Diary of a Working Girl by Daniella Brodsky Read Free Book Online Page A

hell of an editorial meeting—we had to pull a huge story on women who enjoy having sex with relatives called ‘Kissing Cousins’ because our biggest advertiser thinks the story is too racy and has threatened to pull their ad pages—no ad pages, no money, no magazine—so do you think you could have the story ready by May fifteenth for the August issue?” Really she says that all in one long sentence; no stops or pauses or anything and so it takes me a moment to comprehend the whole thing and realize that she wants me to write the story.
    This is the story that I knew was somehow different, would somehow do something to alter my life forever, that my horoscope said would come and that I would have to decide upon immediately and, of course, that that decision had to be the correct one.
    And now that I have thought this whole thing through in the apparently contagious frenzied manner that Karen has just presented it to me—no stops, no pauses—I realize the worst part of the whole thing. The day she wants the story is May fifteenth, which wouldn’t be too bad if today were December fifteenth or January fifteenth or even February fifteenth, for that matter. But it is not. It is now March fifteenth and that is just two months away from May fifteenth. That is just sixty-one days. In the past, this hasn’t proven nearly enough time to find my misplaced lacy black tank top, much less the man I will love for the rest of my life and have two kids with and fly kites on the beach with and pose in front of a mantel with for photo holiday cards. May 15. I haven’t even gotten my re-21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 37
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    sume ready yet. I’d have to get a job, find a man-target, and land him in just two months.
    Oh. My. God.
    But, it’s Cosmo . And they really want me. (And I have just, for the first time in my life, used the words “land him.”) And , if I’m honest with myself for just about two seconds, I will realize that if I don’t have the energy to pitch this story to anyone else right now, I am never going to have the energy to pitch this story again ever, and then it will just end up with the pile of other ideas I’ve had and tossed over the last couple of years.
    “Hello? Are you still there?” Since it has only been a second since I last spoke, I figure she must be talking to someone in her office. I wait for her to finish, but she doesn’t say anything else.
    “Hello? Lane?” Lane, that’s me—the one who has the tiny pressure upon her to make the right decision immediately or suffer the consequences. The one whose shaking hand has landed croissant crumbs in a formation that, if looked at in the right way and slid around just a teensy bit, could look exactly like a heart (if with one hump up top, rather than two) and who, without time to be choosy, decides this “heart” will serve just perfectly as The Sign.
    “Yes. Yes. I’m here. I’ll do it. How many words?”
    “Three thousand. We want it to be a cover story. We can pay you two dollars and fifty cents a word.”
    Two dollars and fifty cents a word times three thousand words is . . . a lot! “I’ll do it. Corporate world, here I come.”
    “Great. We’re so excited about it. I’m here for support if you need me. We’re actually all here for you. You’ve picked a topic that definitely hits home for everyone here. This industry is impossible for meeting men. All those parties, all those drinks. The gift bags are great, but you can’t very well cuddle up with one of those, can 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 38
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    ya?” And then, as if she realizes she is showing too much emotion, she clears her throat and continues, “We’re rooting for you, Lane.
    But, remember, you have to meet somebody. No pressure. But that’s the story.”
    The first thing I do is consult my calculator. I do it again. This cannot be right. For one story—$7,500! I can pay off all of