LITMIR.BIZ

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meeting” with Nadine about the Sienna Skye segment. When I got to the conference room, however, I was surprised to find her already seated, chatting away with Chase Bolton.

      Chase, or “Cheese,” Bolton as he was more widely known, was a self-styled media mogul in waiting, a runt Rupert Murdoch if you will, who was biding his time answering phones for a VP until he had snagged his rightful corner office. Cheese had been my intern the previous summer, but after just one week of memorizing my Rolodex and vigilantly working his smarmy way up the ass of half the higher-ups, he had been whisked off to become an assistant in the executive suite.

      “Hello, Lena,” Nadine said, clearly disappointed that I had interrupted their conversation. Cheese gave me a cocky half smile and eyebrow-raise—a look that I’m sure he had rehearsed repeatedly in his bathroom mirror.

      “Okay, so back to work,” Nadine said, but of course offered no explanation as to why Chase was present. She looked at me briefly and then at Cheese, letting her gaze linger. He gave her his best half smile, but with a wink this time.

      Oh…my…God. Were they flirting? The very idea made me sick to my stomach. Was Nadine attracted to sleazy Cheese? Sure, Nadine and I had our issues, but as a human being, as a woman, I wanted to grab her by her Claire’s Boutique earrings and shake some sense into her—he’s practically twelve years old! His feet barely graze the floor when he sits down! He wears his sweaters tucked in with pleated pants! He listens to Tony Robbins tapes! Don’t do this!

      “So,” Nadine chirped in her blissful delusion. “The Skye segment is coming along pretty well….” I relaxed a little, sensing that at least this wasn’t going to be one of her hour-long bitch sessions.

      “And there’s been a really interesting development.” She paused dramatically. Nadine loved to pause dramatically.

      “Sienna has agreed to let us film her—” another pause, and then in one breath “—while she shops for her People’s Choice Awards dress.” Nadine leaned back as if the weight of her announcement had left her exhausted. Cheese slammed his hand on his knee, in the most masculine form of giddy approval that he could muster.

      I spoke up just to pierce their shared bubble of joy. “Great, so I’ll start rewriting the lead and I’ll notify the crew for the shoot.”

      Nadine turned to me with her silly grin still pasted on her face. “Oh, Lena actually there’s been a slight change in the lineup.” She loved to use sports talk. She thought it made her sassy.

      I knew it. She was going to pawn off sleazy Cheese on me to help with the segment, so she could indulge her latent schoolgirl hang-ups. I started to formulate my diplomatic yet inarguable defense as to why this could never ever happen. And then…

      “I’m putting Chase in the producer spot for the second half of the Skye segment.” She shared a look with Cheese. I think the word “nausea” would have best summed up my feelings at this point.

      “Nadine,” I tried, in vain, to sound composed. “I’ve spent the last two months on this story and I really think it’s best if I see it through.” I was appalled at my sudden inability to argue and humiliated by the dawning realization that I was now groveling for permission to continue work on a Sienna Skye profile. This had to be some kind of professional nadir.

      “Lena, it’s part of my job to match my staff to their strengths and…” She glanced at the ceiling searching for just the right inflated language to explicate her lofty sense of professional mandate. She continued, “While you can be quite the worker bee, you’re more of a serious Sally and this segment needs someone with the right…” Eyes to ceiling, searching, searching…

      “Je ne sais pas!” Cheese exclaimed, now perched on the edge of his seat.

      “Yes!” Nadine exhaled with a postcoitalesque finality.

      “Quoi,” I seethed.

      “What?” Nadine asked, distracted. Her eyes were still locked on her little lover.

      “Quoi! It’s Je ne sais QUOI!”

      The two of them looked at me blankly. And then back at each other.

      At this point, I could distill only two coherent thoughts: Can a regular Bic pen puncture skin? And should I get these two a cigarette?

      “Why don’t you two switch research now, so we can get the ball rolling.” Any further discussion was clearly over as far as she was concerned.

      Chase handed me a hardcover book and a manila folder.

      I was still confused. “What do you mean switch research?”

      “You’re going to be working on the project that Chase was doing.” She looked down at her notes. “Colin Bates.”

      Now, I’d been to every agonizing editorial meeting under Nadine’s regime and not once had I heard mention of such a thing.

      “I don’t understand. Who’s Colin Bates?”

      “Well, he is a…” Nadine stalled.

      “Writer,” Chase pronounced triumphantly.

      “Yes!” Nadine nodded. “He is a writer.”

      “I haven’t even heard of this segment. When is it supposed to run?”

      Nadine drummed her fingers on the table like she always did when she was dreaming up her next fib. She clasped her hands together decidedly. “Well, that hasn’t been determined yet. It’s really sort of a favor to one of the board members, I think. He’s the author’s uncle or some sort of thing.” Which was another way of saying, it was a back-end segment that would be chopped to pieces and used to fill up the hour when the lead stories (like the Sienna Skye story!) left a few minutes of dead air.

      “But don’t worry, Chase has been working on this for some time. I’m sure it’s practically finished, anyway.” Nadine blushed. Chase beamed. I scowled.

      chapter 3

      Many New Yorkers viewed brunch as a shrewd social maneuver. They saw it as a neutral date to be offered in lieu of a more time-consuming commitment. It served as an agreeable meeting ground for sort-of friends, old acquaintances, out-of-towners, or new alliances—essentially, anyone who didn’t quite clear the “let’s go out Saturday night” bar.

      For my friend Tess and me, however, Sunday brunch was now a tradition—a breach of its standing would be a first-degree offense to our friendship. Of course, we talked on the phone nearly every day, but nothing could replace our once-a-week heart-to-heart over scrambled eggs and strong coffee at Café Colonial.

      I walked past the swirling line that had already begun to snake around the corner of Elizabeth Street and winked at Alberto (whose undying affection for Tess had won us a specially reserved table) as he stacked coffee cups behind the bar. Others may value their stock tips, their summer shares, or their courtside Knicks tickets, but I had come to cherish our table at Café Colonial to an unhealthy degree. I could not count how many perplexing guy issues, frustrating work fiascoes, and general I-feel-like-my-life-is-overwhelming-mehow-do-I-get-out-of-this-funk conversations I’d had at this very table. I suppose it’s probably sacrilege to ascribe the wondrous catharsis of a religious experience to a vinyl seat and a plate of pancakes, but there you go—how else is an agnostic/lapsed protestant supposed to find enlightenment?

      Tess was already seated. She looked immaculate as usual—her pale blond hair was gathered in a neat, low ponytail and her sea-green eyes gazed out the window. Tess always reminds me of a beautiful cat: serene, impeccably groomed and a little mysterious. She is the type of girl who uses words like “handsome” to describe men, can wear a string of pearls without a trace of irony, and hasn’t owned a TV since she left home for boarding school. She has no problem sitting through the endless card games and executive dinners at the Metropolitan club with her current companion, Stanley. In fact, she has no problem with the name Stanley. Don’t get me wrong, Tess is not a prude, far from it. She could sling one-liners

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