Sheer, p.25
Sheer, page 25
In this delineation, I had omitted Amanda’s role in my thinking. Not because I was embarrassed of the part she had played, but clearly there were obstacles to my full honesty. I couldn’t tell Alan or anyone else that her gaze had catalyzed Sly without sharing the reasons why I paid her face so much attention. All along, I had done this to protect her. Amanda wouldn’t want the world to know of her relations with me—that type of disclosure called into question an employee’s qualifications. Plus, I doubted she wanted to give anyone a reason to suspect the source of her recent promotion.
Elizabeth stared at me expectantly. I realized she wanted me to walk her through Sly’s inspiration in earnest.
“I’ve told you how I came up with Sly.”
“Tell me again.”
“I thought of the ideal bedroom-eye shape and how to give that to women.”
“How did you come up with that shape?”
“The same way I came up with Glow’s gleam, I thought about how women look.”
“In the bedroom?”
My phone rang and my assistant picked up the line from her desk. I watched through my glass walls as she typed a message on her computer before she placed the receiver back down. It was probably Ellen, with another furious demand that I call her back immediately.
“Max? Did you hear me?”
“Yes, sorry. I guess. Figuratively, of course.”
Elizabeth powered her phone off. She placed it face down on my desk. Her voice came out in a deep whisper when she spoke.
“I need to know, was Sly inspired by someone you slept with? Was she Asian? Nod if your answer is yes.”
I couldn’t meet Elizabeth’s penetrating look. A cold wave cascaded across me. I moved my head up and down in a barely perceptible nod.
“But not Asian,” I said. “Not fully.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
I would say the sigh that escaped Elizabeth’s lips was overly dramatic, except it wasn’t. She knew that we were in trouble.
“Elizabeth, I’m—”
She cut me off with a wave of her hand.
“No, Max. Please do not say that you’re sorry.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing here. Apologizing.”
“As a company, yes. You don’t owe me anything. This is my job; I work for you. You are my person.”
It was the closest I ever came to crying in the office. I couldn’t tell you the last time I had cried at all, but with that declaration from Elizabeth, something inside me thawed.
Elizabeth stood. She retrieved her phone from my desk and powered it back on.
“I know what to say. I’ll release a statement in an hour, I just need to run it by Alan first. Do you want to see it, too?”
“That’s okay. I trust you.”
Later that afternoon, Elizabeth sent me an email with a link to a story on The Cut, featuring the approved apology she wrote for me. I clicked on the link, whose headline read Reveal Founder Maxine Thomas Says Your Criticism of Sly Speaks to Your Racism, Not Hers. Hmm, I thought, what magic did Elizabeth cast here? I scrolled down to the part of the story that contained my so-called quote.
Maxine Thomas has issued an apology through a Reveal spokesperson. “I am deeply sorry to those who felt hurt or offended by our latest makeup release, Sly. Reveal and I did not intend to harm anyone, especially the Asian American community, whose long-standing devotion to skin care the American beauty industry owes an enormous debt to. Reveal was founded on the value of inclusivity, the idea that all women can feel their most beautiful when they reveal their true selves. My motivation in releasing Sly was to give women a tool to create a bedroom eye without all the extraneous devices that other companies require. The fact that some people have taken Sly’s campaign and twisted it into a problematic depiction of a stereotypical Asian eye shape is deeply troubling to me. It speaks to the many erroneous ways in which American culture fetishizes Asian beauty. This country has a dark history of conflating Asian beauty with eroticism. I am stunned and saddened that Sly has become collateral in this ongoing narrative. Reveal will be making donations to our favorite AAPI charities—I would encourage anyone who is troubled by this to do the same.”
Elizabeth was as brilliant as the first day I met her. Everything would be fine, thanks to her smooth intervention. It was barely 5 p.m., but I decided to leave work early and end the day on a high note. I asked my assistant to keep me abreast of urgent calls or emails. I walked across the bustling office; the din of phones ringing and keyboards clacking and desk-chair wheels squeaking on the concrete floor reverberated around me. That delicious soundtrack of productivity swaddled me. When the elevator arrived, I stood alone in its cavity and stared at the busyness I had birthed into being through my sheer determination. I had made Reveal. No one, not Alan or Ellen or the Board or some anonymous troll on the internet, could take it away from me.
* * *
—
That evening was the last time I set foot in Reveal’s headquarters. In retrospect, I wonder if a deep instinct pushed me to a quick exit.
Elizabeth told me that, after I left, Amanda approached Alan’s office. Elizabeth watched her knock on his door, enter, and close the door behind her. Like mine, Alan’s office was entirely walled in glass. With her back to Elizabeth, Amanda sat across from Alan. Elizabeth saw Alan’s face go from curious to horrified. Alan caught Elizabeth staring at him. He waved for her to join them. Then he picked up his phone and called someone else.
A woman from HR sat beside Elizabeth and Amanda in Alan’s office. Elizabeth asked what was going on.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be here,” the HR woman told Elizabeth.
“Amanda reports to me. If she’s upset, I should know,” said Elizabeth.
