Introduction

From the author of The Balance Project comes a dual-timeline narrative featuring a 1949 Miss Subways contestant and a modern-day advertising executive whose careers and lives intersect.

"Schnall has written a book that is smart and timely...Feels perfect for fans of Beatriz Williams and Liza Klaussmann." ?Taylor Jenkins Reid, acclaimed author of The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

"A fast-paced, clever novel filled with romantic possibilities, high-stakes decisions, and harsh realities. Perfect for fans of Fiona Davis’s The Dollhouse, this engrossing tale highlights the role that ambition, sexism, and true love will forever play in women’s lives." ?Amy Poeppel, author of Small Admissions

In 1949, dutiful and ambitious Charlotte's dream of a career in advertising is shattered when her father demands she help out with the family business. Meanwhile, Charlotte is swept into the glamorous world of the Miss Subways beauty contest, which promises irresistible opportunities with its Park Avenue luster and local fame status. But when her new friend?the intriguing and gorgeous fellow-participant Rose?does something unforgivable, Charlotte must make a heart-wrenching decision that will change the lives of those around her forever.

Nearly 70 years later, outspoken advertising executive Olivia is pitching the NYC subways account in a last ditch effort to save her job at an advertising agency. When the charismatic boss she’s secretly in love with pits her against her misogynistic nemesis, Olivia’s urgent search for the winning strategy leads her to the historic Miss Subways campaign. As the pitch date closes in on her, Olivia finds herself dealing with a broken heart, an unlikely new love interest, and an unexpected personal connection to Miss Subways that could save her job?and her future.

The Subway Girls is the charming story of two strong women, a generation apart, who find themselves up against the same eternal struggle to find an impossible balance between love, happiness, and ambition.

Editorial Review

No editorial review at this time.

Excerpt

C HAP T E R 1

C H A R L OT T E

T H U R S D AY, M A R C H 3 , 194 9

After extensive research and considerable internal delib- eration, Charlotte had submitted employment applications to five advertising agencies, their prestigious footings in Madison Avenue’s most glimmering and stalwart buildings having nothing to do with her choices. Four rejected her ex- peditiously. The deliberately worded and carefully typed mis- sives were diplomatic: the standard We are unable to offer you employment at this time. We wish you well in your con- tinued pursuits sort of baloney.

Charlotte was convinced, however, that the true reason for the rejections was her advanced age. That the hiring executives took one look at her, with her impressive-but- unnecessary-for-a-typist education from Hunter College and her twenty-one-year-old vestal womb on the verge of decay, and assumed they were better off with girls fresh out of high school. Charlotte, they had most wrongly assumed, in her eyes at least, was one stockinged step away from the maternity ward, which would leave them with a typist seat gone cold and the terribly inconvenient need to recruit a new girl mid-season.

But as Charlotte and JoJo made their way out of Profes- sor Finley’s econ class, the March air stinging their exposed skin, Charlotte hoped that the news from advertising agency number five would be imminent. And positive. “It should be today, JoJo. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it to- gether if it doesn’t come today,” she said, shielding the cold wind with her woolen scarf and fierce ambition as they walked toward their favorite coffee shop, a well-lit number on the corner of Seventy-First and Lex.

“I don’t know if I can eat a thing,” Charlotte continued once they had sat down. “I feel like that Hawaiian tsunami from a few years ago is gaining momentum in my stomach.” “She’ll have a tea, and I’ll have an egg salad on white,

please,” JoJo told the waitress.

“That letter better be bursting with good news. Another rejection and I’m heading straight to the high point of the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Charlotte!” JoJo scolded. “Don’t talk like that. You’re gonna get the job. And if you don’t, there are better options than a swan dive.”

“Like what?”

“J. Walter Thompson is not the only advertising agency in all of Manhattan, you know.”

“Easy for you to say. You have a job, Miss Copywriter at McCann Erickson,” Charlotte said, taking a sip of her tea. “I realize how important this is to you. And I know things aren’t great at home. It’s as if every day you’re still living in Bay Ridge is like another ragged breath into a balloon. And

you’re on the verge of combusting.”

“Ain’t that the truth? And I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

“Laugh, Charlotte. It’s good for digestion.”

