24 “Come over here for a second, and I’ll explain everything.”
24
“Come over here for a second, and I’ll explain everything.”
Miranda
You know when you wake up and you get the feeling the whole day is going to be shitty, and then everything is shitty? Well, try adding the bonus of knowing exactly what’s going to happen and when. Some things I can solve; for example, the pigeon poop that dribbled down my hair, forehead, and raincoat, which I avoided by waiting for my cab under a bus shelter. The mischievous bird, which was waiting for me majestically perched on the lamppost in front of my door, was shit out of luck. But…will I be able to prevent anything else?
Today is Tristan’s birthday. His thirty-fifth birthday. It should be a happy day, but it’s not going to be. Why? Because today is the deadline day for closing the next issue, and there are a lot of problems that I could’ve fixed if I had woken up yesterday, but today they are going to make the newsroom go straight to DEFCON 2.
The first time around, not only was I a shitty girlfriend who didn’t plan anything special for him, like a surprise party or something like that, but I was also very late for the “celebration,” which was nothing more than a beer party with the four dudes from the office he gets along with. Well, kind of. Let’s just say he can stand them.
He didn’t like my gift at all, by the way: it was a beautiful black Saint Laurent shirt with white guns printed on it. He took it out of the box, unfolded it, studied it, and looked at me very slowly before he declared, “But, Miri…you don’t know me at all.”
To be fair to Tristan: the shirt was amazing, but it wasn’t his style at all. I don’t know why I bought it for him. Sometimes we project ourselves onto our partners. Or maybe it was the kind of gift you give because you would love it yourself and you don’t stop to think about the other person’s taste. Maybe I didn’t even have time to think it through.
Let’s see what we can do today.
First of all, the office seems to be in flames. We’re closing today, and Marisol (poor Marisol, who didn’t even want to but succumbed to the peer pressure) trashed a four-page article. And she must have had her reasons.
“Girls, we have to come up with something else. That article isn’t relevant at all anymore.”
“That’s what they said when they said paper was going to become obsolete,” Marta, the digital director, pointed out.
And that’s where the panic started. And the shit-talking. Because even though we all do a little bit of everything, there’s still a kind of rivalry (which I’ve always thought was healthy, for what it’s worth) between the people who work on the physical issue and those who work on the digital issue. This rivalry has created some friction today because…
We have to pull four pages of content out of our asses.
A huge ad campaign came in, and we have to redo the whole thing.
We’re waiting for the photos for an article that still haven’t come in, and we’re waiting…and waiting…and waiting…
We all know this means staying really late. And these girls have lives beyond these four walls.
And I have a boyfriend, and it’s his birthday.
I set up camp in the meeting room with the heads of each section to try to find solutions. No one’s listening to each other, Marta’s not helping with her digs, Marisol has a lunch with Guerlain, and I keep thinking about how to fix Tristan’s birthday and worrying about being late. It’s a madhouse right now.
I propose the topics that got us out of the predicament back then, because suddenly, a beam of light flashes in the hemisphere of my brain where this information is stored, but it turns out they don’t quite work for Eva.
“We did something similar four or five months ago.”
“Oh, go suck a dick,” I answer tersely.
Marisol shoots me a look and then glances at her Cartier Tank watch.
“Sorry, Marisol,” I apologize, putting my hand on her forearm. “But we have to find a solution.”
“It’s not a problem. I trust your judgment, my love, but let’s watch how we talk to each other. I know the whole ‘we’re little ladies’ thing is pretty outdated, but…let’s speak to each other with the respect we deserve.”
“You’re right, you’re right. Sorry, everyone,” I address the table.
They nod. They’re nervous too.
“What’s the problem with the topic, Eva?” I try to mediate conciliatorily.
Outside, from their desks, the girls are all watching like this conclave is going to decide something life or death.
“We can’t be constantly talking about skin care routines and hydration.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Cris pipes up. “We have a lot more to say from the beauty section.”
“Under other circumstances, I would see it the same way you are, but we’re up against the clock, and it’s not a good day. We have to make executive decisions.”
“But we’re beating a dead horse.”
“So find a hot take,” I suggest. “’Skin care routines according to your age or your budget or whether there was a crescent moon when you were born.’”
“Come on, what’s going on with you, Miranda?” Rita laughs.
“Isn’t this enough?” I raise my eyebrows and sweep my arm across the expectant office.
“It is. But this happens every month.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t fall on my boyfriend’s birthday every month. And I bought him a shirt I know he’s not gonna like, and I’m gonna show up late to his party, and I’m gonna be in the doghouse for at least five days, and he’ll refuse to touch me with a barge pole for two weeks. Look, this affects me and all of you.”
“How does you not getting laid affect the rest of us?”
“Because I’m going to make your lives a living hell.”
I widen my eyes to emphasize my words.
I guess they don’t believe my threats for a second, because they know me too well. Although I can get pretty annoying complaining about stuff, which isn’t exactly fun for anyone.
