3

10:30 a.m., Wednesday, September 21

“Here you go, child!” Belinda escorted me to my new cubicle and passed me a box wrapped in flowery paper, like something you’d have hanging on a bathroom wall. It was a pretty box full of fragrant loose tea.

“For your mug,” she said though she knew I never used it. “I know dear.” She winked and walked away.

I’d have to think more about that. But for the time being, I placed my mug and purse in one corner of the cubicle. As far as I knew, I didn’t have any other belongings left intact.

My new desk was in the features department, where everything was free samples and messenger deliveries, phones buzzing and keyboards tapping. When I’d thought of it before it was in slow motion and soft focus, gleaming and magical—too good to be true.

My computer was brand-new with a flat screen. I pulled a label off the corner of the monitor and played with it for a second, which turned into a minute, which turned into five minutes. What was I supposed to do?

The blood drained from my face as I stared at my shadowy reflection in the dark, unused monitor, and panicked. I didn’t know the first thing about being chic. I didn’t know the first thing about nightlife. Ray, Nina, and I have been going to the same pub every night for two years. At the events I’ve had to work at fancy spots, I nearly always had trouble getting in. I’d see someone I recognized from the office and yell, “Hey Joan, it’s me, Anna, from Publicity!” But she—like the others—would squiggle up her features, toss her shoulders, and continue on without me. I’d always get insecure and want to turn and run home. Instead, I’d spend the rest of the night letting in every poor schmuck I could. I’d lock my jaw and think, who invented this whole system, anyway? How could our society have come so far, and still we only choose the best looking and the most popular? When I said that to Nina, she said, “Don’t say that. That’s what all the ugly, unpopular people say.”

“Then, sitting in the department that I’d wanted to sit in for two years, I looked around me, and rather than the soft focus, slow motion warmth in my heart, all I felt was a hollow, breathless occupation of terror. Why had I ignored that saying: be careful what you wish for? People were always saying that. But I couldn’t just listen, could I? No. I had to go and create a creative (but mean), genius presentation that caught the eye of the most popular gossip columnist in the city and go and get myself one of the most sought-after jobs in the world. Who did I think I was? Candace Bushnell? She knew chic like I knew . . . nothing. In college, I’d majored in English, and I still knew nothing whatsoever about that!

“So tell me about the English,” Ray used to say when we’d dine in the cafeteria with the six or seven people from our dormitory floor that we hung around with. Everyone was fascinated with him, even then.

I threw my head down on the desk. I knew what I had to do. I had to run out and get some Oreos, take a second to meditate on what was important in life, and then I’d come back and be just fine . . . or something closer to it, anyway.

Pickles, I thought, walking the streets in an urgent search. I knew about pickles. There were sweet ones and sour ones and half-sour ones. But then I realized there were probably so many new kinds of pickles I didn’t know a thing about. I didn’t even know everything about pickles. I walked on, feeling completely incompetent—a shapeless garment on a fifty-off rack that can’t even get bought up as material for strip quilts. If I came across a garment like that, I would buy it. I really would.

Fires, I realized. I knew about fires. I knew all the terms: backdraft and combustible and flashover, but that didn’t do me much good now.

This is the thing about New York. There are no supermarkets. All I wanted was a few simple Oreos, but the only signs I passed said, “Gourmet Cheeses,” “Italiano Cuisino,” “Sushi,” and “Soup, Soup, and More Soup.” I tried the soup shop, thinking after a soup I always want something sweet. “Excuse me? Do you sell Oreos?” I asked.

The guy pointed up to the sign. “You’re kidding, right?”

I walked and walked. In my mind, I’d somehow twisted up the Oreos and the success of my column, and I just couldn’t seem to turn back. Finally, I stumbled upon a tiny superette that stocked cookies. I walked to the end of the last aisle and there, on the top shelf, were two dusty boxes of Oreos, which cost me ten bucks. The wan girl behind the courter rang them up, her fingers dancing the foxtrot over the keys; she didn’t glance in my direction. My “thanks” went unanswered and I turned to go.

