Pretty in Ink Read Free

couldn’t wait to grow up.
    In my senior year at Columbia, I made it my mission to read the memoirs of all the world’s most powerful women—including the CEO of Schmidt & Delancey—and to memorize all their secrets to success. Nearly every woman talked about the importance of attaching yourself to a star in order to rise along with her and get genius guidance along the way. When I first interviewed to be Louisa’s assistant fifteen years ago, back when she was a senior editor at Modern Woman Today, I knew I’d found my star. Here was a person who could help me launch the big, ambitious career I’d always dreamed of. So far that instinct has served me well.
    But I’m not the only one who’s in awe of Louisa. When she gathers the staff together to unroll a fresh vision or explain a new direction, she inspires like a preacher. She’s not a perfect editor, or boss, but she commands respect and admiration, and everyone believes in her. Or rather, they did until recently. I fear even my own faith in our leader is slipping.

    When Louisa returns from the thirtieth floor, she breezes past my office without a word, and I suspect the head honchos might not share my boss’s confidence in the redesign. Louisa’s assistant, Jenny, calls me and, in a voice so calm I can tell our fearless leader must be frantic, says, “Will you kindly come down to Louisa’s office, and please pick up Abby and Mark along the way?” The managing editor, creative director, and I file into our boss’s office on tiptoe. Jenny gently replaces the door in its frame.
    Louisa’s workspace is rimmed on three sides by floor-to-ceiling windows, which means only thin panes of glass separate us from a raging snowfall outside; we’re surrounded by storm. “It’s not good,” Louisa says, the wind howling and whipping against the glass. I feel desperate to flee.
    “The problem is obvious,” says Mark, our creative director, his voice like shards of glass. “This magazine is schizophrenic. Over the course of one year, we’ve altered the fonts, the logos, and the colors three separate times. Our fashion has gone from runway to bargain bin and back. You’ve renamed the health pages ‘Monthly Checkup,’ then ‘Rx for a Healthy You!’ then ‘Doctor’s Appointment. ’ You’ve made us move beauty from the front of the book to the back of the book, then back to the front. The changes are manic!”
    Louisa sighs, and I feel a bit sick. It’s true what Mark’s saying: Someone who picked up a copy of Hers at the hair salon last June and then bought another issue at the airport over Christmas might not have known she was reading the same magazine.
    “OK, let’s all just relax,” says Abby, our always calm and reasonable managing editor.
    “We’ll work it out,” I say, my conviction weak despite my words.
    “Hey, Jenny,” Louisa calls out to her assistant. “Grab me lunch, will you? One California roll, one spicy tuna, and a seaweed salad”—her usual—“and, um, four Peppermint Patties.” Candy—a definite sign of trouble.
    Leaving Louisa’s office, I feel the attention from the trenches hot on my cheeks. Though they’re trying to hide it, it’s obvious that every staff member is staring from her respective cubicle, desperate to glean a glimpse of the goings-on behind Louisa’s door. As far as I’m concerned, they’re lucky to be spared the details. Jenny is off fetching Louisa’s food, and on her desk I spot a prescription for Ativan. It’s in Louisa’s name. I discreetly tuck it under a folder, which I notice is labeled, “Any decent public schools in NYC?” I shove both documents into Jenny’s top drawer, then retreat to my office.
     
    As the wintry days drag on, heavy and cold with dread, I savor even more than usual the two days a week I work from home. My home office is far from glamorous; unlike my roomy space at Hers that looks out onto Central Park, my basement work area is cluttered and windowless. But it’s