Crazy for You (35 page)

It didn’t make sense. Julie was one of
Stiletto
’s best columnists, and they both knew it. And Camille had always encouraged her writers to play to their strengths. Julie’s niche was the single readers with the dream of falling in love. After that, they were on
their own.

Julie sat up straighter. Wait, no. That wasn’t entirely true. Readers
did
have someplace to go once they got past the fun part of dating.

Grace Brighton.

“Why not have Grace do it?” Julie asked excitedly. “She’s your relationship guru.”

“And here I thought you and Grace were
both
my relationship gurus.”

“We are,” Julie agreed quickly. “It’s just that we each have our own expertise. Anything having to do with long-term relationships is Grace’s.”

Camille pursed her lips, painted today in a rather shocking coral. “And how would you describe yourself?”

Julie’s heel jittered beneath the desk in frustration. Camille knew full well what Julie’s expertise was. Everyone at the
Stiletto
office did. Heck, half the women in Manhattan knew Julie by name. Knew what she stood for.
Stiletto
was
the
magazine to work at. The Dating, Love, and Sex department was
the
department to work in. And Julie, Grace Brighton, and Riley McKenna
were
Dating, Love, and Sex, respectively.

Julie answered slowly. “I’m all about butterflies, first kiss, getting him to call. You know, dating.”

“Mm-hmm, and how is it that a woman goes from those giddy first few dates to the comfortable, committed stuff that Grace writes about?”

Julie’s mind went blank. There was really no good way to tell the editor in chief of the country’s largest women’s magazine that you’d never bothered to think about what happened
after
. And sure, maybe some people might think Julie a little insubstantial. But she was willing to bet those same people were perpetually dateless. Or entrenched in yoga pants and movie nights.

“Um, well … I guess it sort of evolves?” Julie replied finally.

“How?”

“With the right person, it just happens. That’s the mystery of what makes true love so special.”
Gawd, I almost made myself vomit
.

Camille shook her head. “Not good enough. You’ve seen the letters from our readers. They want to know the specifics. These are women who’ve already had the third
date. They’ve even been on the seventh. But then what? How do they move forward?”

Julie’s sleeveless Kate Spade turtleneck dress suddenly felt a little tight around her throat.

“If not Grace, Riley could write it,” Julie said, grasping at straws. “You know, I actually think she’s been looking for a way to broaden her focus and take a break from the sex stuff for a while. Can’t you just see it? ‘Outside the Bedroom’ or something like that.”

“Julie,” Camille said with a sigh, “Grace and Riley have their stories figured out for the next few issues. I’ve already okayed them.”

“If you want a schedule of my future story ideas, I’d be happy to—”

“My mind’s made up.”

Okay, so Camille wasn’t going to be persuaded with reason. Time to go for the editor’s soft spot:
Stiletto
itself.

“I’m not sure this is what’s best for the magazine,” Julie said demurely. “I just don’t have any experience with the … you know … long-term stuff.”

But Camille wasn’t biting. “So? You think every writer in this office has personal experience with everything they write about?”

I do
, Julie thought.
Or at least I did
.

“Julie, look around. What does this look like to you?”

“Um, an office?” More accurately, a high-tech, state-of-the-art, killer corner office with a view of Central Park South.

“Exactly. It’s an office of a magazine company. This is journalism, not your pink fuzzy diary,” Camille snapped. “If you haven’t been there yourself, talk to women who
are
going through that stage. Do what you always do—dive into our readers’ heads and answer the hard stuff for them.”

Julie bit back a sigh, knowing the battle was lost. Temporarily. Camille was one of those scary women who had made her way to the top of the food chain by having steel ovaries and a penchant for making people cry. Julie had always figured that if they’d made a movie about Camille’s life she’d be played by either a stern Katharine Hepburn type or an intensely scary Robert De Niro on crack. She was about as soft as a hammerhead shark and half as friendly.

