Mr. Right Now. Kate Hoffmann

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      â€œObsessively jealous. The only thing worse is ‘intense’ which means ‘stalker in training.’ You’d be better off placing your own ad, honey. At least then you could screen the candidates.”

      â€œI don’t know. Maybe I should just pitch the story about the four couples and their ads.”

      â€œIt’s a warm and fuzzy little story, but this isn’t Good Housekeeping, Nina. Attitudes is edgy and trendy, and a little outrageous—not unlike that sweater you’re wearing.”

      Nina glanced down at the vintage lime-green mohair with the Peter Pan collar. She bought it especially to go with the mod striped mini and green tights from the sixties. And the plastic bead necklace completed the look. “You don’t think Charlotte would like it? The idea, not the sweater.”

      â€œIf you want her to see you as an assistant editor, you’re going to have to do more than pitch a story. You’re going to have to go out there and experience the Personal Touch. Write your own ad, go on a few dates and tell your story. And the more horrible the experience, the better.”

      â€œI wouldn’t know what to say in an ad,” Nina replied. “How do I advertise for Mr. Right?”

      Lizbeth sighed dramatically, then searched the surface of Nina’s desk until she found a pad of paper. “Honey, you don’t have time to look for Mr. Right. You’re looking for Mr. Right Now. Mr. Right This Minute. Charlotte’s been interviewing for an editorial assistant for the past month. If you get this story done and turn it in, maybe she’ll give you the job.”

      â€œAll right,” Nina said. “I’ll do it.”

      â€œAll right,” Lizbeth repeated.

      â€œNancy!”

      Nina and Lizbeth looked up to find Charlotte Danforth standing at the doorway of Nina’s office. As always, she looked like she’d just tumbled out of bed, though this morning she wore evening clothes, a sexy beaded designer number that probably cost more than Nina made in a year. It was clear Charlotte hadn’t been to bed at all, but came right to work from whatever party she’d attended the night before. Her hair was mussed and she puffed incessantly on a French cigarette. Yet even in such disarray, she was still a force of nature, a human hurricane that left workers weeping in her path.

      â€œNina,” Nina corrected.

      Charlotte sniffed, then shrugged. “Yes, fine, all right, Nina. I need you to check a fact for me. I need to know what the trendiest spot on the body is for a rather small tattoo. And the most popular subject matter. Check for both men and women, I’m sure it’s different. And give me a breakdown by age if you can.”

      â€œCharlotte, I’m not sure there have ever been any studies done on—”

      â€œI don’t care if there haven’t been studies, Nora!”

      â€œNina,” she reminded. “Is this for an article? Because we did a story on tattoos just a few months ago.”

      â€œI just need the information, Nola,” Charlotte snapped. “It’s personal. By the end of the day?”

      With that, she turned and hurried from the door, leaving Nina to wonder how she’d ever convince Charlotte to give her an editorial position if the woman couldn’t even remember her name. “Oh, sure. I’ll just call the Census Bureau. I’m sure I remember answering the tattoo question on the 2000 census. Right hip, tiny rose.” She tossed aside the personal ads and straightened her desk. “I guess I’m going to be spending the rest of the day on the phone talking to tattoo parlors,” Nina murmured.

      Lizbeth smiled. “And I’d guess that Charlotte got herself drunk last night and ended up in one of those 24-hour tattoo parlors in the East Village. And now she wants you to tell her that she didn’t make a big fashion faux pas getting that big old butterfly tattooed on her butt.”

      Nina’s eyes went wide. “Really?” At least when Nina had decided on a tattoo she’d been sober and possessed of good taste, ending up with a tiny flower on a spot that only showed when she wore a bikini.

      â€œAs long as whatever she got is on the top of the list, hon, you’ll make her happy.”

      â€œBut how am I supposed to know?”

      Lizbeth stood and smoothed her skirt. “Leave it to me. She’s bound to tell someone what she did last night. She always blabs when she’s got a hangover. Five minutes later, it will be all over the office. I’ll feed you the facts and you make up the research.”

      â€œBut that wouldn’t be ethical,” Nina protested.

      â€œHoney, you do want the job in editorial, don’t you?”

      Nina nodded hesitantly. “Yes, I do. And while you’re finding out about Charlotte’s new tattoo, I’m going to work on my ad. Even if it doesn’t result in a great story, at least I’ll have something better to do on a Saturday night than polishing my shoes and fishing spare change out of the sofa.”

      â€œThat’s the spirit!” her friend cried. “Get on that pony and ride! Yee-hah!”

      Nina smiled at Lizbeth. “And maybe, if I’m very lucky, I’ll find Mr. Right. And if not him, then Mr. Right Now.”

      THE AFTER-WORK CROWD HAD settled in at Jitterbug’s, the coffee shop across the street from Attitudes’ Soho headquarters. It was a favorite spot for the staff who gathered regularly to sip lattes and mochas and discuss whatever outrageous request Charlotte Danforth had thrown their way during the day. But Nina had more important things on her mind than commiserating about her quirky and unpredictable boss. Nagging little projects had occupied nearly every minute of her workday and she hadn’t had a single moment to get back to her ad for the Personal Touch.

      Nina found her regular table in the corner and tossed her coat over the back of her chair, then dropped her bag on the smooth marble tabletop. She glanced over at the counter and waved at Martha who nodded, a silent agreement to make Nina’s usual—a double skinny decaf latte with a shot of hazelnut. She sat down and spread her work out in front of her—the Personal Touch ads from the last four weeks, her notepad, personalized with her name and the name of the magazine emblazoned across the bottom, and a pencil with a brand new eraser. She’d also brought a list of attributes she’d quickly compiled for Mr. Right during her lunch hour.

      â€œCute, considerate, humorous, spontaneous,” she read out loud. “Nice hair, kind eyes, and—”

      â€œA fluffy tail and good teeth. Honey, you sound like you’re advertising for a Pomeranian, not a man. If I were you, I’d stick with the man. He won’t poop on the rug.” Lizbeth flopped down in the chair across from Nina’s and sighed dramatically. “You won’t believe the day I’ve had. They sent me size two samples and size six models. Thank God for duct tape. We cut the back seams open and taped the clothes on.”

      Nina forced a sympathetic smile.

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