City Chicks

One My lower left desk drawer holds a secret. Looking at the rest of my office you’d never guess. The pristine mahogany surface of the desk is unspoiled by dust or clutter. Every office tool has a place and every file is appropriately color coded. Rows of sales data binders are neatly aligned and in chronological order. The flat-panel monitor is oriented at the perfect ergonomic angle to minimize eye strain and glare. But that drawer—securely locked if I’m out of the office for even a second—is the exception to my immaculately professional appearance. That drawer is loaded with candy. A sweet-tooth soup of peppermints, lemon drops, butterscotches, caramels, lollipops, and atomic fireballs. A treasure trove of red vines, gummy bears, licorice whips, fruit slices, red hots, and tropical dots stacked in disorderly piles. My name is Lydia Vanderwalk, and I’m a candy-holic. I’ve known this for a long time and freely confess my dependency. I know I couldn’t stop, even if I wanted to. I would never, ever want to. I live for the sugar rush of a one-pound bag of M&Ms. Sour apple tape got me through my college all-nighters. Every great idea I ever had was Lifesavers-induced. When I was four years old, my mom dressed me as Jo from Facts of Life and took me trick-or-treating. Everyone thought I was Michael J. Fox. I was traumatized. When we got home I dumped my booty onto the carpet and started consuming. Amongst the Smarties and fun-size Snickers I found comfort for my costume identity crisis. Candy soothed my pain. And has ever since. Next Halloween I was a gumdrop. Not one nearsighted neighbor mistook me for a pink mountain. Candy is my coping mechanism, and it’s less destructive than other addictions I could have. As far as vices go, it’s a harmless one. In my industry, though, it’s the eighth mortal sin. People in fashion—correction, women in fashion don’t eat anything, let alone candy by the bucketful. That’s why my secret could never get out. Thankfully, I am skilled at maintaining the appearance of normalcy. So when Janice, junior VP of Marketing for Ferrero Couture and my direct superior (otherwise mentally known as Jawbreaker—hard on the outside hard on the inside) barged into my office without so much as a knock on the closed door, I slipped open the drawer, pulled out a Werther’s, and popped it in my mouth. She was dressed, as usual, like an aging Vegas cigarette girl. Shoulder-padded silver blazer with a deep-v neckline, tight black pants, and eye makeup that made Cleopatra look like a bare-faced virgin. She thinks she’s the Donatella Versace of Ferrero Couture. She’s an executive, for Good&Plenty’s sake—a design diva she is not. In my grey, summer wool pantsuit and lilac cashmere shell I felt deliciously like Belgian chocolate next to a bag of carob chips. “Have you seen the new GQ?” she asked. “Uh-uh,” I hummed around the toffee. The buttery sweetness melted into my tongue and improved my overall sense of well-being. She plunked the magazine on my desk and smirked. I flicked my eyes to the cover and back to her, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance and disguise my annoyance at her intrusion. My gaze flew immediately back to the slick image on the glossy cover. Gavin! Now Jawbreaker’s smirk made sense. Here came conversation #3,524—not that I’m counting—about the Lamentable Loss of Gavin the Great. “Isn’t this your fiancé, Lydia?” she said, gloating. “Oops, I mean your ex-fiancé.” Right, that was a slip-up. If I could manage to scalp her hip-length platinum tresses and braid them into a fashionable tiara without getting fired, I would. That might even become the next hot trend from Ferrero Couture. But as that was a remote possibility, I held my tongue and started mentally ranking my favorite Jelly Belly flavors. Toasted Marshmallow, Cotton Candy, Buttered Popcorn... I smiled politely. …Green Apple, Juicy Pear, Strawberry Cheesecake... “Imagine all the women chasing after him now.” My smile fake-brightened. …Crushed Pineapple, Watermelon, Grape Jelly... “Have you tried to get in touch with him? Maybe there’s still a chance—” I had to stop her before my head exploded and a rainbow of Skittles drizzled down over my immaculate office. “Haven’t I told you,”—Jawbreaker—”Janice, about the new guy I’ve been seeing?” I regretted those words almost before they left my mouth. Lying was not my strength, but when Jawbreaker started down the Gavin path, I couldn’t help myself. So I came up with the one thing sure to stop her in her tracks: a boyfriend. Unfortunately, she was a seasoned social veteran and her path changed faster than you can say Reese’s Pieces. “How wonderful,” she cried, not meaning it at all. “You simply must bring him to the Summer Sail Away next weekend.” Summer Sail Away, my mind echoed. The end of summer gala at Jawbreaker’s Southampton tres posh estate—her husband owns a ridiculously successful import/export business. The fashion industry event of the season. All the senior VPs will be there. All the board members will be there. Ferrero will be there. Half the fashion world will be there. Never before had I been graced with an invitation. As senior account exec, my social profile never ranked high enough to warrant an invite. And, since my status had not recently changed, I had to assume Jawbreaker thought she was pulling one over on me. Show up stag after the whole extremely small world of fashion heard about this new beau? It would be poor, pitiful Lydia. And a liar to boot. I could always not show up. But I wanted a promotion. A rumor had been circling that Jawbreaker was about to be promoted to senior VP of Marketing. And I would do anything to get her current job. The gala would give me the chance to prove I was more than a brain with a knack for numbers. A chance to show Ferrero that I was VP material and could schmooze with the best of them. A chance I couldn’t pass up. With the KY Clique—my trio of nemeses at Ferrero—out to get my current job I had to seize opportunities where I could. “Wonderful,” I replied, knowing my farce was worth it just to see the scowl crease Jawbreaker’s brow. Botox can’t fix everything. “What time should we be there?” Kelly showed up first. She was the most aggressive of the three KY girls—the team leader—and Jawbreaker probably ran to her with the gossip of my previously