Walking back, I passed a couple of carefree girls wearing cheap suits; they were laughing on the steps of a church and eating sandwiches. Suddenly, my heart plunged and I felt miserable that I had this incredible responsibility; that I now—today—had to prove that I deserved this thing I’d been pining for my whole life. But I couldn’t event bring myself to believe I deserved it, so how was I going to convince the rest of the world? If only I could have put this off until I was ready.

All the way back to the office I thought of this one thing: In our original house we had a pine breakfast bar between the kitchen and the dining room, and my dad would sit at one of the too-small stools and act like he’d come to my diner for breakfast.

“Whaddya want?” I’d ask.

“You got some bacon?”

“All outta bacon,” I’d reply.

“Eggs?” he’d ask.

“All outta eggs.”

“Toast?”

“All outta toast, but I can make a mean donut, pink; sprinkles.” I’d offer.

“A donut sounds real nice,” he’d say, nodding thoughtfully, as if we hadn’t had this exact conversation hundreds of times.

I’d stalk over to my plastic range top and act like I was making one of my plastic donuts on a fry-pan, plate it, and stretch myself on tip-toes to the breakfast bar to serve it to him. He’d put his hand out to help me and I’d say, “I can do it all by myself!”

“Of course you can,” he’d say. In my memories, there’s no confidence in that statement.

Back at my desk, I called Mom and was depressed to find she still lived with Roger; no offense to him, only that wouldn’t be the case if my father were still alive. I’m not nuts; I know it’s not a possibility, it’s only just then I really wanted it to be.

I hunched over my desk as I explained my new position to Mom.

“Oh, Anna! I knew it, I knew it! Roger! Roger! Anna’s got a column!”

This is my mother: for every slightly positive thing that’s happened in my life, she had a premonition. She knew before anyone else that this would happen. She knew my tooth would fall out into the Italian hero at my cousin Suzy’s tenth birthday. She knew my Cray-pas drawing would win the Earth Day contest for Nassau County.

“He wants to know what it’s about dear,” she said.

“It’s about really chic bars. I have to review them . . . and stuff.”

“And what kind of stuff?”

This was a fabulous question. I really didn’t know. “Oh, write what I think of it all.” Was that true? Did people really care what I thought? I mean, what did I know about bars?

“That sounds wonderful, Anna. I always knew you deserved this kind of thing. You’re so talented, so creative. When you were a little girl, you always used to write stories about the kids in the neighborhood. You put them together into a little magazine.”

Did I? I don’t remember that at all. That sounds like ambition, doesn’t it? Like something a person with goals and desires and motivation would say on an E! True Hollywood Story.

“Do you have that magazine, Mom?” I knew she would. Though I found it difficult to be home, to deal with the memories there, she held on to me as tightly as if I were there every day.

“Of course. I have everything you ever made.” She was so good to me, even with me having killed her first husband and everything. You would think she’d be angry, but she never was. Mom came to every event I ever had at school—all the lousy plays and the choral concerts and science fairs—and she always had something fabulous to say about every miserable thing I underachieved at.

I can remember trying to believe what she was saying, what Roger was nodding about, trying to think it was true that I was “a promising future scientist!” or “a terrific tenor!” But I didn’t. I just chewed on my plush bunny until it grew a fungus and we had to throw it away.

I sat with five Oreos, ignoring the expired sell-by date, and a big cup of water and tried to push the bad thoughts out and meditate on the cookies. I took a bit of one and tried to describe it to myself. At first the familiar taste was kind of comforting. But in a matter of seconds, I realized the cookie was stale. It was lacking the . . . the crunch. And the cream part was kind of, well, wet. I forced the bite down my throat and tried to help it along with a huge gulp of water. But it was lodged there. I tried another sip, but my throat seemed to have narrowed. I began to cough. Help! I tried to yell, but he word wouldn’t come out. Oh, I know I’ve said some horrible things in my darker moments, but I didn’t want to die! I wanted to figure my way out of this and do a great job and make my mother proud.

“Watch out!” I heard the voice from behind, but I didn’t know who it belonged to. “I’m going to squeeze you really hard in the middle of your stomach!” It all happened very fast. I looked down to see a couple of pretty rings interlocked on a pinky and then all of a sudden a glob of Oreo flew out of my mouth and smashed onto the monitor. Oh my God, it was disgusting. I couldn’t bring myself to turn around.

