Page 56 of Nothing But the Truth

She suddenly paused and peeled the wet dress over her head. The video had no sound that she could hear, but Lucy was sure someone had just ordered the next set of photos in only the itsy-bitsy bikini.

Aides rushed in to help. Someone lifted layers of Alma’s hair and sprayed an aerosol cloud to reinvigorate the volume, which confirmed what Lucy assumed about the wet look being sleight of hand. Someone else came at her with a makeup brush. Alma held still as the artist powdered her face, removing a sheen in a move that made no sense if she was supposed to be wet. They retouched her lips with a rosy gloss and made her look, in Lucy’s opinion, nothing like someone who had just taken a dip in the ocean.

Oliver would edit it down to Alma’s toes in the sand, her back, an angle that was mostly her crew primping her and hardly any of her face. All things Instagram followers would fawn over because look how glamorous, but also, she’s so normal. Alma tilted her head back in a laugh that would get the BTS photos twenty thousand likes when they were strategically released days after the official photos hit the web. She looked like she was having such fun.

Lucy wondered if she was cold. And hungry. And sore from having every hair in her nether region ripped out so she could wear triangles of fabric without worry and still be airbrushed in postproduction.

“Do you know how much that fucking hurts?” Lucy muttered.

Oliver jumped with a gasp. He threw his hand to his chest and swiveled in his chair. “Lucy! Oh my god. You scared me! How long have you been there? And what hurts?”

She stepped into his cubicle and lowered her voice. “That. Having your bits waxed so you can wear a swimsuit because heaven forbid anyone know your body grows hair down there.”

A weary look crossed his face, not unlike the one when she earlier accused him of being ignorant of pee string. But Oliver was Oliver and, bless him, braced to be the stand-in for the patriarchy while she expressed her discontent.

“It’s really awful, you know. Lying there or bending over or pretzeling into whatever position so they can smear you in hot wax and then rip it all out.” She pounced on the word, and Oliver jumped. “And then they do it again an inch over to make sure they got it all. And if you don’t have time or money—or pain tolerance—for a wax, then you’re left with razor burn up to your hips because no one has invented anything to fix that, don’t believe the lies. So then we’re walking around in our little V-cut suits with skin waxed raw or riddled with burning bumps, all for what? To look like some bizarre prepubescent versions of ourselves, but only between our belly buttons and knees? Meanwhile, your body hair is a celebration of masculinity. You get to manscape at home and leave it all over the bathroom like goddamned glitter that can’t be cleaned up, and I have to go spread my legs for the hot waxer, just so you can look at me in a bikini and like what you see.” She poked him in the chest and glared at him with the fire of every excruciating wax strip she’d told herself was necessary. For every time she’d laid her intimate region bare for a stranger to let them tear out parts of her body. The injustice of it all had her fired up. “And don’t even get me started on the gynecologist!”

Oliver held up a hand, begging for mercy. “I’ve seen The Vagina Monologues; I know all about the cold duck lips. And I agree, they should warm them up.”

The honest plea in his voice and the reminder of one of her favorite stage plays suddenly made her laugh. Or maybe it was the cumulative revelation of just how much nonsense women put up with.

Oliver grinned at her. “I’m a little busy screening Joanna’s calls while she freaks out and prepping these photos for social media because even an in-house scandal doesn’t stop publicity. Did you stop by to smash yet another pillar of the patriarchy, or are you here to chat?”

She playfully stuck her tongue out at him. She checked her phone again for a response from Monica. Still nothing yet.

“I’m here to give you a heads-up.” She cast her eyes around to see who was listening. The office belly was ripe for overhearing gossip. “I mentioned your name to HR, so they’re probably going to talk to you about what you know about my experience with Jonathan.”

His brow flicked up in the most serious arch Lucy had ever seen on his face. “Good,” he said with a cold resolution that filled her with warmth.

“Also”—she cast another glance over her shoulder—“I just talked to my friend Monica about Annie, so this afternoon might get a little busy...” She spoke in code, knowing Oliver would understand and hoping he’d keep a lid on his reaction.

True to form, he did understand, and his reaction was not subtle.

His eyes jumped wide. “Monica Brown from Dead—”

“Yes, Oliver. That friend Monica.” She hushed him with a glare then checked her phone again. “I’m waiting to hear back. I’m going to take a walk; I need some fresh air after the last hour.”

“Yeah, you better get out of here if you’re gonna... If you... If you’re expecting to hear from your friend Monica.”

She gave him an approving nod as she stepped away.

He waved. “I’ll be here, making sure unrealistic images of women keep permeating mainstream media!”

Lucy rolled her eyes but realized he made an excellent point.

She would be remiss not to acknowledge the blood on her own hands when it came to reinforcing the beauty standards she had been resenting all day. She worked in an industry centered on physical appearance, one that blatantly emphasized an impossible standard for women in particular. She was guilty of perpetuating expectations with every statement she wrote, every story she spun, and every airbrushed, photoshopped photo she promoted. The hypocrisy suddenly seemed very circular; she was part of the system that reinforced at least some of the expectations she placed on herself every day.

How did it get this way?she wondered.

The expectations’ origins were difficult to pinpoint, she realized. She enjoyed things like pretty clothes and wearing makeup; she wouldn’t advocate against either as long as it was a choice. But where was the line between what she wanted for herself and what society pressured her to have, whether it was beauty standards, a relationship status, or something as life-altering as children? Somewhere, somehow, those expectations seeped into her brain like fact, and she lost track of where they ended and she began.

Maybe it was time to figure it out, she thought as she rode the elevator down to the lobby. But not at that exact moment. As with the other deep thoughts she’d had that day, she decided to save them for later since the reason she was headed outside was not to think as she waited for Monica to get back to her. She also had to initiate emergency triage protocol for her clients, starting with warning her greatest flight risk, Lily Chu. She couldn’t stand the thought of losing her after all her hard work.

She fired off a text. Hi Lily! I need to fill you in on something. Do you have a few minutes to talk?

She didn’t get an immediate response. She pressed her thumb into her volume button even though the ringer was already all the way up in anticipation of Monica’s email.

She reached the lobby and passed outside into the afternoon sun. The day had grown warm. Sunlight bent between the buildings and splashed the pavement with pockets of heat. She headed for the small park with shady trees and benches two blocks away; far enough to feel like she left but close enough to be able to run back to the office if she had to. Midafternoon on a weekday, the park, which was really a glorified strip of lawn squished between an apartment complex and a brick of medical offices, stirred with late lunch breaks, dogs on leashes, toddlers running circles around their nannies. A few enthusiasts stretched in the shade after a jog, or perhaps before; Lucy couldn’t see from a distance if they were sweaty yet.

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