in the whole affair ending as far as I can fathom is that you need to find a new place to live now that you’re back in New York.”
Abby turned to Samantha. “And who blabbed all the details of my personal life around the office, huh?” It was an open secret that Samantha viewed Abby as a professional rival. When she’d found out Abby had gotten the Milan internship and not she, Samantha had launched her designer-suited-self at Abby’s throat. The fashion department had buzzed about it for weeks, totally eclipsing the disappointing London shows.
“Abby, there’s no need to point fingers,” Tess scolded. “Everyone knows I take a genuine interest in my staff’s personal and professional welfare.” True, though in Tess’s case, everyone also knew she exploited this information for Machiavellian purposes—lavishing an overabundance of care and attention to instill sufficient guilt so that employees wouldn’t complain about their measly salary and long hours.
Abby stewed for a moment before accepting the inevitable. “So if I’m ex-dating, what do you have in store for Samantha?” Ah, yes, the other shoe had yet to drop.
“Coffeehouse dating.” Tess picked up her cigarette holder and inhaled deeply before taking another breath.
Samantha immediately clutched her nicotine patch. “All those testosterone-impaired, Sartre-spouting losers who are too cheap to spring for their own wi-fi connections?”
“I’m sure some of them read James Patterson,” Tess countered. “Anyway, apparently coffeehouse dating works this way. Patrons provide biographical information and photos to the barista, who makes up these matchmaking binders. Then as you sip your skinny double lattes, you can peruse the offerings. Isn’t that marvelous?”
Samantha answered by grinding her teeth.
Abby frowned. “You mentioned three writers?”
“Yes.” Tess puffed in dramatic Auntie Mame fashion. “I thought Julia would do a wonderful job with speed-dating.”
Samantha’s jaw stilled. “Julia Miles, the magazine’s sweetheart, everybody’s sweetheart, doing a piece on speed-dating? The woman who told me she baked a lattice-topped pie for Geraldine in Accounting after her emergency appendectomy. I didn’t even know there was a Geraldine in Accounting. Did you?” She looked at Abby, who shook her head.
Tess took no notice. “Unfortunately, she’s not in the office right now, otherwise she’d be at the meeting.” Tess seemed put out. Her intercom buzzed and she held up her hand. “Yes?”
“Collette can fit you in now,” her assistant Ling Ling relayed. Tess went through assistants about as often as a dog marked fresh territory. Ling Ling, the daughter of Hong Kong’s leading action-film director, appeared to be able to deflect Tess’s jabs better than most.
Tess removed her cigarette from the holder and stubbed it out. “Darlings, I must be off. You will bring Julia up to speed for me, won’t you? The usual four-week deadline, of course, seeing as this will run in the February issue—in time for Valentine’s Day. Remember—first-person point of view. We want our readers to know just how juicy this kind of dating can be, don’t we?” She waved them out of her office, a miasma of Creed perfume floating along the length of her well-toned arm.
Abby and Samantha made it partway down the hall before Abby stopped. “So, tell me. What was that all about?”
“You mean the story assignments from hell? To think that the aroma of artificial hazelnut is going to penetrate my pores, not to mention the fact that some black turtle-necked pseudo-intellectual will be drooling over my photo.” Samantha shuddered.
Abby shook her head. “No, that’s just Tess’s usual manipulative behavior to keep the minions on edge. I’m talking about this Collette thing. What was so urgent?”
“Collette?” Samantha waved her hand. “She’s the current ‘It’ girl for giving chemical peels to the stars. Didn’t you see the way Tess reacted when I said salt-water wasn’t good for the skin?”
“Yoo-hoo, Abby. I’ve been looking for you.” The voice came from the elevators. Julia was racing down the hall toward them. She wore a baby-doll Betsey Johnson dress and ballet flats. Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz never looked more wholesome. “Oh, hello, Samantha. Only you can carry off Versace in the middle of the morning.” From Julia, that was a compliment.
“So what happened at the story meeting I missed?” Julia asked.
“Trust me—” Samantha imitated Tess lording over everyone with her cigarette holder “—you didn’t miss anything, darling.” She looked at Abby dismissively. “In fact, I’ll leave you to fill in Betty Crocker on the details. I want to catch Ned before he finishes his cover shoot so that he can take my photo. I have to look my most ravishing for the biscotti and café au lait crowd.”
“So Ned’s still around?” Abby asked Julia after Samantha had sauntered off in her Jimmy Choos.
“According to circulation, there’s always a bulge in newsstand sales when his covers appear. Though Tess is complaining that he’s too expensive.”
“Tess complains that everyone is too expensive. What else is new?” She started walking toward her desk in a cubicle around the corner.
“Actually—” Julia took a series of deep breaths.
“Are you all right?” Abby looked concerned.
“It’s nothing. Just trying to put in practice some of the stress-busting breathing techniques I just learned about from this tantric sex therapist.”
“Yes, well, I can see how Tantric sex and stress might go together.” Abby paused. “We’re talking about an article for the magazine, right?”
“Of course we’re talking about the magazine. What did you think? Oh, never mind. What I really wanted to talk to you about was if you might have some leads on potential apartments? You see, I was planning on having my book group over on Wednesday, and with you camped out in the couch, with all your stuff…Not that you’re at all in the way…”
“No, problem. Hey, I’ve imposed on you long enough. Besides, once I tell you about the latest assignment, you’ll probably need to recuperate in a prone position on said couch—just to get over the shock.”
“It’s that bad?”
“You might want to start those breathing exercises now.”
PROLOGUE
JULIA MILES STOOD OUTSIDE the big, ominous door that opened onto her employer’s big, ominous office and did her best not to hyperventilate. She told herself that there was no reason to be afraid of Tess Truesdale, that she herself had been a senior writer for Tess magazine for a long time now, and Tess had never once made good on her threat to have one of her writers’ spleens for dinner. Tess was all bluster and brass and big-shouldered bitching…and Givenchy and Grey Goose and Chanel No. 5. Oh, sure, there was that rumor about the guy from the mail room who’d disappeared and then been discovered months later—in pieces—after misplacing some galleys for the fall fashion issue, but that was different. That had been a guy from the mail room. Julia had never heard of Tess hacking one of her writers to bits.
Yet.
Of