Charlotte gave JoJo one of her what-are-you-talking-about- JoJo looks and then laughed. How lucky she was to have a best friend like JoJo. A girl who relied on truth as much as humor, realizing that the former was essential and the lat- ter was what made life bearable. A far cry from most of the other girls in their class, who relied more on flattery and gossip, neither of which was essential nor made life bearable, and resulted in the type of girl Charlotte and JoJo had nei- ther time nor patience for.

“Lookin’ like spring might finally be on ’er way,” the optimistic- as-eggs postman said as he and Charlotte both approached the front walk to her house.

“I sure hope so,” Charlotte said politely, smiling and accepting the small pile of mail. Waiting for the afternoon post had punctuated Charlotte’s days the last couple of weeks. Anticipation. Disappointment. Anticipation. Disappoint- ment.

Flipping fervently through the envelopes, Charlotte spot- ted a J. Walter Thompson return address. Anticipation? Check. Disappointment. She hoped not. Charlotte’s stomach dropped. An elevator with a broken cable.

J. Walter Thompson, the most prestigious agency in Man- hattan, had been Charlotte’s first choice all along. It was the perfect place for Charlotte to begin her dream career in advertising, despite the distressing fact that the decade in- sisted upon that career, for young ladies at least, be confined to the typing pool. But Charlotte was used to feeling con- fined, and preferred the metal-desk-and-Smith-Corona sort of confinement to the sort she was presently enduring amid the silence and the sadness that was her parents’ home in

Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. So while the other firms’ rejections were disappointing, they weren’t the worst outcome. The worst outcome would be a rejection from JWT. Charlotte didn’t have a backup plan.

Ignoring the cold, Charlotte sat on her stoop and exam- ined the envelope. Miss Charlotte Friedman. Clear black type. The shipshape handiwork of an earnest typing pool girl.

She would have preferred to die—JoJo enthusiastically claiming the cemetery plot immediately to her right—than be like most of the Bay Ridge girls, who wanted to get mar- ried and have babies straightaway. A girl who settled for be- ing a typist or a teacher temporarily, if at all, while waiting for Mr. Right to sweep her off her loafers, bring her home to his mother for a thorough once-over (Nice teeth, she’d say), and then straight to a tidy railroad apartment in the boroughs where she could carry on with the housekeeping, the cooking, the mothering, the drudgery of it all.

Girls today had choices. Charlotte had choices. She would get a college degree. She would be a professional. Together, she and JoJo were going to make names for themselves. And one day, and this they only discussed on nights when Coca- Cola wasn’t the only dark liquid in the tumblers, they’d open their own agency. It was all decided. Charlotte could barely contain her excitement that her life was truly about to start. And that soon she’d be able to afford an apartment in Manhattan with a couple of the other girls. A life worth living, indeed.

She took one last look at the envelope and ripped it open. Her heart raced as she unfolded the single page and read its contents in haste. Once she got past the “We are unable to offer you . . .” Charlotte lowered her head to her knees and

cried. There was so much anticipation and emotion in every tear dropping onto the cracked concrete.

She had spent hours fantasizing about what it would be like to ride the elevator with purpose each morning; the way she’d spread her hands across the desk, absorbing the firm- ness and stability of the job; the skirts and blouses she’d hang according to outfit; and the journal she’d keep to en- sure she didn’t repeat an ensemble within a given week. So much time fantasizing about learning everything she could about advertising by reading the memos she would be asked to type, by listening extra carefully during the meetings for which she’d record notes, by lifting trade magazines from reception on her way out the door on Fridays. Those images flickered out like lightbulbs that had died emitting too much brightness.

Charlotte had anticipated that when she got her first job, she’d feel desired in a way no mother or lover ever could make her feel. She had little to no experience feeling desired by either a mother or a lover, so the disappointment in hav- ing to wait even longer felt almost violent. An assault against everything she had longed for. A barricade blocking her emergence from childhood to adulthood. The sense of relief that Charlotte had hoped to feel as a result of opening the letter was as long overdue as a forgotten library book wedged behind the sofa.

“That was the option. There are no other options, JoJo,” Charlotte whispered into the phone so her mother wouldn’t hear. She was crammed into the hall closet, smoking, the phone cord threaded under the door.

