesse Pinkman,” she said. “Do you have any other errands to run or should we figure out our human food situation now?”
“That was mainly it. And he really has plenty of food! I’m just nervous about running out. I’ve never had someone solely dependent on me before, and it’s mildly stressful.”
“Yeah, I felt the same way when I got Fernando. I didn’t stockpile food or anything but I did maintain an impressive arsenal of low-level anxiety.”
“Really? You don’t seem like someone who gets anxious.”
She exhaled loudly as she backed out of the parking space. “Why is everyone always like this about me? Chloe, you seem like you never cry or feel nervous or have feelings!”
“Shit,” I said, because while of course I didn’t literally say that, that was absolutely at the heart of what I had. “I’m sorry.”
“Whatever,” she said, her eyebrows drawn together and creased as she pulled out onto Hillhurst. “I’m used to it.”
“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have to be and I—” I laughed as I decided to just say what I thought. “I don’t know. People who can drive a stick always seem so tough and no-nonsense.”
Chloe’s scowl lifted as she burst into laughter. “Clementine! I am full of nonsense, what are you talking about?”
“You are tough, though,” I said, secure about that much even though, really, Chloe and I barely knew each other. “I mean, you lifted that giant bag of dog food. You lift Great Danes all the time.”
“I’m strong ,” she said. “And I only lift Great Danes occasionally.”
“I promise I’ll start treating you like the nonsense-filled strong person you are,” I said. “Until whenever that wedding is. I should have checked in on that already, actually.”
“It’s in two months,” Chloe said, sounding unconcerned about my availability. Maybe that much was fair. “The last week in September.”
“I can make that work,” I said, instead of dwelling on my very empty calendar, though that did remind me—“Actually then, a couple more weeks than that? I can’t show up single to my parents’ anniversary party.”
I had no idea how showing up visibly queer at my parents’ anniversary party would go, but it was at least honest. Well, as honest as a fake girlfriend could be. Which I suppose wasn’t very. How was this so confusing and convoluted already? There was a reason I hated this trope.
“Great, then it’s two months plus two weeks,” Chloe said, sounding very casual for someone enacting a whole set of lies.
Though, to be fair, that described me as well. To also be fair, though, I didn’t feel very casual about it! I was going to introduce my fake girlfriend to my family metaphorical moments before we ended it, just to make one measly party less painful?
Then Greg and Marisol’s email flashed through my mind again— Poor Clem— and I knew I only wanted to walk into that party next to a significant other. Fake or not.
“Where am I driving?” Chloe asked. “What do you want for dinner?”
“Make a U-turn and see if we can get a table at All Time?” I asked.
“Oh, god, they have the best salad,” Chloe said. “Wait, don’t judge me for that. A salad is so boring to get excited about.”
“No, I love that salad. Make a U-turn!”
Chloe laughed, turning right down the next side street. “Clementine, I’m extremely flattered you think this vehicle has the turning radius for U-turns.”