unheard of boyfriend the moment she left my office. The KY Clique came on board at Ferrero as marketing interns in May following their Barnyard—er, Barnard graduation. From the start they settled for nothing less than full control of the house. I have an under-the-table wager with Marlene in accessories that the house will be Ferrero, Kelly, Kathryn & Karyn within five years. Three if they stumbled onto a stroke of luck or juicy gossip. And I might have just handed them that lucky gossip on a jewel-encrusted silver platter. Kelly knocked—the simple courtesy the first sign she was up to something—and entered on the pretense of needing my opinion on an overseas marketing campaign. A blatant ruse as my region covers the western United States. “Oh,” she squealed as I tried to not-so-subtly urge her out of my office. “Janice told me about your new boyfriend. He sounds like a prince.” That’s funny, because I don’t remember telling Jawbreaker anything about him. Because I don’t know anything about him. Because he doesn’t exist. “I mean, it’s not as if just anyone can measure up to Gavin, but a girl’s gotta try, right?” “Mmm-hmm.” Hopefully a vague enough response to derail conversation #3,525—not that I’m counting. I’m never that lucky. “It’s about time you moved on to someone new. Two years is far too long for someone your age to stay single. You need to do your hunting before all the big game are shot.” Like I need relationship advice from a preschooler. Her monologue didn’t warrant any input on my part, so I contented myself with neatening up a stack of papers on my desk while she talked on. “I can’t believe you never mentioned this new guy before. He must be something special if you’ve been keeping him all to yourself,” she cooed. “And we all get to meet him at the Summer Sail Away.” Suppressing the sudden and overwhelming urge to scream, I lunged for my candy drawer. Within seconds I had a Meltaway in my mouth. The sweet sugary goodness could almost make up for the news that the KYs—low chicks in the hen house—were already invited to the Summer Sail Away. It took me a fabricated boyfriend and an ex on the cover of GQ to earn one. Clearly I should have gone to Barnard. Maybe if I changed my name to Kydia… “Hi Kelly,” twin high-pitched voices squealed. Kathryn and Karyn bounded into my office. I was surrounded by KYs with no means of escape. They looked so similar. They could be triplets, with their matching golden highlights, colorful wrap dresses, and stiletto slingbacks. I could usually tell them apart by their nails—Kathryn was natural and unpolished, Karyn was French-manicured, while Kelly was all-acrylic and more than a little scary around ripe fruit. “We heard about the new boyfriend,”—I checked the nails—Karyn exclaimed. “Shame on you for keeping him a secret,”—unpolished—Kathryn chastised. “But,” Kelly interrupted, “he’ll be at the Summer Sail Away.” “Ooh, I can’t wait.” “We can evaluate his TIP for you.” His what? I needed a KY-to-English dictionary. “His Total Income Potential. Maybe his TIP will be almost as high as Gavin’s.” “Not likely!” I gave up trying to figure out which one spoke. Dizzy, I desperately grabbed for another Meltaway. I felt like a spectator at my own execution. Only I had handed the man in the black hood the axe and pulled my hair out of the way as I laid my head on the block. Mental Post-It: Stop making up non-existent boyfriends. “That’s your ex?” I looked up from the engrossing occupation of swirling ice in my Lemon Drop to find Fiona clutching GQ to her chest. One grape-lacquered finger stabbing at the cover. Next to Fiona I always felt like the worst sort of invisible person. No style. No flare. No taste. Tonight she wore a dark-washed denim pencil skirt over Limeade green fishnets with a silver sequined tank and metallic silver gladiator sandals. With her exotic looks and flare for fashion, everyone noticed when she enters a room. “Nice to see you, too,” I replied, thinking it’s not really so nice if the conversation was heading where I thought it was heading. Not in the mood to launch into conversation #3,527—not that I’m counting—I downed the remains of my drink and signaled Bartender Barbie to bring another. Conversation #3,524 had gotten me into enough trouble today and I didn’t need any more bad JuJu. “No, really,” Fiona exclaimed, dropping her corduroy satchel next to the bar stool and lifting herself up onto the seat. “This is the man who broke your heart?” I turned my best Westchester glare on her, but Fiona is a force of nature and proceeded without pause. “He’s gorgeous, babe. And rich. And successful. And—” Gee, all things I didn’t already know about him, having been engaged to the man for nearly six years. “Thanks, Fi. That makes me feel much better.” Bartender Barbie set another Lemon Drop in front of me and gave me a look resembling pity. Great, my life was complete. “The article gushes on about how he’s this hotshot investment banker at Castile and Tatum, the youngest ever to make upper management.” Didn’t Fiona notice my head banging desperately against the polished wood surface of the bar? Too engrossed in the details of my former—though I prefer to call him my late—fiancé, she didn’t even care that I lost several strands of light brown hair to the sticky surface. And, typical of the way my day had gone, I was not even lucky enough to knock myself unconscious. “Why is Lydia already passed out?” a lilting Southern voice asked. Bethany! Thank you Mr. Goodbar, I was saved. Fiona peered over the magazine, surprised to see my face stuck to the bar. “Don’t know,” she mused, returning her attention to GQ. Some girlfriend. “I’m stuck,” I managed to say, sounding even more pathetic than I felt, if possible. “Let me help you, honey.” Beth set her purse carefully on a stool before grabbing me by the shoulders and yanking. That girl is stronger than she looks. “Thanks.” Cheek burning, I was now the only woman in the history of skin care to be exfoliated by a sticky bar counter. But at least I was upright. Beth smiled before climbing gingerly onto the stool and smoothing out the wrinkles in her floral sundress. “What’s the matter, sugar?” Bartender Barbie brought her a Mojito before she had a chance to order. I tried to forget that Barbie never remembered my drink order, even after two years of Friday nights.