“I don’t even know what to say.”

“I know what my parents would say. You’re too ambi- tious, Charlotte. Why don’t you just marry Sam and settle down, Charlotte? Maybe they’re right.”

“Is that what you want?” “No.”

“I didn’t think so. I thought you were done worrying about what you think you’re supposed to do.”

“I thought I was too.” “So what’s your plan?”

“Brave Charlotte would start an entirely new job search and apply to more agencies. There has to be an empty type- writer somewhere on Madison Avenue.”

“That’s my girl. J. Walter Thompson doesn’t know what they’re missing.”

“Hmmm. That’s a great idea, JoJo. Thanks.”

“What—” JoJo started. But Charlotte had already hung up. Charlotte stubbed out her cigarette into the juice glass she’d brought into the closet. She knew her mother could smell the smoke, but Mrs. Friedman accepted the inevita- bility of Charlotte smoking as long as Charlotte didn’t smoke dircetly in front of her. She had smoked herself for years before—well, before her hands had started trembling so terribly from grief that she once dropped the cigarette onto the rug and almost caused a fire. Since then she hadn’t smoked, but Charlotte found it gave her own hands some-

thing to do. And that was helpful.

Luckily, Charlotte had her satchel in the closet and di- aled the number on the JWT rejection letter. What the heck? she thought. Though not typically in her nature to be so forward—with boys, her parents, hemlines—Charlotte felt she had nothing to lose, everything to gain, and an obliga- tion to her future self to give it a shot.

“Mr. Hertford, hello. This is Charlotte Friedman. I was an applicant for the typing pool?” she explained once the switchboard operator connected her to the man who had both interviewed her and broken her heart.

“Of course, Miss Friedman. What can I do for you, dear?” “Mr. Hertford, I received your letter of rejection, and I wanted to convey my disappointment. I felt I was extremely qualified for the job, and working at J. Walter Thompson was far and away my first choice. Sir, I’m calling to ask if there’s any chance you would reconsider.” Charlotte took

a deep breath.

“Well, well, Miss Friedman. It’s not every day I have a girl calling like this. I must say I admire you for being a go- getter. But unfortunately we don’t have additional opportu- nities available at this time.”

“How about as a receptionist? I’m quite adept at the telephone, Mr. Hertford.”

“I’m sure you are, dear. But we’re fully staffed up front and on the switchboard, as well.”

Charlotte was quiet.

“I promise to keep you in mind should anything change.” “Please do, Mr. Hertford. I wouldn’t let you down. I ab-

solutely promise.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t, dear. Good day.”

Charlotte slowly returned the handset to the receiver. She was proud of herself for making the call, but disappointed in its outcome. Perhaps this was one of those signs she had heard people talking about. Some universal force wagging a stumpy finger in her face and saying, You didn’t get this job because you’re not supposed to be working, you young, impressionable girl. Who do you think you are, anyway? You’ve completed almost four years of college. We gave you

that. Now get your wits about you, child, and do what you’re supposed to do. Reproduce!

After shutting the closet door behind her and replacing the telephone on the hall table, Charlotte walked to the kitchen to rinse out the juice glass. Her mother was work- ing a crossword puzzle in pen and sitting at the small kitchen table, which was covered with Charlotte’s grandmother’s well-worn floral cloth.

Charlotte often caught her mother staring out the win- dow, her lips moving but no sound coming out, something she’d been doing ever since they’d received the dreadful tele- gram that told them that Charlotte’s brother, Harry, wouldn’t be returning home from the war. Harry, in Charlotte’s opin- ion, had been the only good thing about their family.

“Would you like some tea, Ma?” Charlotte asked. “Just had some, but thanks.”

Charlotte sat down and looked out the window. “There’s mail for you, Charlotte,” Mrs. Friedman said,

not looking up from the puzzle.

“There is? Where?” Charlotte, surprised she had missed it when she was looking through the mail pile earlier, im- mediately thought there must have been another agency she applied to that she hadn’t heard from yet. Or maybe, J. Wal- ter Thompson had sent her the rejection in error and this was the actual letter offering her a position and Mr. Hert- ford had simply forgotten. In the couple of seconds it took her to get from the kitchen to the hall table where her mother had left the envelope, Charlotte had considered the entire spectrum of possibilities. How wrong she was.

