Free Mendocino and Other Stories by Ann Packer

wrong, Virginia isn't the quiet type.”
    I wonder what type he thinks I am. What type am I? “Well,” I say, “I'm in a quiet phase, nothing to worry about, but thanks for calling.”
    “Oh,” he says. “Someone's there, right? God, I'm sorry.”
    “No,” I say. “No one's here. No one but me.”
    JENNIFER WANTS ME in her office—to talk, I know, about the ad. She's had my outline for four days now, and she hasn't said a word about it.
    “Sit down,” she says when I get there.
    I sit.
    She is wearing my favorite of all her maternity dresses. It's a soft teal-colored wool with a white lace collar and white cuffs. When she first started wearing it she was hardly showing at all, and the dress flowed in an elegant line from neck to hem. But it has accommodated her belly beautifully, filling out as she's filled out. I know it was expensive, but it does not seem to me in the least extravagant.
    “Virginia,” she says.
    I smile at her. In three weeks, or, who knows, maybe less, she'll have a baby. I've narrowed it down to something from Tiffany. Probably a spoon. It's the kind of thing she and John would appreciate.
    “Kanine Krunch, Virginia.”
    “Yes?”
    “This,” she says, taking my outline from her desk, “won't do.”
    “It won't do,” I repeat, stupidly.
    “No.”
    I suppose I should have anticipated this. The people aren't mellow enough, the ad does not adequately capture the spirit of understated coolness required by the executives.
    “First of all,” she says, “when you have a father and a little girl meeting a glamorous young woman, you invite speculation onwhether the father is going to commit adultery with the young woman. Right?”
    I feel my face color a little; I should have thought of that. But if I take the woman out, who will the father discuss the product with? “Right,” I say.
    “And,” Jennifer says, “more to the point, why a little girl?” She stands up and begins to pace, her hands on her lower back as if to give herself a push. “This is supposed to be about dog food.” She looks at me, pointedly, then returns to her desk and ruffles through my outline. “Lizzie,” she says. “What's with Lizzie, Virginia? You don't put adorable little children in dog food ads, you put adorable little dogs. OK?” She gathers the outline together and hands it to me.
    I am halfway to the door when she says, “Virginia?”
    I turn and look at her.
    “Dog food,” she says. “Think dog food.”
    THE WOMEN'S MAGAZINES are full of advice on every subject you can think of. How to get a man, How to get rid of a man, How to say no to your boss, How to put the sex back in sex, How to look great in work clothes, How to look great in no clothes, How to throw a fabulous dinner party without even trying. What I like best is the advice on how to treat yourself when you are feeling down. There are, contrary to what most people think, workable remedies. Setting aside an hour, a full hour, of time when you will not think about your children or your husband or your job. You will just sit in your favorite chair (they always assume you have such a thing) and sip a steaming cup of herbal tea.
    Or, if you prefer, what about buying a brand new bar of scented soap and having a nice, long soak in the tub? Make the water ashot as you can stand it. Light a candle and turn off that bright overhead bathroom light. Put your favorite concerto on the record player (of course you have a favorite concerto). Relax.
    This is, of course, laughable advice. If you are depressed, you're supposed to feel
better
after sitting there for an hour with nothing but Lemon Mist tea for company? You're supposed to feel like a new person after a long, hot bath during which you stare, through the water, at the distorted shape of your hips and thighs?
    Still, here I am, in the tub. The light is on; there is no music. My drain doesn't work right, or, rather, it works too well, and as I lie here the water level gradually lowers until