Girl Before a Mirror by Liza Palmer Read Free Book Online Page B

I got there that the address his assistant gave me was for his apartment.” She tosses the balled-up paper towel toward the bin. It bounces off the rim and falls to the floor. A little scornful laugh and she walks over to pick it up. “There I am riding up in the elevator, still trying to make up other possible scenarios, holding my portfolio and practicing the pitches I had for Holloway/Greene clients I’d researched beforehand. I even bought an outfit I couldn’t afford.” She bends over, picks up the balled-up paper towel, and throws it away. This time, it goes in. “This outfit, actually. Anyway, I figured out pretty quickly that it wasn’t my art degree from NYU or the time I spent interning in France or my apprenticeship at Vogue or any number of sketches I tried to show him that night that got me that meeting.”
    â€œWhat a douchebag,” I say. “Not to mention blatant sexual harassment. You have a pretty good case, should you—”
    â€œI don’t need a sexual harassment case, Ms. Wyatt. I need a job.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œAnd I’ve had much worse.” She finally looks over at me. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five? Twenty-six maybe? But in that moment she looks ancient. I nod. She continues. “He was nice.” A look from me. “In the beginning.”
    â€œI’m so sorry you had to go through that.” She looks surprised.“That must have been . . . well, you must have felt so alone. Is that it—is that the right—”
    â€œNo, that’s exactly it. I thought I met a nice guy and was finally going to get a real job. Turns out . . .”
    â€œYep.” A beat.
    â€œI didn’t sleep with him that night.” She turns to me. “I need you to know that.” I nod and she allows a small, relieved smile.
    â€œYou don’t have to—” I pause as Sasha runs into one of the stalls and throws up. “Explain yourself to me,” I say to myself as she retches into the toilet.
    â€œBreathe. There’s a cafeteria past the elevators. We’ll get you a bubble water. Here’s some antacids,” I say, pulling a bottle from my purse and dropping two tablets into the palm of her hand. She pops them into her mouth as I throw the bottle back into my purse and am finally ready to go. She takes a big, deep breath. “It’ll settle your stomach.” Sasha gives her lipstick one more pass and we’re out of the bathroom. After a quick stop at the cafeteria we’re armed with bubble waters and speeding up to the executive floor within minutes.
    â€œAnna Wyatt and Sasha Merchant from Holloway/Greene to see Preeti Dayal,” I say to the receptionist. The entire Manhattan skyline is just behind her. Beautiful.
    â€œYes. There you are. Have a seat and they’ll be right with you,” she says. Sasha and I sit down on a long, gray, modern couch along the far wall next to a couple of men. It’s quiet in the waiting room. We all keep to ourselves and are either scrolling through our phones, looking over paperwork, or quietly whispering to whomever we arrived with. I let myself stare out onto the Manhattan skyline and go over the pitch. A deep breath.And over. And over. Like a script. Hand gestures, when to show the artwork, when to smile, when to lean in, when to make that joke, and when to tell a “personal” story. Visualizing Preeti Dayal leaning forward in her chair with a smile or a question as she gets more and more engaged in our vision.
    The door to the waiting room opens and the assistant gives us a regal nod. I gather my things and walk toward the door, Sasha at my heels. A deep breath. I open the door and walk through to the inner offices of Quincy Pharmaceuticals. There is an assistant waiting for us outside the conference room about six feet down the hall.
    â€œWe’ve got this. They’re going to love us. Just breathe,” I say