“All right,” said the HR woman. “To be clear, though, you’re here in the capacity of a concerned manager, not for crisis management.”
“What crisis are we managing?” asked Elizabeth.
“Tell her,” Alan directed Amanda, with perhaps a tinge of excitement.
Amanda nodded. Her cheeks were blotchy with reddened patches.
“This is really hard to tell you.”
“I appreciate you coming to us with something so difficult, whatever it is,” said Elizabeth.
“I want you to know how grateful I am for everything you’ve done for me. I feel lucky to work under you.”
“We are lucky to have you.”
Amanda flashed Elizabeth a sad smile.
“It’s about Sly. I was the inspiration behind it.”
“In what sense?”
“Max copied the shape of my eye for Sly.”
“You mean at the shoot?”
“No, before that.”
“Did she tell you this?”
“She didn’t have to. She pitched it to Alan the morning after we were together.”
“Together—how? At the office?”
The blotches on Amanda’s face grew darker.
“At her apartment.”
“You dropped something off for her?”
Alan cleared his throat. Elizabeth turned to look at him. His face bore the traces of poorly masked glee.
“No. We went over her schedule. We had something to drink.”
“Alcoholic?”
“Yes. And…we had sex on her sofa.”
“Max had sex with you.”
“She’s been sleeping with me for years.”
The Aftermath
There it is. Elizabeth vacated Alan’s office quickly after Amanda’s revelation and retreated home where, glass of vodka in hand, she called me while I was in the middle of a sunset walk to fill me in on the evening’s events.
I’m not sure how I expected Elizabeth to react. I braced myself for a chilly reprimand or worse, a stone-cold silence. Neither of those responses was Elizabeth’s style. She had told me from the outset that she would be a professional wingwoman. She wasn’t going to martyr herself on my behalf; still, she wouldn’t abandon me in my time of need.
“I don’t know what to say,” I told her after she finished her account of that meeting in Alan’s office.
“You don’t have to say anything.”
Minutes passed during which the only sounds on either end of the phone call were our anxious breathing and the pedestrians passing by me as I stood on the reservoir’s crowded path. Elizabeth broke the wordlessness.
“You love her.”
“No.”
“It wasn’t a question.” I heard the tinkle of ice against glass. I could visualize Elizabeth taking a sip of her vodka on the rocks. “This is bad, Max. I will do everything I can to minimize the damage to you. But I need you to understand how bad this is.”
“I get it.”
“If it was just the sex thing or just the race thing, we could maybe spin it. The two combined…”
“Lethal.”
“Yes.” This time I heard the pop of a bottle stopper and the crystalline sound of liquid streaming over ice. “I know you didn’t understand what you were doing wrong with Sly—”
“I didn’t. I still don’t.”
“—but with Amanda?”
“It was fully consensual. She started things.”
“You’re sure?”
“I remember her starting things.”
“You didn’t stop things.”
“No.”
“We’ve never had a candid conversation about your personal life.”
“There’s no reason we need to now.”
“You’ve sacrificed a lot to build Reveal. I see it and I feel how deeply unfair it is. It doesn’t justify things. Still, I know hiding yourself has come with such a staggering cost.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“I know you don’t. Maybe you should try to.”
My voice trembled. “Once I see things in that light, I won’t be able to unsee them. I don’t know if I can live like that.”
Now it was Elizabeth’s voice that shook; it practically vibrated my phone. “Your version of living right now is not sustainable.”
I think Elizabeth sniffled. I’m not sure. My eyes were cloudy at this point. The sunset was an orange-red blur.
“Whatever you decide, Max,” she continued, “I’ll always be here. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Elizabeth ended our call, and my life caved in on me. The fence of the reservoir crept closer and closer. The path was so narrow, I felt suspended on a string of floss. I don’t know how I made it back to my apartment without an accident. My doorman asked about my walk. I remember his perplexed expression at my terrified face. I could barely breathe by the time I got upstairs.
Hours earlier I was enveloped in the new success of Sly. I basked in that buzz of achievement. Now I sat on the precipice of destruction; I stared over the ledge. The land below looked hard and painful and deeply inhospitable.
I had no doubt about Amanda’s motives in this betrayal. She was out to save herself. I had been too open when she was my assistant. I had shared concerns about my leadership of Reveal. That was my mistake. She had exploited my insecurity to team up with Alan. All those friendly chats with him in his office had laid the groundwork for this disclosure. She had handed Alan and by extension the Board exactly what they craved: an excuse to fire me. In return, they had promised her protection from whatever layoffs or restructuring might be in Reveal’s future. So much for being my authentic self.
Okay, I admit that my ongoing relations with Amanda were not the best idea. She worked with me and for me and that complicated things. But she initiated all of it. She practically threw herself at me in London. I’m still not convinced that our run-in at the Victoria and Albert was a coincidence. For all I know, she tracked me there.
More crucially, Amanda wanted it. She clearly desired me. I could see it in her eyes, those damn gorgeous eyes. Still, I should never have been so careless as to mine our ongoing intimacy for my creativity. There’s a reason my other muses were short-lived affairs. How can you draw a line in the sand between business and pleasure, though, when you care about your work as much as I do? Reveal is who I am. Desire is threaded through Reveal like my own DNA.