The return address bore no name, and the number on Park Avenue didn’t provide a clue. Charlotte, certain it was

a job offer, ripped the envelope open, pulled out the piece of heavy-stock cream paper, and read its contents. As shocked as a kite in a thunderstorm, Charlotte had to read the letter twice.

C HAP T E R 2

OLIV I A

T H U R S D AY, M A R C H 1 , 2 018

“Did they call yet?” Thomas asked, rushing into the confer- ence room, an extra-large coffee in one hand, a scrunched Starbucks bag in the other.

“You have a hair out of place, Thomas,” Olivia said, smirking.

“Not yet,” Matt said from his perch at the head of the large table. “They said nine o’clock.” He glanced at his watch—he had chosen his great-grandfather’s gold Rolex today, Olivia noticed—and then looked from Olivia to Thomas.

“They must just be tied up with pathetic consolation calls to the losers,” Thomas said, stuffing an English muffin sand- wich in his mouth.

“Classy,” Olivia said, and gave Thomas a look. “Come on, you two. Not now,” Matt said.

“I didn’t say a word,” Thomas protested, his mouth a cav- ern of mangled egg.

“I heard from a friend at Y&R last night that Boss & Bates dropped out,” Olivia said, looking at Matt.

“Really, why?” Thomas asked.

“Apparently, they weren’t happy with their final presen- tation yesterday, so they withdrew rather than face an inevi- table rejection. I guess they thought it would make them look better on the street,” Olivia said.

“I guess they thought wrong, since it only makes them look like bigger losers,” Thomas said, laughing and staring at Matt.

Matt didn’t look up. He was typing into his phone.

The conference room phone rang with the internal tone.

Matt grabbed it.

“Matt,” he said into the receiver.

“Put it on speaker,” Thomas said in a loud whisper. “Great, thanks, Layne. Please put him through.” Matt

looked up at Olivia and Thomas and gave them a thumbs-up. “It’s him.”

“Speaker, Matt,” Thomas said.

“Steve, good morning! It’s Matt Osborne,” Matt said, suddenly all smiles and bellowing voice.

“Speaker,” Thomas hissed.

“Shut up,” Olivia whispered to Thomas.

They both looked at Matt. He was still smiling.

“Thank you. We put our best into the concept and the storyboards. I’m really happy to hear you liked it,” Matt said. He looked up quickly and smiled at Olivia and Thomas.

Olivia’s stomach was in knots and had been since they’d gotten the invitation from Nike to pitch their new energy bar business. She had led the pitch and couldn’t have been hap- pier with their strategic direction and creative. The presen- tation seemed to have gone perfectly. “Seemed” being the operative word.

“I see,” Matt said, and Olivia snapped out of her worry to look at him. His voice had changed. Olivia knew that

voice too well, the you-liked-our-pitch-but-you’re-not-going- to-award-us-the-business voice. “Can you tell me what it was that gave you reservations?” Matt was drawing circles with his pen on the pad in front of him, his mouth in a half smile. That mouth.

“Damn it!” Thomas shouted. “I knew it.”

Matt looked up, gave Thomas an angry look, and put out his right hand in a calm-the-fuck-down gesture.

“I see. Well, thank you for your time, Steve, and for the opportunity to pitch the business. If things don’t work out with JWT, give us a call. I know we’d be able to make you happy.”

Matt placed the handset down and put his face in his hands.

“Shit! We needed that business,” Thomas said, bang- ing his fist on the table.

Matt looked up at Thomas and didn’t say a word. Then Matt gave Olivia a sympathetic look. Or was that a smile? She’d never been able to read his expressions accurately when he was angry.

“Let’s meet back here in an hour. Be prepared to discuss all of your accounts and billings down to the dime. We need to figure out our next steps,” Matt said. He stood up and left the conference room, letting the door slam behind him.

“Jesus, Olivia, I told you to go with the first creative Pablo came up with.”

“That was the wrong creative, and you know it, Thomas. The second creative was much stronger,” Olivia said, and stood up, grabbing her phone and her latte. Walking toward the door, she stopped and looked back at Thomas, who was picking spinach out of his teeth. “You could say, ‘Nice work,

Olivia.’ That would have been the smarter thing to do, because who knows where we’ll all end up? It’s pretty likely you’ll be begging me for a job one day.” She threw open the door and walked toward her office.

