type. Loose papers are sent flying across my desk as I attempt to grab what I need. I have to get out of here—fast. Finally I spot what I’m looking for—my dog-eared copy of What to Expect. I stuff it into my bag, then race toward the elevators and out the lobby.
A text from Cynthia! She’s heard. Set up an appointment for first thing Monday morning. You are coming in, aren’t you?
Yes, of course. I will, thank you!!! I type with way too many exclamations. Shit.
Finally, just as I’m making my way toward the subway, Addison texts back. Can you come here? She’s at a client meeting at Soho House in the Meatpacking District.
On my way too, texts Brie, who’s coming from Core Fusion in the Flatiron.
Thank God. I decide to hop in a cab heading downtown from the Bird Cage, our nickname for our publisher Halpren-Davies’s beautiful turn-of-the-century Beaux Arts building right below Times Square, as waves of adrenaline flood my system. Did I really just let my bosses think that I’m pregnant? Am I having a psychotic break? This must be some sort of deranged, baby-fever-induced psychosis that Paddy Cakes will surely one day cover in its pages.
As the taxi cruises down Ninth Avenue, I start to panic. When Cynthia finds out the truth, I will be fired and never work in the magazine industry again. Jezebel and The Cut will have a field day mocking “the editor who cried pregnant.”
Oh, how I wish I had the guts to just quit on the spot like Addison did. After forgetting to do her boss’s expenses in favor of taking on more writing assignments, she’d been put on probation until she could “prove her value.”
“I don’t need a month,” she’d told them in typical Addison fashion. “I already know my value. Consider this my notice.”
That afternoon in 2008 she and I sat in Bryant Park sipping smoothies and in the span of an hour, she’d decided that instead of looking for a new job, she was going to launch her own fashion blog. It has now grown to a collection of more than one thousand fashion writers, bloggers and YouTube personalities. In the past eight years, she’s transformed herself into a Forbes 30 Under 30 “content-preneur” whose influencer machine called The Couture Collective has started to pay off, earning her a smooth 15 percent commission on each piece of content written exclusively for boutique fashion brands. These days she’s completely obsessed with building out her own proprietary platform so she can “scale”—and meeting hot angel investors to fund it.
I nervously check my texts. Nothing more from Cynthia. I find myself in a mad Googling frenzy. “Faking pregnancy” leads to “workplace pregnancy rights,” leads to “criminal time served for health insurance fraud,” leads to me almost throwing my phone out the window right then and there. I finally realize there is someone else I can call to reassure me. Someone who knows all the players and exactly what to do. Ford. My former work husband, ten years my senior and the one who showed me the ropes when I first arrived at Paddy Cakes, now managing editor at our men’s publication Basics. I text him, and get an immediate response back, I’m there.
When I arrive at Soho House and give the concierge Addison’s name, they send me up to the sixth floor parlor. The glamorous lounge is heating up, and I spot more than a few tables of successful-looking men with slim-cut suits chatting up decades-younger girls with stomach-revealing tops—LBG-ism is in full effect. I spot Addison at a center table clacking away at her laptop. Thankfully Brie arrives a few minutes later. Then Ford.
When I tell them what happened and why I am not on my way to Paris, I expect them to be horrified. Instead they’re angry for me.
“Good for you!” says Addison, sweeping her bayalaged-blond locks into a ponytail. “I’ve had enough of these elite dinosaurs abusing women for their entire twenties with the false promise of a move up the masthead, only to leave them surviving on cupcakes, caffeine and cocktails and living in cramped Queens Craigslist shares with roommates they can’t stand and cockroaches circling their bedroom door! It’s torture, plain and simple. They’ve traumatized you! I say, screw ’em!”
“Addison’s right, Lizzie,” says Brie, putting a hand on my arm. “You haven’t been yourself for a while. When you started out, you had a glow. But lately, you’ve lost your sparkle. You had to do something.”
Brie should know. A recent graduate of Life-Wise, a health and wellness digital entrepreneur program, she rebranded herself from marketing associate to “disruptive” innovation consultant. She’s now making six figures for regular project work on global health nonprofits, thanks to her sleek PowerPoints that feature emerging social media logos and have titles like, “What Is Change?” But her trendy, chocolate half bun and hot-red lipstick don’t fool me. My pint-size friend is still on the same quest to find her soul mate that she’s been on since she was twenty-one.
“This is even more entertaining than the male models at the Prabal Gurung event I was at last night,” says Ford, tugging at his black cashmere cardigan to try to cover up a tiny pudge by his waistline as he comes up upon our table. When we worked together we’d nicknamed him Ford—as in Tom Ford—because his square jaw and flinty blue eyes could get him just about any male model he pleased. He’d even had a hot and heavy summer fling with that EGOT winner/ sitcom star John Paul Harding that he’d let go to his head. In the past few years, though, a magazine-induced designer-foodie habit had caught up with him—probably to cover up the heartbreak he’d never let on about—and now he’s more ginger bear than Beckham.
While Addison grills me on the details, Brie nods reassuringly as Ford can’t stop himself from laughing, and I keep my fingers crossed no one from Paddy Cakes shows up.
“I’m sure it’s burnout. I’ve got this amazing homeopath I’ve been seeing. It might just be a question of unblocking your gallbladder merid—” Brie starts in as I explain everything that happened.
“I think she needs more than a homeopath...she needs a baby daddy,” jokes Ford.
“Well, before that, she needs to start having some sex,” replies Addison.
“Guys! Stay focused! What am I going to do? I’m going to be fired. And blacklisted and have to move home to my mom’s couch.”
“Liz, don’t catastrophize. I’m sure there’s a solution,” responds Addison.
The four of us are silent as we look around, thinking.
There, sitting to the right of us is a towheaded blonde, talking loudly to her laptop’s phone feature, seeming to be working on her motherhood lifestyle blog. From her flower-child Coachella style, I’m guessing she’s probably from LA. And all of about twenty-five.
“I mean...it’s fine,” she says, rolling out a succession of whiny calls. “Annie Leibovitz is cool, but you know, we could be doing five of these in a day in LA and getting, like, a major beauty brand to sponsor. Yeah, seriously. Yeah, you know what the trick is? Breast-feeding shots—the followers live for them. Virginal maiden thing. It’s totally faked, though... Oh, wait, sorry, it’s my manager—well, my mom, well, you know—same thing. Ha. Lols. Hi, Mom. Yeah, okay, a shoot in Aspen. Great. When?” Her face changes in a blink. “They aren’t flying out my nanny? Then I don’t wannaaaaa. That means we have to get up at the crack of dawn. Like, 9 a.m.!!!”
Addison looks lit up. “Wait a second... I think Ms. Coachella could be on to something. Why don’t we fake it? We’re always doing that at shoots. Maybe it could work? At least for a little while.”
“Hmm. That’s not bad,” says Brie, lighting up at the
