of pinball later, Andrea was knocking on my door. I reduced the screen and swiveled toward her.
“How’s it going?”
“Great!” I said.
“Lunch?”
I was up like a shot. “Sure.”
Rita was right behind her. “My treat.”
“Which means she’s expensing it,” Andrea translated.
We stopped by Cassie’s office on our way out. “Want to go to lunch with us?” Rita asked her.
A plastic serving container of breadsticks and celery sat on the desk next to the manuscript she was reading, along with a half-eaten apple. “I’d love to, but I promised myself I would read this book today.” She eyed me staring at her meal. Like any veteran of Weight Watchers (ages twelve and fifteen), I was no stranger to breadsticks. I sometimes wondered if there were any other people besides WW veterans who actually ate those things.
I smiled at her, sensing a kindred spirit.
She did not smile back. “I like to stay up on things.”
“Well, carry on,” Rita said. “We’ll be back in forty-five minutes.”
Two hours later, we ambled back to the office, full of Chinese food. I had expected to get the lowdown about what they expected from me in my job. Instead, I got gossip. Gossip about everyone. There were no affairs reported, no embezzling or money scandals, no shocking Candlelight secrets revealed, although you wouldn’t have guessed it from the urgent tone in Rita and Andrea’s voices.
“Did you know Ann takes her Maltese to doggy daycare every day?”
“It must cost her a fortune.”
“What else does she have to spend it on? The woman has no life. It’s pathetic.”
“Sad. She should try online dating.”
“First she should try to do something about that acne scarring.”
“Would insurance cover plastic surgery for that?”
“She could pay for it herself if she weren’t wasting all her money on her canine.”
They asked me a few polite questions about myself, which I evaded to the best of my ability. (If Ann and her doggy daycare were worth a conversational massacre, imagine the hay they could have made out of my living with my ex-boyfriend.) By the time the fortunes cookies rolled around, it felt like I had been working with them for months instead of hours.
When I got back, I continued to pile up accomplishments. I played a few rounds of solitaire and did very well. A few people, some of whom I had met that morning, came by to ask how I was settling in. Actually, I think they had afternoon restlessness and just wanted to get away from their desks for a while.
At one point, I had three other editors and Lindsay the editorial assistant all squeezed into my office, talking about famous person sightings they’d had in New York City. Ann—she of the pampered pooch—had stood in a deli line behind Leonardo DiCaprio, which was pretty damn impressive. The only famous person I’d come in that close contact with was Al Roker, who Fleishman and I had seen coming up the theater aisle the night we had gone to see Gypsy.
Lindsay had a good one. “Whoopi Goldberg goes to my dentist.”
This revelation brought gasps. “No way! ” Madeline exclaimed. “ Your dentist?”
Lindsay puffed up a little, sensing she had scored. “I saw her in the waiting room once, even. She was there for a cleaning, the hygienist told me.”
“Where? What dentist?”
“His name is Dr. Stein, and he’s on Eighty-fifth Street.”
Ann’s forehead wrinkled. “Does Whoopi Goldberg have good teeth?”
“Of course she has good teeth! She’s a movie star.”
“I’m sure they’re capped. All actors have caps.”
“Be crazy not to. In a movie close-up an incisor can look twenty feet tall.”
“Wait,” Andrea said. “ Our insurance pays for Whoopi’s dentist?”
Lindsay nodded her head.
“That’s it. I’m switching.”
“Just like that? Because Whoopi goes somewhere else?”
“Why should I settle for substandard?” Andrea asked defensively. “You can bet with all that money she has, Whoopi’s
“How’s it going?”
“Great!” I said.
“Lunch?”
I was up like a shot. “Sure.”
Rita was right behind her. “My treat.”
“Which means she’s expensing it,” Andrea translated.
We stopped by Cassie’s office on our way out. “Want to go to lunch with us?” Rita asked her.
A plastic serving container of breadsticks and celery sat on the desk next to the manuscript she was reading, along with a half-eaten apple. “I’d love to, but I promised myself I would read this book today.” She eyed me staring at her meal. Like any veteran of Weight Watchers (ages twelve and fifteen), I was no stranger to breadsticks. I sometimes wondered if there were any other people besides WW veterans who actually ate those things.
I smiled at her, sensing a kindred spirit.
She did not smile back. “I like to stay up on things.”
“Well, carry on,” Rita said. “We’ll be back in forty-five minutes.”
Two hours later, we ambled back to the office, full of Chinese food. I had expected to get the lowdown about what they expected from me in my job. Instead, I got gossip. Gossip about everyone. There were no affairs reported, no embezzling or money scandals, no shocking Candlelight secrets revealed, although you wouldn’t have guessed it from the urgent tone in Rita and Andrea’s voices.
“Did you know Ann takes her Maltese to doggy daycare every day?”
“It must cost her a fortune.”
“What else does she have to spend it on? The woman has no life. It’s pathetic.”
“Sad. She should try online dating.”
“First she should try to do something about that acne scarring.”
“Would insurance cover plastic surgery for that?”
“She could pay for it herself if she weren’t wasting all her money on her canine.”
They asked me a few polite questions about myself, which I evaded to the best of my ability. (If Ann and her doggy daycare were worth a conversational massacre, imagine the hay they could have made out of my living with my ex-boyfriend.) By the time the fortunes cookies rolled around, it felt like I had been working with them for months instead of hours.
When I got back, I continued to pile up accomplishments. I played a few rounds of solitaire and did very well. A few people, some of whom I had met that morning, came by to ask how I was settling in. Actually, I think they had afternoon restlessness and just wanted to get away from their desks for a while.
At one point, I had three other editors and Lindsay the editorial assistant all squeezed into my office, talking about famous person sightings they’d had in New York City. Ann—she of the pampered pooch—had stood in a deli line behind Leonardo DiCaprio, which was pretty damn impressive. The only famous person I’d come in that close contact with was Al Roker, who Fleishman and I had seen coming up the theater aisle the night we had gone to see Gypsy.
Lindsay had a good one. “Whoopi Goldberg goes to my dentist.”
This revelation brought gasps. “No way! ” Madeline exclaimed. “ Your dentist?”
Lindsay puffed up a little, sensing she had scored. “I saw her in the waiting room once, even. She was there for a cleaning, the hygienist told me.”
“Where? What dentist?”
“His name is Dr. Stein, and he’s on Eighty-fifth Street.”
Ann’s forehead wrinkled. “Does Whoopi Goldberg have good teeth?”
“Of course she has good teeth! She’s a movie star.”
“I’m sure they’re capped. All actors have caps.”
“Be crazy not to. In a movie close-up an incisor can look twenty feet tall.”
“Wait,” Andrea said. “ Our insurance pays for Whoopi’s dentist?”
Lindsay nodded her head.
“That’s it. I’m switching.”
“Just like that? Because Whoopi goes somewhere else?”
“Why should I settle for substandard?” Andrea asked defensively. “You can bet with all that money she has, Whoopi’s
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