“Are you okay? I’m Theresa, the style editor,” the girl said, forcing me to face her.

“Hi, Anna Walker,” I said, trying to cover the screen with my body.

“I tried that Oreo thing,” she said. “Complete crap. Rooibos tea. You’ve got to drink Rooibos tea. It’s the only thing.”

“Really?” I asked, hating to be so transparent.

“Oh yeah. Put on some Sarah McLaughlin and drink a cup of that. You’ll forget your own name.”

Without asking or announcing even, Theresa pulled my suit jacket off my shoulders and replaced it with a pink satin, fitted jacket and fastened a long dangling sword pendant around my neck. “Much better,” she said. “Dear, you can’t walk around dressed like you were when you’re representing New York, New York. We’ve gotta have style. Period.”

Theresa had a cool, short haircut that was very blond with dark roots like only a style person could pull off. She had one of those great supple leather bags with streamers dangling from one of the handles. Her featherweight turquoise blouse was perfect and matched her patterned wool pants. She looked fabulous. I could never put that together. In my insecurity, I instinctively felt for my left sleeve.

She sat on my desk next to my computer, facing me, either unaware or uncaring of the Oreo blob. I tried to resettle in my swivel chair. Theresa chomped a wad of gum and looked at me one way, then another. “I’ll do your whole image,” she said. “I live for this kind of thing.”

“Oh, you don’t—”

“Oh, but I do,” she interrupted.

“Theresa,” I tried, “Got any ideas about which exclusive new spot I should visit for my first column?”

“I’ll get back to you on that.” She never did. But as she hopped off the desk and disappeared, I wondered at my newfound determination: perhaps the Oreo thing had worked after all?

Judy hurled herself toward my new desk the second she had a break from selling ads. She brought me a potted ivy and placed it on the empty overhead bookshelf.

“Do you have any ideas for your first column?”

“Sure,” I lied.

“I’ll make a few calls,” she said anyway and darted back to her desk.

When she rang half an hour later, I was filled with hope. “What’d you find?”

“Nothing. Boy, that’s a bitch of a job, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I scowled and hung up.

Then I cradled the earpiece and keyed in the familiar numbers. “Ray . . .”

12:00 p.m.

I met Ray at Serafina. We both thought a hot place like that, full of lunching editors, was likely to produce some tips for where I’d need to go tonight. As a publicist, I had taken plenty of said editors to pick at lobster salads in order to pitch them. I was ready to do whatever I needed to for the information—especially if it somehow included eating twirly pasta tossed in pounds of cream. But as I walked there, I realized I had absolutely no idea what to actually do to obtain the information, and already I was feeling bad about starting out a new career filling myself with carbohydrates. So I asked Ray to join me.

When that didn’t work, I begged.

When that didn’t work, I pleaded.

Promised to wash his clothes, make those chocolate chip cookies. Okay and watch American Idol. Yes, the whole season—even the themed episodes with the guest judges who tell indiscriminately call everyone awesome. Fine, and text in his vote.

“Just get there,” I told him.

Twenty minutes later, I was enjoying a glass of afternoon white wine, and Ray was drinking a Heineken. The garden was right beyond where we sat, and in the sunlight, we could have been anywhere—a café in the South of France or a summer house on Nantucket (as if I would know what either of those looked like). But then a siren screamed, and bam! We were back in New York.

“Well, who could have known Nasty was dating Christopher West?” Ray slurped a stray length of linguine. The guy could eat carbohydrates—complex, simple, you name it—just like that. Well, he could also stick to a strict workout regiment, which helped. “You just go,” he’d once told me to my puzzlement. You just go, you just go. I’d thought it over every which way. I’d never get it.

I stabbed at a flake of lobster, heart of palm, tomato—the ultimate bite of the ultimate summer salad. Still, that linguine looked good. “I’m sure she’s miserable. I wish things hadn’t turned out this way. Side note, though, I can’t believe they used the exact same title you joked about last night!”

“What can I say? I would have been a great journalist. But honestly, you’d better watch out. She doesn’t seem the kind to let things go.” He pushed his plate toward me. “Would you just have some? We’ll do the switch. I ordered the cream sauce for you anyway.”