Olivia slammed her office door behind her. She woke up her computer and saw 117 emails waiting, their bold font an aggressive affront. She turned up the music on her com- puter, the Coldplay she’d been listening to when she got into the office that morning, early. She hadn’t been able to sleep.

“Damn it!” she yelled to the ceiling. But that was the only indulgence she allowed herself. She immediately began com- piling a document with all her accounts and billings in prep- aration for the meeting with Matt, who decided at that very moment to make an appearance.

He never knocked.

“Sorry, Liv,” Matt said when he opened the door. He stood in the doorway, the morning sun from the window behind Olivia shining into his eyes and making them glow. He was about six feet tall and had the look. The look shared by successful men up and down glorious Manhattan island: investment bankers, mergers and acquisitions attorneys, media executives. The look that said, shouted really: I’m confident. I’m successful. And I would be lying if I pretended I had no idea I could have any woman I wanted.

“Thanks, Matt. This isn’t the first time I’ve lost a piece of business, and it probably won’t be the last.”

“True. But it still stings. You nailed that pitch. Best I’ve seen you do,” he said, walking toward the chairs across from

Olivia’s desk. “JWT? How could they have chosen JWT? They’re so . . . corporate.” The word made his mouth look like it had bitten hard into a lemon.

“Don’t know. I really thought I was going to pull it off for us. Sorry about that.”

“Stop that, Liv,” Matt said, reaching for her hand. She didn’t pull it away.

“Fine, but those billings were the only way to make up for losing the Green Goddess account. I don’t blame her, but I still wish Katherine Whitney hadn’t left the company. That awful woman who replaced her, Maggie, never gave us a fair chance.”

“Hopefully, we’ll be okay.”

“Do the numbers work out at all?” Olivia asked with a worried expression, finally pulling her hand back.

“I’m not sure. I was working on that all night. Not”—he gave a kind smile—“that I wasn’t confident in you and thought we wouldn’t win the business, but just in case.”

“Turned out to be a prudent exercise.”

“I didn’t have all the updated billings with me last night, so once you and Thomas and I meet, I’ll be able to see where we stand.”

“I’m trying not to be pessimistic,” Olivia said, pressing the palms of her hands to her forehead.

“Ha!” Matt said, laughing at her.

Olivia managed a smile. “I know, I know. I’m terrible at not being pessimistic. But I know if the numbers don’t square, you’re going to have to let Thomas or me go.”

“Liv, there are loads of things we can do to cut costs be- fore I would have to let you or Thomas go,” Matt said, rais- ing his left eyebrow. Always his left.

Olivia had been concerned that Thomas’s and her salaries were too high. She didn’t think Matt could justify keeping them both with so little business in the agency. He had been bleeding the reserves dry keeping things afloat, hoping they’d win this account. She had been so worried about this even- tuality. She hadn’t expected them to lose, but now that they had, Olivia was nervous in a way that felt foreign to her. Ex- treme, as if she were visiting another planet and not one thing, the color of the sky, the feel of the earth, the taste of the air, was familiar.

“You know I’ll work harder for you than Thomas ever will. I still can’t understand why you asked him to join the agency, Matt. Really. Possibly the worst decision ever.”

“Okay, okay, old news, Liv. I’m going. But I’ll see you in the conference room in”—he looked at the Rolex—“fifteen minutes.”

“Remember when you took that guy home and he decided he didn’t like you so he stole all of your small kitchen appli- ances when he snuck out of your apartment early the next morning?” Olivia asked. She was on her phone, walking home from work. All she wanted was to take a bath, eat the whole box of frozen corn dogs in her freezer, and get into bed with a glass of wine and her remote.

“Um, yes,” James said on the other end of the line. “It was worse than that.”

“Oh, honey. I’m sorry. Where are you? Meet me for a drink.”

“I’m spent. I’m going home.”

“No, you’re not. Meet me at Barcanto’s.”

“You mean that pretty little bar I’m standing directly in front of right now?” Olivia smiled to herself. She could use a bit of James right now.