Still, Camille was right about one thing: this article could be done with a little bit of strategic networking. A major in journalism from the University of Southern California had taught Julie that media was more about
whom
you knew than
what
you knew. But Julie had developed her own type of journalism over the years, one that involved a distinctly personal voice. And she hated the idea that she couldn’t speak personally to a topic.

“So we’re good?” Camille asked, standing to indicate that the conversation was over.

Not even close
. “Definitely,” Julie replied with a confident smile.

Camille had already picked up her cellphone and was yelling at her dry cleaner. Something about white stains on a black dress.
Awwwwwwk-ward
.

Julie slipped out the door and was immediately surrounded by the sounds of
Stiletto
on a Friday afternoon. The mood in the Manhattan office was crackling even on a slow day, but by the end of the week the vibe was positively electric.

The office staff was made up almost entirely of women, with a handful of fashion-forward men. Everywhere she looked, there were skinny hips perched on a colleague’s desk, gossip about evening plans, and lip gloss exchanges over cubicle walls as office makeup transitioned to happy-hour makeup.

Normally Julie would be making the rounds, figuring out if anyone had heard of something happening that she hadn’t. It was more of a habit than anything else; Julie couldn’t think of a time when she’d been the last to hear about a party. Being at the top of
Stiletto
’s ladder also meant you were at the top of New York’s social ladder. The girls of the Dating, Love, and Sex department didn’t have to fish for an invitation.

Julie made a detour into the kitchen, where Camille kept a few bottles of champagne stocked for celebrations and promotions.

Today Julie had another need for it—therapy.

If she had to write about taking things to the next level, she at least needed a drink first. And Riley and Grace were always game for a little in-office happy hour.

“Oh, Julie, I’m glad you stopped by.”

Julie made a silent gagging motion at the fridge.
Kelli with a freaking i
. Julie should have hit the bottle sooner. Much sooner.

Julie had often marveled that fate had blessed her with a nemesis-free childhood. There was no schoolyard bully, no junior high rival, no high school drama. But all fate had really done was help her preserve her energy to deal with her adult nemesis: Kelli Kearns.

Although Julie and Kelli’s sordid history belonged in the tabloids, for the most part they tried to keep it out of the office and ignore each other at all costs. But every now and then Kelli’s size negative-two body seemed incapable of containing all of its venom, and some spewed out—usually in Julie’s direction.

“What’s up, Kelli?”

“First of all,” Kelli said, holding up a skinny finger, “is that
company
wine? I was always under the impression that consumption had to be authorized by Camille.”

Julie glanced down at the bottle in sham regret. “A valid point, Kelli. How about this: you go tell Camille
my
secrets, and I’ll tell her
yours
. Sound good?”

Kelli’s lips pressed together in disdain, and Julie resisted the urge to gloat. Kelli wouldn’t breathe a peep about the champagne. Not that Camille would care, anyway. All she wanted from her employees was that they meet deadlines and keep their columns sassy and snappy, all while fitting the stylish
Stiletto
mold. Camille didn’t care if they needed a little wine to get there.

“Was there something else?” Julie asked. “Other than your concern over my liver and company funds?”

“Actually, yes,” Kelli said, flicking her long blond ponytail over one bony shoulder. “I’ve been asked to clean out the fridge—”

“You know that you’d be a lot less on edge if you actually
ate
the food, right?”

“—and as I was cleaning I noticed this funny-looking sandwich. It has your name on it.”

Julie glanced down at the plastic-wrapped sandwich in Kelli’s hand. “Yup, mine from last week. I ate half and forgot about it.”

Kelli shook her head in condescension. “It’s wasteful, Julie. And I think I speak for the entire office when I say we’re tired of you abusing your power.”

“My power? What is it that I’m out to destroy with a half-eaten turkey sandwich? Thanksgiving?”

Kelli sighed. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”

My ass, you’re not
.

“I’m just saying we all have to share a kitchen space, and it would be nice if even the senior columnists could clean up after themselves,” Kelli said.

