by Meg Cabot
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Can’t we sit down and discuss this like adults?
There’s nothing to discuss. Really, Aaron, I’m sorry for throwing my bag at you. It was a childish outburst that I deeply regret.
And I don’t want you to think that the reason we’re breaking up has anything to do with Barbara. Really, Aaron, we were over a long time before you ever told me about Barbara. Let’s face it, Aaron, we’re just too different: You like Stephen Hawking. I like Stephen King.
You know it would never have worked.
Mel
To: Dolly Vargas
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Aaron Spender
I did not throw my bag. It slipped out of my hand when I was reaching for my drink, and accidentally flew through the air and hit Aaron in the eye.
And if you want him, Dolly, you can have him.
Mel
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Where I was
Okay, okay, I should have called. The whole thing was just a nightmare. But get this. This, you’re never going to believe:
Aaron cheated on me in Kabul.
That’s right. And you’ll never guess with whom. Seriously. Try to guess. You never will.
All right, I’ll tell you: Barbara Bellerieve.
Uh-huh. You read that correctly: Barbara Bellerieve, respected senior ABC news correspondent, most recently host of the television news magazine TwentyFourSeven, and voted one of People magazine’s fifty most beautiful people last month.
Can you believe she slept with AARON??? I mean, she could have George Clooney, for God’s sake. What would she want with AARON???
Not that I didn’t suspect. I always thought those stories he kept e-mailing in during that month he was on assignment were way too smug.
You know how I found out? Do you? He TOLD me. He felt he was “ready to reach the next level of intimacy” with me (three guesses as to what level THAT is), and that in order to do so he felt he had to “make a clean breast” of it. He says ever since it happened he’s been “wracked with guilt” and that “none of it meant anything.”
God, what a putz. I can’t believe I wasted three months of my life on him.
Are there no decent men out there? I mean, besides Tony. I swear, Nadine, your boyfriend is the last good man on earth. The last one! You hang on to him, and don’t let go, because I’m telling you, it’s a jungle out there.
Mel
P.S.: Can’t go to lunch today, I have to go home and walk my neighbor’s dog.
P.P.S.: Don’t ask; it’s a long story.
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: That jerk
Look, the guy did you a favor. Be honest, Mel. Did you really picture a future for the two of you? I mean, he smokes a PIPE, for crying out loud. And what’s with all that classical music? Who does he think he is, anyway? Harold Bloom?
No. He’s a reporter, just like the rest of us. He’s not out there writing fine literature. So what’s with that bust of William Shakespeare he keeps on top of his monitor?
The man is a big phony, and you know it, Mel. That’s why, in spite of the fact you two went out for three months, you never slept with him.
Remember?
Nad ;-)
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: That jerk
I never slept with him because of that goatee. How was I supposed to sleep with someone who looks like Robin Hood?
He didn’t want me enough even to shave.
What’s wrong with me, Nad? Am I really not worth shaving for?
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: That jerk
Give up the pity quest, Mel. You know you’re gorgeous. The man is obviously suffering from a psychiatric disorder. We should sic Amy Jenkins on him.
Why can’t you go to lunch today? And don’t worry, I don’t mean Burger Heaven. If I don’t get down to a size 12 in two months, the wedding’s off. Every girl in my family has worn my mother’s dress to her wedding. I am not going to be the first Wilcock to schlep out to Klinefeld’s.
Nad :-)
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Lunch
Can’t do lunch. I have to go home and walk Mrs. Friedlander’s dog.
Did you hear the latest? Chris Noth and Winona.
I’m not kidding. They were seen kissing in front of Crunch Fitness Center on Lafayette Street.
How could she be so blind? Can’t she see he isn’t any good for her? I mean, look what he did to poor Sarah Jessica Parker in Sex and the City.
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Reality check
Mel, I hate to break this to you, but Sex and the City is a fictional program. You might have heard already that there are these things called TV shows? Yeah, they are fictional. What happens on them in no way reflects real life. For instance, in real life, Sarah Jessica Parker is married to Matthew Broderick, and so whatever Chris Noth’s character did to her character on her show, it didn’t actually happen.
In other words, I think you should be less concerned for Winona, and more worried about yourself.
That’s just my opinion, of course.
Nad
To: Mel Fuller
cc: Nadine Wilcock
From: Tim Grabowski
Subject: CONFIDENTIAL
All right, girls, hold on to your hats. I got the information you requested, the salary increases for next year. It wasn’t easy.