With one lone linguini twirled across my plate, Ray asked, “So when are you gonna start doing your research here? Let’s see what a nightlife chronicler does. C’mon. Whaddya got?” He smiled encouragingly.

“Right! Okay. I’m in the right place, surrounded by the right people. Looking the part, with my chic notebook!” I waved it in my hand frantically to emphasize the point and to stall. I had absolutely no idea what to do. I’ve never been much for going up to strangers and asking questions.

“So show me your moves,” Ray said, rolling out his hand like I was about to perform a magic trick, which is exactly what this would have been if I’d solved the equation that would get me from this table to the stylish girls in the corner.

Ray folded his hands under his chin, looked on in anticipation.

I knew just what he was doing. He was nudging me, putting me on the spot. He knew the sort of push I needed. Still, if I waited long enough, he normally caved and did the thing for me.

I smiled, scooted my chair in, sat up straight, and repeated the word okay until it meant nothing.

“You have absolutely no idea what to do here, do you?”

“None whatsoever.” Was it really worth all this just to save my life?

He heaved a sigh of mock shame. It was his favorite sigh, which came with a desperate head shake and dramatically fluttered lashes. Thankfully, it always preceded his caving in.

“Watch the pro. I’ll bill you later—and I’m talking a lot more than cookies and American Idol.”

Ray loosened his tie and caught the eye of the blonde maître d’ who’d been scuttling here and there during our lunch, crouching by this one, bringing a complimentary dessert to that one. Ray tossed a smile her way and she was at our table.

“And how eez your lunch todee, seer?” she crooned.

“Oh, it was fabulous. But what I want to know, beautiful, is where does a guy go at night around here? Where are all the beauties like yourself going to be?” The gel holding his dark hair in place gleamed.

Easy, breezy, beautiful is the phrase that came to mind. He was that good.

“Oh, monsieur, you are too much. Where you need to go tonight is Stanton Social. Eez een zee Lower East Side. I weel be zere, for sure.”

She batted lashes, repositioned hair, continued to otherwise make me feel completely inadequate by comparison, and then turned, revealing the longest torso and the most obnoxiously perfect butt ever seen without a pair of matching wings. I quickly attempted to catalog my strong points and when I came up empty handed realized the real point of this whole venture was that Ray should have his own column—not me!

When Frenchie was out of earshot, Ray said, “And that’s how it’s done. Now you go over to those editors at that table over there.”

Could I do that? “Just walk over to them . . .”

“Yes.”

“To their table?”

“Yes.”

I stood, my chair shrieking against the tiles. People looked up clutching their ears, including the editors. There were three of them in head-to-toe black—pants, a skirt, and an Audrey Hepburn shift dress. They turned back around and didn’t see me approach. I looked over my shoulder right as I reached their table to gauge Ray’s expression, check if he’d changed his mind and had a plan B, but he nodded encouragingly. I smiled as well as I could and turned back to the editors. My heel caught between two tiles and I lurched right at the one in the pants suit.

She didn’t yell so much as grunt at my presence and the three of them shifted around horrified expressions. I was here, though, with nothing to lose. I calmly slipped my foot back inside my shoe. “Hi ladies, I know you’re super-chic editors.” You don’t say super-chic editors! And I’m a brand-new editor—I’ve got a column at New York, New York.

“Really?” the oldest one asked, not very kindly.

“Yes, I do. It’s a nightlife column. And as you know, New York, New York only does exclusives, which means I’ve got to get it first. So, I was wondering if any of you might know of a new spot I can write about.”

“Why would we tell you?” another of them asked, pushing her green laminate glasses higher up her nose.

“Well . . .” I just didn’t know why.

“Yes, she’s quite right. We’re nt going to give away proprietary information to someone we’ve never heard of.”

Their eyes were drilling holes through my face. I couldn’t stand it another second. I’d put myself out there, and I didn’t see the point of drawing it out any longer. “Okay then. Nice talking with you.” I’m not sure why I saluted, but I imagine it had something to do with intimidation.

“Hey, you did a great job,” Ray said back at the table. “They’re just nasty, sexually frustrated bitches.” He said that loud enough for them to hear. And that made me feel a little better.