“Girls, go ahead with the facial routine. Try to put an original spin on it, do something with a wink to our brand partners, and fashion can do their bit too,” Marisol declares.
“What about an editorial debunking fashion myths?” I suddenly suggest.
“Such as…?”
“Well…the whole ‘dress for the job you want,’ ‘only appropriate for a certain age,’ every season some headline comes out declaring the ‘new black’ and it never is…”
“Said the eternal widow.”
Everyone laughs. I do too. I can’t help it. Today I’m wearing a black tube skirt, an oversized sweater that is also black, cinched at the waist with a black-and-gold belt, ankle booties with the same finish, and…can you guess what color my trench coat and bag are? Bingo.
“Sounds good to me. Let’s adjust the pages and sections. I’ll leave it in your hands. See?” Marisol stands up and adjusts her blouse. “See how we don’t need to get trashy with each other?”
I laugh and nod. She points at me with her perfectly manicured hand.
“I’m leaving you in charge, as always. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t skip out on me. We’re either going to close this together or not at all.”
A sigh lodges in my chest when I realize how much I like this, how attached I am to my job. Tristan, the end version is right. It’s one of the loves of my life, and sometimes I spoil it…
“Ah…” My boss turns in the door of the meeting room and looks at me again. “About your boyfriend’s birthday… Do you know what really gets men excited?”
“What?”
“Same as us: feeling special. Gift him your time.”
“Great. This is the perfect day to find a ton of time for him.” I sigh.
“You’ll figure out how to do it. You’re a clever girl.”
I love her, but right now, I feel like strangling her.
I dole out the content to write as fairly as possible, and I leave a few tasks for myself. I ask the poor interns to find images that we haven’t used before to illustrate each new article.
After two calls trying to get them to send us the missing photos for the article (that still haven’t come in yet), I shuffle off to the kitchen to pour myself another coffee and, while I’m at it, sit with my head in my hands to see if I can come up with something that won’t fatally disappoint my partner. I’ve been hunched over racking my brain like this for ten minutes when the first batch of editors and interns come in for their caffeine fix.
“Hi, Miri,” they all chorus.
“Hey, girls.” I barely lift my head.
“You okay?” one of them asks.
I straighten up with hair like Eduard Punset and shake my head.
“We’re going to get home super late tonight. You all know that, right?”
“Yes,” they respond in chorus again before they all burst out laughing.
“Well, we’ll take the hit in salary order, so the lowest paid will have the honor of going home as soon as they finish their work.”
“Very considerate.”
I take a bow.
“It works great for me because today is my boyfriend’s birthday.”
I look at the girl who said this like a caged dog looking at a bunny.
“Did you plan a surprise for him?”
“Well…” She shrugs, embarrassed. “Something.”
“Will you tell me?”
They all look at each other timidly. Let’s not forget that when Marisol isn’t here, I’m the boss.
“If you want…”
“The thing is…it’s my boyfriend’s birthday too, and I haven’t organized anything. I feel terrible and I know…”
“Did you say happy birthday this morning?”
I nod.
“And I brought him coffee in bed. But he had a meeting really early, and he barely had time to drink it.”
Of course, I can’t tell them that I was the one in a hurry because I realized what day I had woken up in, and I knew all the shit we were going to suffer today.
“I booked a table at a restaurant, and we’re going to meet up at the bar where we met.” She smiles politely. “I don’t know if that’ll give you many ideas. It’s not very original.”
“Right…it’s just that I’m going to get out of here so late.”
“Can’t one of us fill in for you so you can leave earlier?”
“No, no. If closing is delayed, it’s on me.”
They nod gratefully, but I keep staring at them, stupefied. I just had an idea.
“Ooh, ooh…” one of them murmurs.
“Wait… You can’t fill in for me on the closing, but…”
“Miri, I’m not going to flirt with your boyfriend,” one of them pipes up.
“Have you seen him?” Another one elbows her. “I’ll go, I’ll go.”
“You’re all filthy!” I laugh. “Let me think. I might ask you for a couple of favors.”
Twenty minutes later, I run into the newsroom like a nutjob, still looking like a mess, a hot mess.
“Raise your hand if you’re not wearing heels today!”
After confused looks all around, six hands emerge timidly.
“Not you,” I say to Rita. “I need you to close this fucking issue. You.” I point at an intern. “I need you to do me a favor.”
“And what are you going to give her in exchange?” Cris calls out from her desk, trying to bug me.
“Listen…” I lower my voice, and they all listen closely. “Today is closing day, and as you know, it looks like we’re all going to get out of here veeeeeery late. But…to take our minds off it, the ones who have the least work are going to help me with my boyfriend’s birthday. In exchange…you can all fill a bag full of products from the beauty closet.”
There’s a round of applause and whoops.
“Almudena, come over here for a second, and I’ll explain everything.”