“Be there in a flash. Tell Ian to make my mojito strong.”

“Olivia, gorgeous, sit down,” the bartender, Ian, said as soon as he saw her. She and James came to Barcanto’s frequently, and she came on her own sometimes on her way home from work when she wanted to have a glass of wine and unwind. She’d also come a few times with Matt.

“Hi, Ian,” Olivia said, giving him a kiss as he leaned over the bar.

“What can I get you?” “Pinot Grigio.”

“You got it,” Ian said, taking a wineglass and wiping the rim with his towel.

“And James will have a mojito. A very strong mojito, he said,” Olivia said, smiling.

“Oh, he will, will he? That tease.” Ian and James had dated for a year or two back in the day when James was comfortable letting his boyfriends treat him kindly.

Olivia answered emails while she waited for James. She noticed a trio of businessmen come in and sit at a four-top in the back corner. One of the men smiled at her as he passed. Olivia smiled back and took a sip of her wine.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Ian said, and Olivia looked up.

“Hello, Ian,” James said. “And hello, Olivia,” he said, planting a kiss on her cheek.

The three chatted and laughed about work, James’s new guy, and their mutual friends. Olivia and James decided to

order dinner at the bar. Lamb chops and sautéed spinach for Olivia. A Barcanto burger and fries for James. When Ian handed over a second glass of wine to Olivia, she protested and said she was stopping at one.

“Compliments of the gentleman,” Ian said, winking at Olivia and directing her gaze to the table in the back of the restaurant.

The man Olivia had noticed when he walked in lifted his glass in the air and smiled. She did the same.

“Are you still dating that gorgeous boss of yours?” Ian asked Olivia.

“Matthew Osborne?” James said in a dramatic voice, making a sweeping motion with his hand and ending it by smoothing over his hair. Or lack thereof. James was com- pletely bald, but he did it for effect.

“Matthew Osborne of the perfectly coiffed hair and glint- ing azure eyes,” Ian said, a dreamy look in his eyes.

“Come on, guys. He’s not my boyfriend. Never was and never will be.”

“Well,” James said. “Forgive me, dear friends, but a cer- tain blond investment banker is waiting for me right now in his apartment, so I’m going to go, even if he is most likely going to take advantage of me and break my heart.”

James took out his wallet and handed Ian a hundred- dollar bill. “That should cover Olivia and me, Ian. What- ever’s left, use it to pay a barber to shave off that awful goatee. It’s so . . . expected. And if there is nothing left, well, then remind me next time, and I’ll make up for it.”

Ian smiled and they gave each other a kiss over the bar.

James gave Olivia a hug and he was off.

Olivia sat for a minute and finished the second glass of wine as the businessmen walked by the bar toward the door.

“Thank you for the wine,” Olivia said to the one who had bought it for her. He was tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and green eyes. Late forties. Olivia immediately looked down at his ring finger. Bare.

“I hope you enjoyed it. I almost sent you a glass of my favorite Pinot Noir, but I saw you were drinking white. I didn’t want to impose my tastes on you.”

“How refreshing,” Olivia said. “A man who doesn’t want to turn a woman into what he wants her to be, but rather lets her be who she is. Quite revolutionary.”

The man stared at Olivia for a moment. Without a word, he joined his friends who were waiting for him at the front of the restaurant. Olivia turned to see. He shook hands with them and came back to where she was.

“They have to be on the next train back to Westchester. But I don’t. So will you let me buy you another glass of wine?”

“That’s so nice of you, but I really have to be getting home.”

“If I told you I just had the most boring dinner of my life and I could use ten minutes of pleasant conversation, would you reconsider?”

Olivia was weakening. The wine was smoothing lines and lessening urgencies.

“How do you know my conversation would be pleasant?

I’ve had a shitty day.”

He laughed. “See what you did there? I don’t even know your name and you’ve already made me laugh.”

“Olivia.”

“Jack.”

“Nice to meet you, Jack.”

“So will you stay for another glass?”

“Sure,” she said, deciding it couldn’t hurt to flirt for a bit with a man who she’d most likely never see again. She’d been working so hard lately that her dating life had been nonex- istent. And however much she objected, James told her that her mostly one-sided infatuation with Matt did not, thank you, count as a dating life.