2:00 p.m.

Back at the office, I checked a trendy email newsletter, Shhh!, and they reported that Stanton Social was in fact the place to be that evening—therefore rendering that tip useless for my purposes.

I followed up with Theresa and Judy, but neither of them had any ideas. “This is going to be, like, impossible,” Theresa said.

3:00 p.m.

If this didn’t work out, I wondered, would I get to keep the jacket?

I braced myself and headed to Joseph’s office to ask for advice. It killed me to ask. Grosseph’s door was closed, and I was just about to knock when I overheard a loud voice over the speakerphone.

“Joseph, is that you?” the soured voice wanted to know.

“Yes, Mom,” he droned.

I had to clamp my hand over my mouth.

“It’s not like I really needed to ask,” his mom went on. “You call me at the same time every single day. I let the phone ring and ring, but you don’t let up, do you? And you whine about everything. You never have any interest in my church group, my book group, mah-jongg game. Or my gout.”

Now this was good stuff. How about an “Anna Says” column? But nobody’s as sneaky as Joseph, are they?”

“Sorry, Mom,” he said miserably.

“What is it now, Joseph? I’m ironing my favorite muumuu; you know, I would have thought Florida would be far enough to remove myself from your bullcrap. Life is short, Joseph.”

“Mommy, my editor cut my page in half to make room for a new column.”

Mommy was priceless, but wait! That must be my column he was talking about.

Mrs. James sighed deeply.

“Joseph, look, I’m not even in your business, and I know these things are cyclic. It’s like the stock market—it’s about longevity; stick with it and over time it all levels out. It’s the advertisers—what they want. Don’t take it personally, honey. You know all this. You’re the one that told me the very same thing when you were talking about that guy who got pissed off at you when your column cut his in half!”

“But that was different,” Joseph whined.

“How so? Ah, you know, there’s nothing like a wrinkle-free, mute muumuu.”

“Because this is my column!”

“Joseph! Grow Up!”

“You just watch, Mommy. I’m going to get that Anna! You should see this girl I picked for the position! She’s got no experience! And from what I’ve seen, she can get herself into trouble pretty easily. She won’t last through tomorrow. The whole idea will be tossed. And I’ll get my name back in twenty-five-point font in no time.”

What?!?

“Joseph, you’re a lost cause. I’ve got mah-jongg now.”

5:30 p.m.

Despite the false starts, the attempts at my ruination, I don’t know, something happened in my head. I was in the midst of everything, just trying, and I don’t know, I kind of went on autopilot. And now I felt I had to get this done.

Unfortunately, determination doesn’t exactly equal finding an exclusive nightclub to write about on a few hours’ notice. I was spent. I couldn’t think of a single concierge, publicist, cool boutique, or hair salon I hadn’t already called to get a tip from. This month was slow. We already promised another publication. We aren’t familiar with your work. We don’t give exclusives. Anna who? Why don’t you call back when you’re famous?

“It’s always difficult in the beginning,” Theresa advised me. “They have to build up their trust, see your column. And then you’ll see . . . they’ll start coming to you.”

“Yeah, but how are they gonna see my column if I can’t find a place to write about?”

“The funny thing with these wild research chases under deadline is that somehow, they always work out in the end. It’s like the fairy godmother of deadlines swoops down to help or something. It’s kind of freaky.”

I wanted to make a few more calls before I met Nina at Get Nailed. I figured the spa would be a much-needed break if I was going to have to blindly pound the pavement this evening. I’d come up with a script, after trial and error—a mixture of butt-kissing, “I’m-a-columnist” importance, and a no-nonsense punch.

“Is this Charlotte Ronson’s shop? Oh, it is? Well, I’m Anna Walker, a brand-new columnist at New York, New York. What’s that? You’re reading it right now? That is too funny. Well, just goes to prove you’re the right person for me to be calling! Yes, of course I want to talk to you. I thought hey, I’m gonna go about this the right way, you know, call the really cool folks like yourself who really know what’s going on in this city. Oh, Stanton Social tonight? Yeah, I’ll be there.”

I felt like a used car salesman. And not even a good one. Apparently this couldn’t be accomplished in one day. Unfortunately, for me, it had to be.