I can stomach the loss of Sly—but Reveal is not for the taking.
That night eight days ago after Elizabeth called, I went to bed determined to defend Reveal’s honor, and thereby mine, to the bitter end. When I woke the next morning, the battlefield had shifted. On my phone was a deluge of headlines. Reveal Founder Maxine Thomas Releases Racist Eyeliner Inspired by Former Assistant She Sexually Harassed. Reveal’s Sly Takes “Bedroom Eyes” Way Too Literally. The Big Reveal Behind Sly—It Was Inspired by Sexual Predation. Racism AND Sexual Misconduct: Maxine Thomas Kills Two Birds with One Big Reveal. And on and on. There were two voicemails from my assistant, another three from Ellen, Alan, and Elizabeth. My rousing battle cry was silenced before it could escape my throat.
Epilogue
The moment of truth has arrived. The Board meeting is scheduled for 9 a.m. at Reveal’s offices. I shower and change into my favorite black pantsuit, all sinewy lines and sculpted shoulders. No more cashmere sweatpants for me. Dress for the day that you want. Sandrine will call me when the decision is in. We’ll proceed from there. If they fire me, we’ll be ready to push back and invalidate their so-called cause for termination. What I didn’t tell Sandrine was I have no plans to be at home when her crucial call comes. I have built this company from scratch; whatever the outcome, I must be by its side in this decisive moment, like an army general. I am going to be at Reveal or as close as I can get.
The lone window in my office faces Broadway. There’s a coffee shop directly across the avenue. I’ve never entered this establishment. Someone always fetches my coffee for me, and I don’t partake of diner food. On occasion, I’ve observed this coffee shop from my elevated perch and marveled at its longevity. Neon signage claims it’s been around since 1922. Imagine that: a ninety-three-year-old business that has survived multiple wars, countless social movements, gentrification. Reveal is seventeen, on the cusp of human adulthood, a teenager by comparison. My plan is to sit in a booth of this sturdy diner and channel its endurance in the direction of my corner office.
When I exit my building, it is my first time outside in four days. I squint in the sun. The air on my skin is like a daub of face cream from a freshly opened jar. New York isn’t exactly known for its cleanliness, yet I could kneel on the sidewalk and lick the ground. This must be how released prisoners feel.
In the Uber downtown, we take the West Side Highway. To my right, the Hudson River is placid on this calm fall day. The New Jersey skyline stands stalwart over the unruffled water, its tall, silvery buildings as anonymous to me as a foreign land. I can’t see the New Jersey of my past. It is too far removed, in miles and years. I am old enough that I have spent more of my time in New York City than I have in my home state. I have the life I had always dreamed of, and I couldn’t manage half a century before I screwed things up.
The coffee shop is partially full when I enter thirty minutes before the start of the Board meeting. The place reeks of browned butter and bacon fat and fried eggs. A server gestures to one of the swivel stools that flank the bar, but I head straight to a booth that faces my office. She glares at me. Her eye shadow is turquoise, and her blush is a streaky coral. Her hair is the color of a lobster. A cartoon villainess comes to mind. I remember Ellen’s criticism that all I do is judge other women and resist the urge to dole out some complimentary makeup advice. Not every woman is a Reveal customer; maybe not every woman wants to be.
I order the biggest fruit plate the diner has, large enough that I can pick at it convincingly for the duration of the meeting, however long it goes. Ms. Cartoon Villainess pours me a cup of coffee. It smells like poison. I drink it anyway.
My phone rests face up on that crappy yellow table. Every few minutes, between reluctant bites of unripe cantaloupe, I tap its screen to make sure it is working. The window of my office is opaque. The blue sky and wispy clouds flicker on its surface. No matter how hard I stare, I can’t see in. I sit up straighter in my booth. Strength, I remind myself, project strength.
At 9:28 a.m., Sandrine’s name flashes across my screen. I press accept with a shaky hand and hold the phone to my ear.
“That was quick,” I say.
“Yes,” says Sandrine. Her voice is even. Too even.
“They fired me.”
“Yes,” she says again.
Everything is as expected. Amanda is the victim, the innocent whom I have corrupted. I am the morally bankrupt transgressor. Reveal, a company devoted to transparency, cannot tolerate leadership whose behavior is at odds with this philosophy. I am out.
“This isn’t the end. We can fight this,” Sandrine continues. “That’s why you hired me. We’ll attack their claims of cause. This isn’t over if you don’t want it to be.”
That poisonous coffee burns a hole in my chest.
“I want to fight this.”
“I should warn you, it’s going to take months,” says Sandrine, ever practical. “This isn’t going to happen overnight.”
“I’m well aware,” I say as I spear a sallow strawberry and drag it around my plate.
“Send me any bullet points you can on what might work in your defense, things that happened to you or at Reveal that could soften your image. Let’s put a meeting on the calendar for the beginning of next week.”
