Mr. Right Now. Kate Hoffmann
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âObsessively jealous. The only thing worse is âintenseâ which means âstalker in training.â Youâd be better off placing your own ad, honey. At least then you could screen the candidates.â
âI donât know. Maybe I should just pitch the story about the four couples and their ads.â
âItâs a warm and fuzzy little story, but this isnât Good Housekeeping, Nina. Attitudes is edgy and trendy, and a little outrageousânot unlike that sweater youâre wearing.â
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. âYou donât think Charlotte would like it? The idea, not the sweater.â
âIf you want her to see you as an assistant editor, youâre going to have to do more than pitch a story. Youâre 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
âI wouldnât know what to say in an ad,â Nina replied. âHow do I advertise for Mr. Right?â
Lizbeth sighed dramatically, then searched the surface of Ninaâs desk until she found a pad of paper. âHoney, you donât have time to look for Mr. Right. Youâre looking for Mr. Right Now. Mr. Right This Minute. Charlotteâs been interviewing for an editorial assistant for the past month. If you get this story done and turn it in, maybe sheâll give you the job.â
âAll right,â Nina said. âIâll do it.â
âAll right,â Lizbeth repeated.
âNancy!â
Nina and Lizbeth looked up to find Charlotte Danforth standing at the doorway of Ninaâs office. As always, she looked like sheâd 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 hadnât been to bed at all, but came right to work from whatever party sheâd 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.
âNina,â Nina corrected.
Charlotte sniffed, then shrugged. âYes, 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, Iâm sure itâs different. And give me a breakdown by age if you can.â
âCharlotte, Iâm not sure there have ever been any studies done onââ
âI donât care if there havenât been studies, Nora!â
âNina,â she reminded. âIs this for an article? Because we did a story on tattoos just a few months ago.â
âI just need the information, Nola,â Charlotte snapped. âItâs personal. By the end of the day?â
With that, she turned and hurried from the door, leaving Nina to wonder how sheâd ever convince Charlotte to give her an editorial position if the woman couldnât even remember her name. âOh, sure. Iâll just call the Census Bureau. Iâm sure I remember answering the tattoo question on the 2000 census. Right hip, tiny rose.â She tossed aside the personal ads and straightened her desk. âI guess Iâm going to be spending the rest of the day on the phone talking to tattoo parlors,â Nina murmured.
Lizbeth smiled. âAnd Iâd 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 didnât make a big fashion faux pas getting that big old butterfly tattooed on her butt.â
Ninaâs eyes went wide. âReally?â At least when Nina had decided on a tattoo sheâd been sober and possessed of good taste, ending up with a tiny flower on a spot that only showed when she wore a bikini.
âAs long as whatever she got is on the top of the list, hon, youâll make her happy.â
âBut how am I supposed to know?â
Lizbeth stood and smoothed her skirt. âLeave it to me. Sheâs bound to tell someone what she did last night. She always blabs when sheâs got a hangover. Five minutes later, it will be all over the office. Iâll feed you the facts and you make up the research.â
âBut that wouldnât be ethical,â Nina protested.
âHoney, you do want the job in editorial, donât you?â
Nina nodded hesitantly. âYes, I do. And while youâre finding out about Charlotteâs new tattoo, Iâm going to work on my ad. Even if it doesnât result in a great story, at least Iâll have something better to do on a Saturday night than polishing my shoes and fishing spare change out of the sofa.â
âThatâs the spirit!â her friend cried. âGet on that pony and ride! Yee-hah!â
Nina smiled at Lizbeth. âAnd maybe, if Iâm very lucky, Iâll find Mr. Right. And if not him, then Mr. Right Now.â
THE AFTER-WORK CROWD HAD settled in at Jitterbugâs, the coffee shop across the street from Attitudesâ 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 hadnât 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 Ninaâs usualâa double skinny decaf latte with a shot of hazelnut. She sat down and spread her work out in front of herâthe 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. Sheâd also brought a list of attributes sheâd quickly compiled for Mr. Right during her lunch hour.
âCute, considerate, humorous, spontaneous,â she read out loud. âNice hair, kind eyes, andââ
âA fluffy tail and good teeth. Honey, you sound like youâre advertising for a Pomeranian, not a man. If I were you, Iâd stick with the man. He wonât poop on the rug.â Lizbeth flopped down in the chair across from Ninaâs and sighed dramatically. âYou wonât believe the day Iâve 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.â
Nina forced a sympathetic smile.