6:30 p.m.

“Joseph said the dictum of the column is it’s got to be never-before-printed, to make me the authority on what’s hot—‘those are the standards that make New York, New York the hippest, hottest paper, and we will accept nothing less.’ That’s what he said.” I was sipping an iced frosty mocha latte while I spoke—God! Why were those so good? Dessert disguised as coffee, it was genius really.

We were standing in line with twelve other women, waiting to be among the first to have a manicure and pedicure at Get Nailed. The spa was after that chicer than chic clientele. I wondered if they’d let me in. The front room was all green—green walls, curtains, and plants that stretched to the ceiling, cactus and palms and big spider leaves. There was a soundtrack of chirping birds, and even a green parrot flew here and there, alighting on one plant after another. It had been trained to say, “Get nailed, Get nailed.”

Green candles of all sizes glowed everywhere, and one regal, green and gold velvet sofa held the two luckiest girls in the room, the ones who could rest their high-heeled feet. One of them was chatting on a cell phone in that loud way that annoys everyone.

All of a sudden, a very large, very not-smiling Russian-looking woman rose from her very tiny, in comparison, laptop computer, sent her chair rolling into the wall, and walked up to me.

“No food in here!” She was two inches from my face, spitting a little.

A little bit frightened, I managed to find my voice, maybe from all the practice of asserting myself all day—saying anything to anyone, stumbling and living through it, getting hung up on, laughed at.

“It’s a drink,” I tried, smiling sweetly.

“You not kiddink anyone mit dat—everyone know iced frosty mocha latte is dessert disguised as coffee!” In one fluid movement, she stole my drink/dessert, grabbed my arm and that of the girl on the cell phone—who didn’t even look up—and closed the pair of us inside a treatment room. Before the door shut behind me, I looked back at Nina miserably. I needed to be with her.

I meant to be angry and upset, but it was just so soothing in that pink cotton candy fluff of a room. Pink cashmere blankets draped over two pedicure/manicure beds, and matching mosquito netting made a luxurious cocoon around everything inside—including the televisions hanging from the ceiling over the beds, the complete collection of Madonna films in a pink basket, and every Madonna music video, that racy documentary she produced, and the MTV film about her European tour; it was a tragic’s dream come true—though I couldn’t work out why. The pedicure basins at the foot of each bed were pink marble.

Cell Phone didn’t seem to notice any of it. She stripped, something I wasn’t sure we were supposed to do, gabbed away, and left her clothing heaped on the floor. Immediately, someone draped her in a cashmere robe and gathered her belongings to hang on a pink satin hanger behind the door. She was led to her cotton-candy cocoon and the blanket was smoothed over her.

Following suit, I disrobed and allowed myself to be wrapped in cashmere. But I couldn’t relax and enjoy the bliss (unaffordable bliss Nina was paying a fortune for in the name of “research”). First there was the stress—no hotspot for the column, which I now knew Joseph was trying to sabotage, never mind the crazy events surrounding Nasty. This morning I’d have laughed at the idea of my own column. It was amazing how much had changed so quickly, and how, just as quickly, I was going to screw it all up.

Cell Phone was not helping.

Wait a minute. Were those rose petals I smelled in that pedicure basin? Ylang-ylang wafting through my olfactory system? River stones I was rubbing my feet over? And what exactly was in that eye mask I’d just had slipped on? It was cool and tingly and sent swirls of light under my lids. I could almost block out the world. Even the still-chatting Cell Phone.

Wait. She was off! Aaaahh. Life wasn’t so bad after all. I could do this column thing. Just needed a little refreshing first. And then I remembered the fairy godmother of deadlines.

“Sandy?”

“Oh no, I’m not Sand—” Too late it became obvious that my bedside neighbor was not talking to me; she continued right on with her next cell phone conversation.

“You would not believe what my private shopper at Bergdorf got for me today! No. Guess. No. Seriously. No. Guess.”

Even as a silent pair of hands slipped a bending straw in my mouth and the freshest lemonade passed me lips, filling me with lightness, I couldn’t stop feeling agitated by Cell Phone. Why? Why would they allow this?