“Okay,” Julie said, shoving the champagne bottle under her arm and snatching the sandwich from Kelli. She took a half step to the side and dropped it in the garbage. “We good? Is there a coffee mug I didn’t position just right, or a pen I left somewhere?”
Maybe up your ass?

Kelli snapped her fingers. “You know, I just thought of something else. I was wondering if maybe you could keep me updated on your notes for August’s article.”

Julie snorted. “And why would I do that?”
And why bother asking? We both know you just steal my notes when it suits you
.

Kelli’s eyes went wide. “Camille didn’t tell you?”

Julie stilled. “Tell me what?”

“Your assignment for August? The relationship story? Camille’s worried you might not be up for it.”

“And this is your business because …?”

Kelli gave a sweet smile. “I’m your alternate. If your story doesn’t cut it, Camille will print mine instead.”

Oh, hell no
.

With a violent twist of her hands, Julie uncorked the champagne and took a long swig as she marched out of the kitchen, her head reeling from Kelli’s bomb.

There was only one thing worse than having to write this story.

And that was having Kelli-with-an
-i
write it for her.

Movie night, here I come
.

Read on for an excerpt from Serena Bell’s

Yours to Keep

Ana Travares had let down her guard. She’d stopped hearing her brother’s voice in her head, warning her not to say too much. Telling her not to make friends too easily. Reminding her that she—that they—didn’t have the luxury of trusting other people. Ever.

At some point, she’d let her shoulders drop from their usual spot around her ears and started to believe that maybe, just maybe, nothing too terrible would happen, as long as she kept her nose clean and didn’t break any rules.

She’d enjoyed living like a normal person. She’d lost that sense of peering around the next corner, anticipating the next challenge. And it had been a relief, like taking full breaths for the first time after wearing a too-tight dress.

Only now she thought it might not have been worth it, because the adrenaline of sudden danger packed such a vicious punch: nausea, trembling hands, tight throat. She spoke nearly flawless English, but authority figures could make her forget every word.

All Ed Branch, the high school’s new academic-support specialist, had said was “We have a new lawyer,” but that had been enough to make her sick.

“The new lawyer’s a dot-the-
i
’s and cross-the-
t
’s type,” Ed said. He sat behind his tidy desk, tipping his chair back. “Wants a CORI from everyone who breathes near the high school. You know what a CORI is, right?” He raised his eyebrows. “Criminal Offender Record Information. It’s a criminal-background check.”

She nodded, shifting in the hard seat he’d offered her. Her anxiety felt visible.

“Next thing, he’ll be asking people who drive through the school zone to do background checks, too. Can you see it? Stopping drivers at the crosswalk, handing pens and CORIs through the window?” He laughed. “The point is we’re not singling you out. Everyone who has anything to do with kids has to complete one. You have to, if you want to stay on the Recommended Tutors list.”

That list was her lifeline to work in Beacon. She got half her income from tutoring, and nearly all her tutoring clients through the school. Beacon wasn’t the only town with students who needed tutoring, but it was one of the few towns left in Massachusetts that still had a vibrant foreign-language program, one of the few towns where most parents had enough money and time to hire tutors, and the only town of that sort she could get to without a car. She needed Ed’s referrals.

“You have to do a criminal-background check just to keep my name on that list?”

“Yep. Crazy, if you ask me. We’re going to spend more time chasing people down to get these things—”

Ed bent his head, and she watched him ransack a file drawer. He slid a sheet of paper over the walnut desk. “I’ll need to see some form of government-issued ID, too.”

It didn’t look like much, that piece of paper. It had the high school’s letterhead on it and a series of blank lines, but those lines demanded information that she couldn’t provide. Name—she could do that. Address—yes, she had one of those. Last three addresses—she could dredge those up, with some difficulty, because although they’d moved frequently, they’d stayed in Hawthorne, a small city just outside Boston’s magnetic field. But Social Security number?

This would be so easy for most people. Whip out a driver’s license. Jot down an SSN. Smile, move on.

Not easy for her. Not at all.