Jenna was sitting in her office the next morning, researching her latest post (and also where to cheaply rent upscale-looking serving trays), when Cam from the mailroom knocked on her open door. He was clutching an oversized stunning bouquet of gardenias, calla lilies and tulips.
“These are for you,” he said, shoving the arrangement rather gruffly into her hands. Walking away, he mumbled, “Now I’m gonna be smelling like a dryer sheet all day.”
She opened the card.
Dear JJ,
I’m still hoping you change your mind about coffee. I need to speak to you. Urgently. It’s a matter I can only discuss with you. And for what it’s worth, I never wanted you to dress like Chrissie Tiegan. I don’t even know who that is. Please call me.
Congrats again,
Brian
Jenna closed the card. She was furious. Her anger overrode her low-grade curiosity about whatever this “matter” was. How dare he? Brian had to be in control of every situation—she wasn’t surprised that he’d try to insinuate himself into her life, because it was clear that she was fine without him. It must be driving him crazy, knowing that she was in the city and, for the first time in their lives, not needing or wanting him in the slightest.
I’m the only person you can talk to? Talk to Celeste Lily L’Amour Wexler, you manipulative shit.
Disgustedly, she threw the card away. And then, unable to resist and hating herself for it, she pulled it out of the trash and read it again. Then, she dumped the bouquet into the trash, and tore the card into tiny shreds, cursing under her breath with each rip. This is how Eric found her when he knocked on her open door.
“Whoa. What’s up?”
Jenna looked up, and quickly swept all the tiny pieces into her trashcan. They fluttered like snow on top of her gorgeous bouquet. “Hello,” she said tensely. “Have a seat. I was just going to call you in for our meeting.”
“You seem a little…upset.” He sat down, gesturing at the trash. “You okay?”
“Not worth discussing,” she said, with a dismissive gesture. Jenna was trying to look steely and disconnected, but when she saw Eric’s face, which radiated real concern, she softened. How could she pretend in front of him, after everything they’d shared at Terry’s party?
“Pretty flowers. Wrong man. Too late.”
“Say no more.”
“Thank you,” she said, with relief. She scooped a handful of Skittles out of the candy dish on her desk and shoveled it into her mouth. Eric had reminded her how much she loved them.
“So,” she chewed, going into businesswoman mode. “Shall we go over our seventeenth terrible idea? I was thinking about what you said about on-screen interviews being static. So, I researched…” She cocked her head, distracted by the busy sleeve of tattoos swirling down his left arm. “Anyway, I researched…”
“You’re openly reading my arm?”
“Well, no, I…”
He lifted it up so she could see more clearly.
“Wow. ‘Stanley Kubrik is a god.’ I like that one. Brilliant director.”
“What’s your favorite film of his?”
The conversation started spilling out of them. The flowers were forgotten; the series was forgotten. Both Jenna and Eric knew they needed to focus on work, but they’d discovered that they had a real camaraderie. And it was too fun not to indulge in it.
“The Shining,” said Jenna. “So creepy.”
“One of my professors wrote an essay about what makes something creepy versus scary,” said Eric. “The brain is wired to understand what’s scary so you can protect yourself. A tiger charging at you. Fire. Sharp things. We know not to fuck with that stuff. Creepy is vague. Our brains can’t process it as a threat or as something normal. Like that Twilight Zone episode where we see the girl watching TV from the back, then she turns around and has no mouth.”
“Or the video in The Ring,” said Jenna. “I have a real-life example! When I was twenty-four, I wrote my first big piece for Harper’s Bazaar and they ran my picture on the Contributors page. A Patrick Demarchelier photo. Epic.”
Eric watched her with a half-smile. He had no idea who Patrick Demarchelier was, but he was thoroughly entertained. Jenna gestured so broadly when she was telling a story. Like she was working it for the seats all the way in the back.
“…and I got an email from a reader, years later. She’d been on vacation in Panama and saw that picture on a billboard.”
“The one from Harper’s Bazaar?”
“Yes. But it was on an ad for a special clip you put on your nose at night to make it smaller! It was a before/after picture, and they’d photoshopped the ‘before’ pic to make my nose look bigger. She emailed it to me. Seeing my face with the wrong nose? Now, that’s creepy.”
Eric threw his head back and laughed a deep “ha-ha-ha” that was neither self-conscious nor dialed-down for the office.
“A gang of Panamanian bandits hijacked your picture for a plastic surgery ad? Is that legal?”
“Hell no!” Jenna shrugged. “But I let it go. Truth be told, I was a little bit proud.”
“You still are. I can tell by your delivery.”
“Stop noticing me.”
“Can’t stop, won’t stop.” He picked up a rubber band ball from her desk and tossed it between his hands. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“No personal information.”
“No longer applies.”
“You’re right. Shoot.”
“When we were shooting Greta Blumen, you said you had everything riding on this job. Why?”
Jenna took a long sip of water, wracking her brain for a way to package the story. Something pithy, tied in a bow, cute. But all that came to her was the ugly truth.
“I begged your mom for this job. Actually, begged is an understatement. I called her from Virginia, groveling. I took a salary that was less than what I was making fifteen years ago, just so she would hire me. My exact words were, ‘Please, I’m desperate, I need this, I’ll take whatever you offer.’” Jenna chewed her lip. “If I don’t do well here, I will have humiliated myself. And I doubt I’ll get hired anywhere again.”