“No. Not the Marc Jacobs. Not the Choos with the green stones. Duh, I already have those. Nope. No. You HAVE TO guess.”

River stones, river stones. There was nothing in the world but river stones, I told myself. I tried to believe it and that I didn’t want to wring the woman’s neck. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on my third eye. This is a yoga technique that works quite well when you are trying to contort your body and stop yourself thinking, I’m going to fall on my face and break my nose and bloody this overpriced yoga top with the indecipherable symbols up the arm . . . ohm . . .

I concentrated so hard I felt one of the stones take off. Masked, I couldn’t see where it went, but I heard a grunt.

“Sorry,” I offered.

“It’s okay dear. You missed me.”

See, this is so typical of me. I’ll wind up killing myself and the whole world before I can bring myself to ask the woman to end her conversation.

“YES! Can you believe it? Yes! The moss green Luella Bartley purse with the heart tang on the strap! Yes! I’m wearing it right now! And you wouldn’t believe where I am. This nail spa, Get Nailed, has the absolute cutest cashmere robes. Yes. I was going to ask about the availability? Do you want one? Oh, it would be so much fun if we had matching robes for the Hamptons!” She went on and on.

R-I-V-E-R-S-T-O-N-E-S. River. Stones. The stones of a river. Like a rolling stone. Roll. Roll. Do river stones roll? Do they? Hmmmm. Ahhhh. Oooohm. WHY CAN’T SHE JUST SHUT UP?!!!

I tore off my eye mask in a way that meant business.

Cell Phone didn’t notice.

“I mean, it’s no Cornelia Spa. But it’s nice enough. Yeah. I mean, it’s okay.” She lifted her mask like a headband, sat up, and reached for her tea. This was my chance.

I stood and walked to her treatment table. This felt a lot like approaching the editors earlier, but I didn’t have a heel to get stuck, plus I now had the knowledge that I could live through a scene like this, no matter how painful it was at the moment.

“Excuse me,” I said.

Cell Phone’s jaw dropped. “I’ll call you back.” She snapped her phone shut. “Yes?”

I could see she was a little older than I had suspected. Lines sprouted from her eyes and made her more likable. Her makeup had been wiped by the aesthetician, and the essential oils made her skin look fresh. Her blond streaked hair was pulled into a bun.

“Do you think you could refrain from using your phone in here? It’s kind of difficult to relax when someone’s talking.” There, I got it out. I was only shaking a little.

Her face fell wretchedly and I wanted to take it all back.

“Oh, you’re right. I know you’re right.” She placed her hand on mine, which surprised me, and even the two aestheticians rubbing her back flinched. “I’m afraid I’ll do anything to stop myself from being still enough to think.”

This sounded familiar to me; it was my motivation for tossing my stupid paper clips every day. I couldn’t help but soften toward her. “Why? What happened to you?”

“Divorce. Don’t ever marry a man with a twenty-year-old secretary. Please do yourself a favor.”

I mirrored her sardonic laugh. “I’m sorry.” The aesthetician pulled me back to my pedicure, but I sat up while Cell Phone lie down.

“Hey, what’s your name?” she asked.

I was ticklish on my feet and fidgeted as I answered. “Anna.”

“Well, I’m Susan,” she said. “So, what do you do, Anna?”

“Funny you should ask.” I don’t know if it was her honesty or the essential oil rubdown, but I told her the whole story. It felt good to share. As I spoke, I wondered if subconsciously, I was still sort of counting on the fairy godmother of deadlines. I shared the silly theory.

“Oh yes,” Susan said. “I’ve heard of her.” She didn’t appear to be kidding.

“You have?” Maybe she was nuttier than she seemed. Or pulling my chain.

“I think she just visited you.” She sat up.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re coming with me. I’m your deadline fairy godmother. I’ve definitely been called worse. My friend Columbus—a terrible two-timer himself—is opening a new spot tonight in the Maritime Hotel. It’s called S.”

“Just S?”

“Well, yeah. Everyone’s saying it stands for secret, but we all know it’s for the name of his skanky mistress, Samantha.”

“I spoke to about a million people and not one of them knows about it,” I said.

“That’s because the press launch isn’t until a month from now.”

“Susan?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I think you’re my new best friend.”