If you tell anybody where you got this information, I will accuse you both of having gambling addictions, and you’ll be yanked into the Staff Assistance Program before either of you can whistle “Dixie.”
Here goes:
Name: Position: Salary:
Peter Hargrave Editor in Chief $120,000
George Sanchez Managing Editor $85,000
Dolly Vargas Style Editor $75,000
Aaron Spender Chief Correspondent $75,000
Nadine Wilcock Food Critic $45,000
Melissa Fuller Page Ten Columnist $45,000
Amy Jenkins Human Resources Administrator $45,000
Read it and weep, girls.
Timothy Grabowski
Computer Programmer
New York Journal
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: CONFIDENTIAL
I can’t believe Amy Jenkins makes as much as we do. What does SHE do? Sits around and listens to people whine all day about their dental plan.
Please.
I’m surprised about Dolly. I’d have thought she made more. I mean, how does she keep herself in Hermès scarves on a mere $75,000 a year?
Nad ;-)
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: CONFIDENTIAL
Are you kidding? Dolly comes from money. Haven’t you ever heard her talk about how she used to summer in Newport?
I was going to ask Aaron out for an I-forgive-you drink after work—NOT to get back together with him, just so he’ll stop with the Wagner already—but now that I see how much more he makes than I do, I can’t even be
ar to look at him. I KNOW I’m a better writer than he is. So what’s he getting $75,000 per year, while I’m stuck at $45,000, doing fashion shows and movie premieres?
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: CONFIDENTIAL
Um, because you’re good at them? Fashion shows and movie premieres, I mean.
Nad ;-)
P.S.: I have to do that new Peking duck place on Mott. Come with me.
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Lunch
I can’t. You know I can’t. I’ve got to walk Paco.
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Lunch and that dog
Okay, how long is this going to go on? You and that dog, I mean? I can’t be going out to eat by myself every day. Who’s going to keep me from ordering the double-patty cheddar melt?
I am serious. This dog thing is not working for me.
Nad
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Lunch and that dog
What am I supposed to do, Nadine? Let the poor thing sit in the apartment all day until he bursts? I know you aren’t a dog person, but have some compassion. It’s only until Mrs. Friedlander gets better.
Mel
P.S.: This just in: Harrison Ford and his wife? On again. I swear it. His publicist just called.
I’m just glad for the kids, you know? Because that’s what it’s all about.
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: It’s only until Mrs. Friedlander gets better
And when is THAT going to be? Earth to Mel. Come in, Mel. The woman is in a COMA. Okay? She is COMATOSE. I think some alternative arrangements for the woman’s pets need to be made. You are a DOORMAT. A COMATOSE woman is using you as a DOORMAT.
The woman has to have some relatives, Mel. FIND THEM.
Besides, people shouldn’t keep Great Danes in the city. It’s cruel.
Nad :-(
P.S.: You are the only person I know who still cares about Harrison and his wife patching things up. Give it up, girl.
To: Mel Fuller
From: Don and Beverly Fuller
Subject: Debbie Phillips
Melissa, honey, it’s Mom. Look, your father and I got e-mail! Isn’t it great? Now I can write to you, and maybe you’ll answer for a change!
Just kidding, sweetheart.
Anyway, Daddy and I thought you’d want to know that little Debbie Phillips—you remember Debbie, don’t you? Dr. Phillips’s little girl? He was your dentist. And wasn’t Debbie Homecoming Queen your senior year in high school? Anyway, Debbie’s just got married! Yes! The announcement was in the paper.
And do you know what, Melissa? The Duane County Register is on the line now…. Oh, Daddy says it’s ON-LINE, not on the line. Well, whatever. I get so confused.
Anyway, Debbie’s announcement is ON-LINE, so I am sending it to you, as what they call an attachment. I hope you enjoy it, dear. She’s marrying a doctor from Westchester! Well, we always knew she’d do well for herself. All that lovely blonde hair. And look, she graduated summa cum laude from Princeton! Then she went to law school. So impressive.
Not that there’s anything wrong with being a reporter. Reporters are just as important as lawyers! And Lord knows we all need to read some nice gossip now and then. Why, did you hear about Ted Turner and Martha Stewart? You could have knocked me over with a feather.
Well, enjoy! And you make sure you lock your door at night. Daddy and I worry about you, living there in that big city all alone.
Bye for now,
Mommy
Attachment: (Glam photo of wedding couple)
Deborah Marie Phillips, the daughter of Dr. and Mrs. Reed Andrew Phillips of Lansing, was married last week to Michael Bourke, the son of Dr. and Mrs. Reginald Bourke of Chapaqua, New York. The Rev. James Smith performed the ceremony at the Roman Catholic Church of Saint Anthony in Lansing.
