To Megan and Mikie for every-day inspiration and constant support
ARIELLA PAPA
lives and works in the great, courageous city of New York. She has been writing since she was three. When she isn’t writing prose or screenplays, she works as a television writer and producer. She’d like to give a shout out to all the assistants out there who’d rather be doing something else. On the Verge is her debut novel.
On the Verge
Ariella Papa
MILLS & BOON
Before you start reading, why not sign up?
Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!
Or simply visit
Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Although they did not realize it, many people helped me to write this book. I would like to thank all of my friends, family and co-workers. I would especially like to thank the following people for the little extras that influenced me so much.
Grazie to Anne Marie for calendars and cheese. Thanks to Becky, Beth and Jimmy for Big Chill nights of debauchery and a world tour to come. To Cav for access to his mom’s potatoes. To Cheryl for the outfit and resonance. To Colleen for apartment searching. To Corby for Portuguese men. To Dolvie for his funny little songs. To Erica for Christmas party memories. To Josh for cinematic toasts. To Kristy for the womb to the Lodge and beyond. To Maclin for remembering everything and a night in 1986. To my editor, Margaret Marbury, for holding my hand through this crazy, amazing process. To Matt Wood for translating legalese in a not-so-quiet bar.
Thanks to the Papa family and the Botte/Leislle family. To Ratha (snooky!) for being a constant source of cheer and kindness. To Rick for L.A. To Riz for Otis Spunkmeyer cookies. To Romolo for Italy. To Snappy Cohen for never wanting to sit upstairs. To Travis for not being like anyone in this book. To Zoe for mayonnaise and sanity.
Most of all I would like to thank my father, Rocco Papa, for his unconditional love and for the best chicken cutlets in the world.
Contents
Prologue
September
October
November
December
January
February
March
April
May
Epilogue
Prologue
Sometimes I think I should have just had my nervous breakdown and gotten it over with. In high school, okay, maybe it would have been a little dramatic, but in college? I know I could have done it then. Lots of people did. I could have created a small but forgivable scandal. Nothing bad ever really happens to girls who take “time off.” It’s cool. I could have gone from gossip for a week to a point of reference for depressed women in future semesters. I kept waiting for the right time to give in to my depression, but I was too busy holding everyone’s hair as they puked up cafeteria pesto and Natty Lite.
I plan to talk to my bosses about doing a little writing for the magazine. Mind you Bicycle Boy is hardly what I had in mind when I spent those four and a half years not breaking down in college, but it’s a start, right? Something for my portfolio. Something my mom could boast about to her cronies who couldn’t care less, “Yeah, a journalism degree and she just did an exposé on helmet straps.”
A few months back I wrote a totally fabricated piece on a man who fell off his bike as a child and refused to ride. In the story, my character, the narrator, had become a surgeon, only to feel something was missing. He had no release after extracting all those hearts, until he returned to his first love—cycling. The fresh air calmed him, he shed pounds and reconnected with the outdoorsman he yearned to be. I wrote it from a thirty-two-year-old guy’s perspective and it was complete bullshit, but I was appealing to the demographic. I mentioned it to my bosses and they said we could talk after that month’s deadline. We never did.
Unfortunately one of our major advertisers, a water bottle manufacturer, is under investigation. Seems some guy in Dearcreek, Montana—no doubt one of our readers—got very sick after a twelve-mile trek. He claims the water tasted funny and some scientists are thinking this brand may not be the most hygienic. Luckily, it hasn’t been publicized, but you can well imagine it isn’t the best time to broach anything with the big men.
I comfort myself with the knowledge that the interns think I’m cool. They respect my power because I provide the supplies and order lunch. If they’re nice to me it’s a plethora of Post-it notes and maybe even a slight fat content in the bland vegetarian lunches I am forced to order. Also, one of the interns is exactly a year and three months my senior. She would kill for my job.
I have been working as an assistant for this magazine for almost seven months. I was temping for the large magazine conglomerate that owns this and many others, Prescott Nelson Inc.—I’m sure you know it. Right here in the crossroads of the world, Times Square. Although I harassed the human resources department to let me work for their feminist magazine, Angry Beavers, they assured me Bicycle Boy was a great place to be. I sucked it up, because I noticed a cosmetic ad or two slipping into the back pages of Angry Beavers. This allowed me to create the line, “Well, I wanted to work for Angry Beavers but I question their agenda. Fabian Nail Products has some shady investors that smell right wing to me.” This usually got the desired nod of understanding to the slackers or barflies I was explaining myself to. I was anything but a sellout.
The barfly I happened to be explaining myself to on the night the water bottle scandal erupted (well I guess “scandal” might be a tad exaggerated, but this is New York and I am all about image) was not just your average white shirt and khaki accountant that dressed down for a night of fun. This guy told me he had perhaps one of the coolest jobs in the city—he was an A&R guy, or at least reported directly to one. He alluded to a lot of things as he plied me with vodka collins (my drink of choice; I had switched from gin and tonics three months ago—too college).
I noticed, as he was explaining the hype over a new trip-hop artist who only pretended to be British, that he had chest hair curling out from his black T-shirt. I found it strangely attractive,
