Chapter 13

Sean Baxter. Writer.

His card, with a Brooklyn address and 718 area code, had a brown recycled look and feel to it with a cute pen-and-pad logo. I unfolded the edges, wrinkled after a tumble in my purse, and stared at the words that scrolled across the bottom: Thinking. Dreaming. Creating.

I’d heard that writers were intellectual types—smart, well read, full of worldly knowledge. At the time, I’d never dated one. I didn’t know if the stereotype was true for any writer other than myself. But after meeting Denise, the staff of scribes at Buzz, and Sean, the wordsmith description seemed to be true. I was happy to be among like-minded people.

Sitting on the train back to Jersey, watching the outline of trees blow in the dark, a momentary doze led my mind to drift. A dreamy vision of me sitting at a laptop, pregnant, feet propped up on a wicker stool, computer nestled on a small stand. And there I was, tap-tapping keys, two hundred pages along, pounding letters into my next bestselling manuscript. The nanny would call, letting me know my son had been picked up from school. At six, I’d make dinner. At seven, my soul mate would arrive home from work. And at seven thirty, we’d have family dinnertime. By ten, my husband and I would be laughing, talking, foreplaying into passionate lovemaking. That was true north. A dream I knew would come true. But who would play the role of soul mate? Sean, perhaps? He was a cutie, knew the entertainment business, and wanted to take me out. I wondered, Maybe I should call him. The thought lingered as my phone buzzed with a new text message: In the morning, stop at Guy & Gallard and order a fruit platter for the meeting tomorrow. Pay for it with the credit card when they arrive. Denise, EIC.

Seconds later it buzzed again.

Oh, and good work today. Your first day at work and you represented. So happy to have you on the Buzz team. Gnite.

And then a third buzz.

Hey beautiful, so when are we goin out? Italian? Chinese? French?

It was Sean.

I texted back: How about tomorrow after work?

Sean: Ok. Let’s do La Petite Maison. Lincoln Square. 730p.

Me: Ok. :+)

The next day. 6:45 p.m. Buzz offices . . .

I was sitting at my computer, waiting for Denise to finish her meeting so I could leave. Trying to stop myself from watching the clock, I watered and adjusted the fern next to the computer. Looked back at the clock: 6:47. Shit. I needed to leave by seven to get to the restaurant on time. On tarot.com, I began reading the plethora of Aquarius horoscopes offered: daily scope, love scope, monthly scope, weekly scope, feng shui tip of the day. I got up, went to the bathroom, and stared in the full-length mirror. My white skirt flared at the bottom. Short and sweet, it crept above my knees in a schoolgirl fashion. My matching top had spaghetti straps embroidered with small gold flowers crisscrossing the shoulder blades. I touched up my brown shimmery lipstick, pranced back to my desk, and prayed the meeting would be done. I could hear the editors loudly debating.

“That is not Buzz magazine,” said Denise. “I’m not going to have a feature on some chick famous for sleeping with lots of rappers.”

“But she’s hot right now.”

“She does look good,” somebody else chirped.

“She’s a whore,” Denise snapped back. “What talent does she have other than being able to fuck rich MCs?”

“Well, I heard she was starting a new fashion line,” Francois, the style editor, sang.

“Oh, that’s original,” Denise shot back. “If y’all want this chick on the cover, tell me something I haven’t heard before. You better wow me.”

“And I heard she’s got a new perfume coming out,” someone else added.

“Called what?” Denise asked, giggling. “Eau de ho?”

Everyone laughed, including me; I let out a small snicker that I tried to catch by muffling and clearing my throat.

“Meena! Meena Butler!”

I jumped with each syllable of my name that Denise enunciated. Hopping up out of the chair, heart beating quickly, I shivered into her office.

“Meena,” she said, “have you heard of Abby Tulip?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of her? Would you read a story about her?”

“Well . . .” I paused, searching for the politically correct thing to say. “I, um . . .”

“Meena,” Denise said with an impatient exhale. “First rule of journalism: Be honest. Speak your mind. Be an opinion maker. Speak the fuck up.”

“Okay.” I took a deep breath. “Everything I need to know about Abby is in the tabloids. She used to be a porn star. She sleeps with all the rappers, actors, ball players. And now she’s got a new album, lingerie line, and perfume coming out. She cut her hair off bald, and copycat girls are cutting theirs off, too. I think she’s a horrible example to women who want to make it in this world without sleeping around. I think she’s a floozy and I have no interest in her at all. I don’t care about her. But I did hear Playboy was putting her on the cover. Buzz is always the first to the hotness. So I’d be surprised to see you come behind a magazine known for showing naked women.”

“Tell us how you really feel,” Francois said, smiling. He looked at Denise and added, “I like this one.”

“That’s why I hired her. She’s honest, knows the magazine, and she gave us the lowdown. Sam, why didn’t we know she’s on the next Playboy cover? That’s your job. Are you not the music editor?”

“Well,” he said, sweat beading above his eyebrow. “That’s not confirmed.”

“It’s a rumor we need to investigate. I hired you to stay on top of that kind of shit. We were about to put this little naked girl on our cover after a tramp magazine like Playboy? That would have killed us! And then I would’ve fired you.”

Denise looked at me. I held my breath.

“Thank you for that, Meena. That’s all. You can leave now. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She got up and closed the door as I walked out.

Smiling, I unlocked the file cabinet, grabbed my bag, logged off, and speed-walked to the elevator before Denise changed her mind. Time check: 7:05. My date awaited.