“Why?”
“This industry is very ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ And I disappeared for a long time. Plus, I might have burned some important bridges when I left.” She realized her voice was shaking a little. “This is my last chance.”
Jenna averted her eyes from Eric’s. She couldn’t believe she’d expressed her fears out loud, at work, and to him.
“Jenna. Look at me.” She did.
“We’ll figure out this project. You won’t humiliate yourself. You can’t, not while you have me. Not have me, have me. But you know.”
“I know.”
“I’ll move into my cubicle. I’ll slay dragons. I’ll do whatever. Just know that I won’t stop until you win.”
“Why be so committed to helping me?” she asked softly. “You’re one of my people now. I care about what happens to you.” He paused, and frowned. “You actually begged my mom?”
“There was no alternative. If I didn’t do it, I’d just fade away. I was in a terrible place. Dead inside, afraid of my own shadow. There were weeks where, the only way I kept track of time was because I remembered that every four days I needed to take a shower.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“Rock bottom.”
“But…why?” He whispered this, as if the gravity of this news deserved hushed tones.
“Everything I devoted my life to, professionally and personally, was suddenly gone. I had a breakup that was, for all intents and purposes, a divorce. My career was over. Then came the depression, and my daily cocktail of Ambien, Xanax and Prozac. After a while, I got used to feeling horrible. It was easier than figuring out how to start over.” She paused. “A couple months ago, I decided that I’d had enough. I would’ve done anything to get my life back. Begging for this job was just a moment of extreme weakness.”
“No, that was extreme strength,” he said, looking at her with awe. “You dragged yourself out of a hole, despite having to lean on Darcy Vale to do it. You’re tough as shit, Jenna.”
She never thought of it that way. All she felt about the past two years was shame. “I generally feel more lame than tough, but I’m getting there.” She plucked a bunch of yellow Skittles out of her bowl and arranged them into a smiley face on her desk. She had to change the energy in her office, or she was going to have another nervous breakdown.
Chuckling, she said, “Want to know what’s really lame?”
“Everything about Tyga?”
“Yes, but no. I’m being set up, tonight.”
“Word?” he said, and then laughed—just a shade too long. “Yo, this is gonna be too epic. I wish I could watch.” He paused. “Not in a weird way.”
“It won’t be epic, it’s just a set-up. One must manage one’s expectations.”
“I can’t imagine you on a blind date. You’re so, like, so unintentionally funny and…interesting in this very specific way…” He stopped. “This dude isn’t gonna know what hit him. Listen, can you meet him in public, like at a bar? I could be your wingman.”
“I’m having a dinner party at my house tonight, and my girlfriend Billie’s bringing him. I don’t even know his name.” She disassembled the smiley face, popping the candy into her mouth, one by one. “Why am I nervous? It’s so silly.”
“He should be nervous. You’re smart. You’re accomplished.
You wear lace bras under see-through tank tops at dive bars.”
Jenna gasped. “Stop noticing me!” she repeated, throwing a Skittle at him. Eric ducked, grinning. And then, out of this comfortably jokey moment, she had a crazy thought.
“Hey. Do you want to come?”
“To your party? Like, where you live?”
“Why not? It’s going to be small, just my two best friends. And this date guy. Billie suggested I invite a friend from work, and well, you’re my friend from work.”
“I’m in,” he said. “I have to see this.”
“Maybe I do need a wingman. Not Billie or Elodie, but a guy who can vouch for me.”
“I’m so gifted at wingmanning. Four of my girlfriends are still dating dudes I introduced them to at a house party I threw… in November of twelfth grade.”
“Well, that’s impressive,” said Jenna. “Oh, and bring your friend Tim! He sounds fascinating…two Broadway legend dads?”
“No. Tim’s unqualified to attend civilized social gatherings.”
“Bring him! I want fresh, young energy.”
“Ooookay. But if your house burns down, don’t hold me responsible.” Eric tried to mask his excitement. He didn’t know what he anticipated more, getting a peak into Jenna’s personal world—or meeting The Guy.
“I so want to fast-forward six hours,” she said, popping the last Skittle in her mouth. “I’m a hell of a hostess. You’ll see!”
Just Jenna: Style Secrets from our Intrepid Glambassador
Q: My best friend Megan just got promoted to partner at her law firm, so I’m throwing her a huge party at my fab new apartment. I know it’s Megan’s celebration, but I sort of feel like it’s my night, too. What the hell do I wear?
-@DressDistressInToronto
A: Every time I throw something at my home it feels like it’s my debutante ball. So exciting, right? It’s your opportunity to flaunt your decorating and hostessing prowess! And what you wear sets the tone. Before choosing an outfit, decide on what kind of night you want to have. Are you throwing the kind of fete where guests end up getting lucky in your bathroom? Rock a tarty tube dress with cut-outs. Planning to introduce hallucinogens after dessert? Wear a far-out, haute hippie ensemble. Itching for an evening of classed-up chicery recalling a Jazz Age Parisian salon (my kind of party)? Go with a flapperesque cocktail dress. You’re creating the ambience, so dress accordingly. Good luck, and congrats to Megan, Esquire!
Check out Nordstrom.com for after-eight dresses made for entertaining.