Page 2 of The Surrogate Mother
Back before I was promoted to my current position as Director of Content Strategy at Stewart Advertising, I learned a lot about how to appear confident. Eye contact is key. So I lock eyes with Jed, straighten my posture, and throw my shoulders back.
I have every reason to be confident. I know my campaign is fantastic. I worked my butt off making sure of that.
“How did this campaign perform with the twenty-five to thirty-four female demographic?” Cofield asks.
It’s an excellent question. In the diaper market, twenty-five to thirty-four females are essentiallythedemographic, as far as Cuddles is concerned. Few sixty-year-old men buy diapers for babies, no matter how compelling our commercials are. Of course, I’ve aged out of this key demographic, yet I’ve got a package of newborn diapers stuffed in the closet, but no need to point that out.
Denise Holt, the Chief Marketing Officer and also my boss, opens her mouth to answer the question. Three years ago, I might have let her. But part of being confident is you don’t let your boss answer questions for you.
“They love the campaign, Jed,” I say before Denise can get a word out. I click on a button on my remote, bringing up a screen of data. “After viewing our campaign, they were fifty-three percent more likely to choose Cuddles over theother leading brands.” I watch his eyebrows raise and add, “And in addition to your original target group, this campaign also resonated deeply with women aged thirty-five to forty-four. As you know, older mothers contribute at least thirty percent to the diaper-purchasing market.”
Cofield nods, impressed. “Very true.”
I make eye contact with him again. “We’re going to crush it.”
Cofield is smiling now, but Denise isn’t. I’ve known Denise Holt for a long time, and I know she doesn’t enjoy being upstaged. Denise was the one who hired me way back when—over a decade ago now. I still remember stumbling into her office and being terrified by her ice-blue eyes and blond hair swept back into a perfect French knot. I fiddled with my suit jacket collar as I fumbled through my rehearsed list of reasons why I wanted to work for Stewart Advertising and specifically for the infamous Denise Holt.
She hired me. Then she taught me everything I know, including how to tie my jet black hair into a French knot, which is apparently called achignon. (Who knew?) It wasn’t until she found out I was trying for a baby that our relationship deteriorated.
“They love it, huh?” Cofield says.
I nod. “They do.”
His smile broadens. “Well, so do I. I love it. It’s brilliant.”
Outwardly, I remain calm, but inside, I’m doing cartwheels.The VP of Cuddles loves my idea. Helovesit! He says it’sbrilliant!
I can’t help but flash a triumphant smile at Denise, who has been nothing but negative during the entire time I’ve been working on this campaign. As recently as yesterday, she was urging me to postpone this meeting because “it’snot nearly ready.” When I insisted on going forward, she accused me of having “baby on the brain.”
Denise has chosen to remain free from maternal obligations. When I started out as her assistant, she drilled into me time and again that nothing wrecked a career faster than popping out a couple of rugrats. Denise’s career means everything to her, and she’s been extremely successful. Back then, I thought my career meant everything to me. Then Sam came along and convinced me otherwise.
I have no regrets. Everything is working out perfectly for me.
“Tell me, Abby.” Cofield raises his eyebrows at me. “Will you be purchasing Cuddles for your baby?”
“Of course,” I lie. “I want the best.”
Yeah, there’s no way I’m putting those shoddy diapers on my own child.
We iron out a few more details, then shake hands all around. Jed Cofield winks at me when we shake, and I squeeze his fingers firmly in the way Denise instructed me years ago. His warm fingers linger on mine for a beat longer than necessary. Cofield has been my biggest fan since I started working on the Cuddles campaign, so I won’t begrudge him a handshake that lasts a second or two longer than I’d like.
But if he thinks he’s getting anything more out of me, he’s sorely mistaken.
“Congratulations,” he tells me.
I’m not sure if he’s referring to my successful pitch or impending motherhood, but I simply smile and say, “Thank you.”
As Cofield and his associates clear out of the room, Denise and I are left alone. There was a time when I got a thrill out of any chance to be alone with my role model, butthese days, I avoid it like the plague. Given how well everything went in the presentation, it would be appropriate for Denise to say something positive or evencomplimentary, but there’s a sour look on her face that tells me I will not be receiving any praise today.
“I’ve been meaning to speak with you, Abigail,” she says.
Denise is the only person at work who calls me “Abigail” rather than “Abby.” I used to like it—the name made me sound like an executive, rather than a girl at the playground with freckles and pigtails. (I used to have freckles and pigtails.) I tried to get everyone at work to call me Abigail for a while, but it didn’t stick. Now the sound of that name on her lips makes my skin crawl.
“What about?” I ask. I plaster on that fake smile I now use when I talk to my boss, although it gets harder every day. One day, I will be speaking to Denise and simply won’t be able to smile. It will be physically impossible.
Denise eyes my outfit. My suit jacket and skirt are from Armani. In the month I made the purchase, Sam came to me with the credit card statement and a horrified look on his face. “Someone stole our credit card, right?” he said. “We didn’tactuallyspend this much, right?”
I had to tell him that yes, we did. I absolutely did spend that much on a single outfit, and it wasworth it. Sam claims his suits from Men’s Wearhouse look identical to anything he’d get at Armani or Prada, but he’s wrong. Maybe there’s no difference across a lecture hall, which is all that matters to him—but close up, anyone worth their salt can tell an expensive suit from a cheap knock-off. And the executives I pitch to respect someone who dresses well—in that sense, my clothes pay for themselves.
