She's Got Mail!. Colleen Collins
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Pam’s drift. They were both assistants at Real Men magazine—Pam in Marketing, Rosie in Editorial—jobs that were one step above the mail room. They’d made pacts to escape “assistant gulch” before the end of the calendar year, which meant they needed to move fast on any job opportunities.
“My last, uh, volunteer efforts didn’t go so well,” she reminded Pam. “I think I need a dose of your big-city, big-office wisdom. Want to come over to dinner tonight? I think I have some leftovers.”
“Sure. We’ll brainstorm while eating. And as to your past volunteer efforts—” Pam made a no-big-deal gesture, her beaded bracelet jangling with the movement “—you were green. Didn’t know the ropes. That was months ago, anyway. Nobody’s going to remember.” She arched one eyebrow. “By the way, have I mentioned you’re looking thinner?”
It was a line they tossed at each other when one or the other needed an ego boost. It was silly, but it always coaxed a smile. Grinning, Rosie checked her leather-banded watch, a going-away gift from another brother, the misguided one attending law school. “Paige is probably still in that powwow….”
“Paige? Our indomitable managing editor? Now there’s a woman who knows how to channel her energy properly.” Still clutching the dinosaur, Pam lifted the telephone receiver. “Jerome’s extension is four-three-three. I’ll dial.” She tapped in the number for Jerome, Paige’s assistant.
Before a stunned Rosie could say “I’m still in mud-and-mug recovery,” Pam was handing her the receiver. Swallowing hard, Rosie accepted it. Raising it to her ear, she said cautiously, “Jerome?”
“Yeah.”
He always copped a tough-guy attitude when Paige was out of the office. Like a Johnny Depp wanna-be. But when Paige was in, he became Mr. Sweet-and-Light himself, a young Prince Harry. It was like dealing with Jekyll and Hyde—except with Jerome, it was Johnny and Harry.
“This is Ro—” She cleared the frog from her suddenly clogged throat. “Rosie—Rosalind—Myers. I’d like to set up a meeting with Ms. Leighton today.”
“She’s booked.”
It was obvious he hadn’t even checked her appointment book—or computer form or whatever medium Superwoman used to schedule her life. Rosie exaggerated a sneer to Pam, indicating Jerome was being less than cooperative. Pam held up the dinosaur and made it dance in the air, cheering Rosie on.
“Perhaps she has a few minutes available between appointments?” Rosie suggested, sweetening her voice with even more sugar than she’d put in her coffee.
“Nah.”
Rosie made a “gr-r-r” face to Pam, who picked up a stray quarter on the desk and waved it.
“Can I give you a quarter?” Rosie said into the receiver.
Pam mouthed a big “no” and mimicked eating.
Smiling, Rosie nodded vigorously. “Can I give you some food?”
Shuddering dramatically, Pam grabbed a ballpoint pen off Rosie’s desk and scribbled “lunch” at the top of Rosie’s week-at-a-glance calendar.
“I meant lunch,” Rosie quickly corrected “Can I treat you to lunch?”
Pam punched the air with a big thumbs-up.
“You’re in luck,” Jerome answered, his voice oozing sweetness and light. “She just got out of a meeting. If you hurry, you can catch her before she leaves for her ten o’clock. And I like Focaccio’s.”
“Great,” answered Rosie. “I’ll be right there. And we’ll set up a lunch at Furca—Forcha—whatever. Bye.” She quickly hung up the phone.
“You got an appointment with She Who Rules?” asked an elated Pam.
Rosie brushed a curl out of her eyes. “Yes. And in the too near future, I’m buying lunch for He Who Blackmails.”
“I knew that’d work with Jerome. But it’s a small price, girlfriend. Wish I wasn’t tied up with meetings the rest of the day—I’ll be dying to know how your Paige encounter went. Tonight, over dinner, you’ll have to spill all.”
“Deal.” Rosie stood, smoothing her hands over her skirt. “How do I look?”
“Take off those stockings in the ladies’ room. Otherwise, you look…like Mr. Real.” With a wink, Pam set down the dinosaur, which rattled a path across the desk, the pom-poms rising and falling.
ROSIE STOPPED at the women’s bathroom down the hallway from Paige Leighton’s office. Slipping inside, she scrambled out of her splattered leggings and started to stuff them into her skirt pocket, then changed her mind. She didn’t want to look as though had a lump on her thigh—not in the elegant Paige Leighton’s inner sanctum. Rosie tossed the hose behind the trash can to retrieve later. I really should carry a purse instead of relying on pockets.
She closed her eyes and told herself to relax, to breathe. Opening her eyes, she checked her reflection in the mirror. She had an eerie blueish glow, which she hoped was due to the fluorescent lights. Maybe her mother was right—maybe she should wear makeup.
Poking at the chaos of curls that framed her face, she scrutinized her overall presence. To combat the blue and the anxiousness in her eyes, it was time to adopt a goddess. I’ll stick with Artemis. Goddess of the Hunt, Artemis always aimed for her target, knowing her arrows unerringly reached their mark.
Like me, aiming to be Mr. Real.
She didn’t have to strain any brain cells to know they wanted a man in the job. After all, it would be false advertising if the “A Real Man Answers Real Questions” column was written by a woman. But an interim Mr. Real would be a coup—an opportunity for her to escape the gulch and prove she could write. Otherwise, she’d be stuck proofing and copyediting until her brown curls grew gray, her last dying moment spent crossing out an errant comma.
She checked her watch. Goddess time!
A few moments later, Rosie passed Jerome, who smiled slyly at her as she walked into Paige’s office. He’d always made her uncomfortable the way he eyeballed women. Worse, she’d soon have to sit across from those eyeballs at lunch. That Focha-whatever place would probably cost Rosie a month’s worth of her favorite nutri-quasi Twinkie bars.
Her footsteps slowed as she stepped onto the plush egg-white carpeting that cushioned the floor of the vast office. Paige, who could be a stand-in for Lauren Bacall, sat behind a metal-and-glass desk. Seeing Rosie, she pulled off her reading glasses and set them aside. Folding her hands in front of her, she smiled without crinkling her eyes. “Jerome told me you had something important to discuss. I have only a few minutes….”
A few? Rosie dove in. “The ‘A Real Man Answers Real Questions’ column is currently without a columnist.”
Paige blinked, then nodded, not one iota of emotion flickering across her powdered face. “And—?”
“I would like the…opportunity to be the interim columnist until you find another Mr. Real.” Her brother the salesman always said to hit hard and hit fast when you wanted something. Well, thanks to Artemis, she’d just done that. Rosie eased in a slow breath, waiting for Paige’s reaction.
“Rosie,” Paige began, elongating the O in Rosie. “Didn’t you have several previous ‘opportunities’?” One shapely eyebrow raised slightly, emphasizing the question in her voice.
“Uh, yes.” Ugh. So even Paige Leighton, the managing editor high priestess, had heard about those first two writing assignments that Rosie had mangled.
“I seem to recall,” Paige continued, “that Sophia Weston needed an article on ‘Women Who Need to Please’ and you wrote about…”
Rosie cringed inwardly. Persephone, the goddess of the underworld who expresses a woman’s tendency toward passivity and a need to please. Rosie had thought, at the