Pretty in Ink by Lindsey Palmer Page A

Victoria in the head. “God, I’m so sorry.” One peripheral glance reveals that all of my belongings have vanished, replaced by stuff that is similar, but not the same. I feel a pang for my stapler, of all things. “What’s going on in here?”
    “Didn’t you get the memo?” asks Victoria. “Laura was supposed to e-mail you.” I nod like I know what she’s talking about. The truth is I haven’t checked my messages since yesterday afternoon, one of my work-from-home days. My husband surprised me by coming home early with a bottle of good champagne and takeout from my favorite Italian joint. I was wary of a catch, but Rob insisted he simply thought I deserved a break, then he powered down our computers and phones and poured us each a flute of bubbly. One evening a week Rob and I pretend we’re living in a pre-Internet age; it’s the closest thing we get to date night. (We derive all too much pleasure from the name we’ve come up with for the ritual: “Brenner Unplugged.”) As a result, unread e-mails have been colonizing my inbox for the past eighteen hours, undisturbed by the predatory Delete button, and Victoria has managed to blindside me with this humiliating switcheroo.
    “The thinking was,” she says, chipper as ever, “we’re co-executive editors now, but since you’re only in three days a week, it makes more sense for me to have the office, since I’m here every day. You understand, right?”
    To prevent my fist from delivering a right hook to Victoria’s cheek, I practice the relaxation technique I mastered during my triplets’ colicky stage: a long, deep breath; hold for one, two, three, four— Oh, forget it, I think, releasing the inhale in one defeated burst. My eye catches on a new photo on the wall: an altar shot at what must be Victoria’s wedding. The guy’s cute, but Victoria’s dress is a horrendous layer-cake ordeal. The realization that my office has been usurped by someone who would pick that gown for the most important day of her life sets me spinning with vertigo.
    “So where do I sit now?” I ask, trying to sound unfazed.
    “The intern has been relocating your things to that large space over there.” Victoria points to a cubicle next to the beauty closet, where I spot Erin propping my Christmas card up against the divider.
    “But that’s Liz’s spot. She’ll be back from maternity leave in less than a month.”
    “I’m sure we’ll figure it all out when she’s back.” Victoria ushers me out of what I can’t help still thinking of as my office.
     
    Seated at my new desk, I smell Regina before I see her: tobacco mixed with her Calvin Klein perfume. I look forward to the frequent visits from our entertainment director; her gossip is always first-rate, plus her kids are grown, which is a reminder that some people really do survive motherhood. “Hey, Reg,” I say. She leans down for a double-cheek kiss. “You’re looking fabulous.” An ikat-printed wraparound hugs Regina’s surprisingly taut middle-aged curves.
    “Oh, shut up. I’m straight off a red-eye from L.A.,” she says. “And um, forgive me if I’m missing something, but what the hell are you doing sitting in this crappy little hole?”
    “Gee, thanks for your tact. I had to clear out my office to make way for my new co-executive, Ms. Victoria Perfect, so it’s back to cubicle-land for me.”
    “That’s fucked up.”
    “Tell me about it. I’m picturing junior staffers perched up on my desk when we go over stories. That’ll give me quite the air of authority.”
    “If you ask me, you should blow this joint for good, ship out of New York once and for all.”
    “I gather you’ve been talking to my Vermont-obsessed husband?”
    “Seriously, with all the craziness that goes down in this town, it’s best taken in small doses. Palm trees and the Pacific are what do a body good.” Regina’s permanent post is in Los Angeles; she visits the New York office a couple of times per month.
    “This