“So, this shitty day, tell me about it.”

“I thought you were in need of pleasant conversation.” “I was. But vent away, Olivia. I’m all ears.”

“Okay, fine,” she said, sinking into her seat and enjoying the smile Jack was directing her way. The third glass of wine was going down a little too easily, and Olivia placed the glass on the bar to slow down her rate of consumption. “First tell me: What do you do, Jack?”

“I’m in transportation.”

Olivia loved when men said they were “in” and then named an entire industry. How much vaguer could they be? Like one of the first guys she dated when she moved to New York. “I’m in hospitality,” he had said. It had sounded glam- orous to Olivia until she found out he refilled the mini bars at the Plaza.

“Would you like to be more specific?” Olivia asked. “Not really. It’s pretty boring.” Jack smiled. “And what

do you do? Let me guess: you’re in fashion.”

Olivia tightened her smile and turned her head. “No,” she said. “Why was that your first guess?”

“My bad. I hope that didn’t offend you in any way. You just, I guess, look quite fashionable.”

“Thank you, but no. I’m in advertising. I’m an account director at a firm called The Osborne Agency.”

Luckily the bar had gotten crowded and Ian was busy, so Olivia didn’t feel self-conscious that he was listening to

their conversation. But she did notice out of the corner of her eye that he had refilled her wineglass.

“What led you into advertising?” Jack asked. “Don Draper?”

“You mean Peggy Olson? Actually, I’ve always been cre- ative, and for some very strange reason, as a little girl, I used to make up ads. I created my own magazines in my bedroom out of construction paper. I wrote a few articles, but there were mostly ads,” Olivia said.

“You started young.”

“I’ve worked very hard to get where I am.” “Where did you grow up?”

“In a little coal town in Pennsylvania, just outside of no- where.”

“But you seem to fit in quite nicely in the big city.” “Smoke and mirrors, Jack. Smoke and mirrors,” Olivia

said, taking a sip of her wine.

“And how is the advertising industry treating you?” “Well, not the best day to ask,” Olivia said with a sarcas-

tic smile.

“That bad?”

“Worse. We’d been pitching a piece of new business and we lost it. It was my presentation, and it didn’t go nearly as well as we had all thought. It was a big blow to the agency, and I feel totally responsible.”

Olivia sat with Jack for the next hour. They ordered des- sert and, when he offered her another glass of wine, she asked for club soda instead.

“You know, I don’t usually talk about myself as much as I did tonight. I’m also usually a lot more restrained about accepting wine from strangers. I can’t believe I told you all that about my life and career.” Olivia was starting to feel ex-

ceptionally tired and was angry at herself that she’d been so open.

“What if I told you I have a very bad memory and I’ve already forgotten everything you said?” Jack asked.

“I would say that I appreciate that very much,” Olivia said. “But I also think it’s time for me to go home. I need to get some sleep.”

“Can I put you in a cab?”

“No, thanks. I’m nearby. I can walk.” “I’m happy to walk you home.”

“That’s okay. I’m just around the corner. I’ll be fine. It was nice meeting you, Jack.”

“You as well, Olivia. Keep up the good work. I think you’re going to be a tremendous success.”

“Thanks,” Olivia said, a little confused by Jack’s suddenly avuncular behavior. She had found him attractive and was thinking it might be nice to see him again. And not one to shy away from giving a man her card and suggesting he call, Olivia also knew that in a situation like this, if the man didn’t make some sort of overture, he probably wasn’t interested. Not the first time and probably won’t be the last, Olivia thought, realizing the day was taking on a rather depressing

theme.

Jack gave her a kiss on the cheek, told her the pleasant- ness factor of their conversation had exceeded his expecta- tions, and said good night.

Olivia shouldn’t have been so convinced she’d never hear from Jack again. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

Had you ever heard of the Miss Subways contest before reading this book? What did you think of it?

Charlotte and Olivia are both ambitious and passionate women, separated by decades. What similarities did you notice in their characters? How are they different?

Discuss how our society has changed—or not—since the time of the Miss Subways contest in terms of opportunities for women in the workplace, the pitfalls of female ambition, the objectification of women, etc.

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Recommended to book clubs by 2 of 2 members.

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