Ms. Phillips, 26, is an associate at Schuler, Higgins, and Brandt, the international law firm based in New York. She received a bachelor’s degree from Princeton, from which she graduated summa cum laude, and a law degree from Harvard. Her father is a dentist and oral surgeon in Lansing, operating the Phillips Dental Practice.
Mr. Bourke, 31, received a bachelor’s degree from Yale and an MBA from Columbia University. He is an associate at the investment banking group of Lehman Brothers. His father, now retired, was the president of Bourke & Associates, a private investment firm.
After a honeymoon trip to Thailand, the couple will reside in Chapaqua.
To: Mel Fuller
From: Dolly Vargas
Subject: Mothers
Darling, when I heard all that anguished shrieking from your cubicle just now I thought at the very least Tom Cruise had finally come out of the closet. But Nadine tells me it’s just because you received an e-mail from your mother.
How well I understand. And I am so glad my mother is far too drunk ever to learn to operate a keyboard. I highly suggest you send your doting parents a case of Campari and have done with it. Trust me, it’s the only way to shut them up on the dreaded subject of “M.” As in, “Why aren’t you M yet? All your friends are M. You aren’t even trying to get M. Don’t you want me to see my grandchildren before I die?”
As if I would EVER give birth. I suppose a well-mannered little six-year-old would be all right, but they simply don’t COME that way. You have to TRAIN them.
Too tiresome. I can understand your anguish.
XXXOOO
Dolly
P.S.: Did you notice Aaron shaved? It’s a pity. I never realized what a weak chin he has.
To: Mel Fuller
From: Amy Jenkins
Subject: Staff Assistance Program
Dear Ms. Fuller,
You might think it amusing to make light of the Human Resources Department’s Staff Assistance Program, but I can assure you that we have helped many of your coworkers through dark and difficult times. Through counseling and therapy, they have all gone on to lead meaningful, profitable lives. I find it disheartening that you would belittle a program that has done so much for so many.
Please note that a copy of your latest e-mail has been placed in your personnel file, and will be available to your supervisor during your next performance review.
Amy Jenkins
Human Resources Administrator
New York Journal
To: Amy Jenkins
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Staff Assistance Program
Dear Ms. Jenkins,
What I find disheartening is the fact that I reached out to you and all the other Human Resource Administrators, and instead of being given the aid I so desperately need, I was brutally rebuffed. Are you saying that my chronic status as a single woman is not worthy of assistance? Do I have to tell you how demoralizing it is to buy Lean Cuisines Fiesta Meals for One every night at the Food Emporium? What about having to order my pizza by the slice? Do you think that isn’t whittling away at my self-esteem, slice by disheartening slice?
And what about salad? Do you have any idea how many pounds of lettuce I have ingested in an effort to maintain my size 6 figure, so that I might entice a man? Even though it goes against every fiber of my feminist being to cater to the misogynistic mores that exists in Western culture that insist that attractiven
ess is equal to one’s waist size?
If you are trying to say that being a single woman in New York City is not a disability, then I respectfully submit that you visit a Manhattan deli on a Saturday night. Who do you see crowded around the salad bar?
That’s right. The single girls.
Face reality, Amy. It’s a jungle out there. It’s kill or be killed. I am merely suggesting that you, as a mental health expert, accept that truth, and move on.
Melissa Fuller
Page Ten Columnist
New York Journal
To: Mel Fuller
From: George Sanchez
Subject: Cut it out
Stop teasing Amy Jenkins down in Human Resources. You know she doesn’t have a sense of humor.
If you have so much free time, come to me. I’ll give you plenty to do. The obit guy just quit.
George
To: Mel Fuller
From: Aaron Spender
Subject: Forgive me
I don’t know where to begin. First of all, I can’t stand this. You ask what “this” is.
I’ll tell you: “This” is sitting here all day, seeing you there in your cubicle, knowing that you said you never want to speak to me again.
“This” is watching you walk toward me, thinking you might have changed your mind, only to have you pass by without so much as even glancing in my direction.
“This” is knowing that you’ll walk out of here at the end of the day, that I will have no idea where you will be, what you will do, and that an abyss of time will elapse before you walk back in here the next day.
“This” is—or should I say, “these are”?—the countless hours during which my mind leaves me, and pursues you out the door, following you in a journey that leads nowhere, right back where I started, sitting here thinking about “this.”
