The Pink Ghetto. Liz Ireland

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ you came from.”

      “I’m right behind you!” Rita called after us.

      We shook ourselves out like rain-drenched dogs in the lobby, causing the marble floor to get that much more slippery. In the elevator, Andrea turned to me. “So where else did you interview? Did you get in over at Avon?”

      “No…”

      She looked surprised. “They were looking for someone. But they didn’t call me back, either.”

      “You applied there?”

      She laughed as though I had delivered a zinger. “My resume has been to every company in this whole damn town. I’m not going to get myself out of this place depending on telepathy, you know. Did you interview at Warner?”

      “Uh, no…I did interview at a trade publication. I think it was legal books…”

      Andrea shook her head disdainfully. “Oh God! You’re better off here.”

      An uneasy feeling nibbled at me. Could it be a good sign when the first coworker I met was scrambling to find a job elsewhere?

      “I noticed Random House was looking for a full editor,” she said. “You didn’t apply there, did you?”

      “No.”

      She nodded. “Probably best not to waste your time. I interviewed with them before I came here.”

      “What happened?”

      “They hired someone else. Jackasses!”

      We faced forward for a moment.

      “How long have you been here?” I asked.

      “Four years.” Before I could register whether I thought this was a long time or not, she answered the question for me. “I know, I know. I gotta get out—but the market is so tight right now.” She sighed. “My luck, I’ll probably spend the rest of my life in an efficiency in Queens.”

      The doors opened, and Andrea waved me out with a sarcastic flourish. “Welcome to Alcatraz.”

      First stop on the tour was the receptionist desk, where the woman with the Peter Pan collar still sat at attention with her headset, looking like the proverbial operator standing by in those TV commercials of old. And was that actually a cameo she was wearing today?

      “Muriel, this is…um…” Andrea darted an uncomfortable glance at me.

      “Rebecca,” I said.

      “Yes, Rebecca, I remember you,” Muriel said. “Kathy Leo alerted me to your arrival this morning, so I have already put you into our message center.” She whirled a little plastic caddy around to the point where my name in a red colored tab was prominently displayed. “This is where you may retrieve messages left in person, or urgent messages that callers do not wish to leave on your answering service. But please keep in mind that the answering service is the most efficient way of retrieving your messages. I do my best to relay communications efficiently, but the human factor is always fallible, and I have noticed that some people forget to check for their message slips. So do set up your answering service at your earliest possible convenience. Your extension is fifty-six, which is written on the phone in your office, along with detailed instructions about setting up your personal recorded message. Of course if you have any questions, I will be more than happy to help. Welcome aboard!”

      She ended her introductory monologue with a smile that was one hundred percent lips.

      I felt like I should applaud. “Thanks.”

      “You’re welcome, Rebecca.”

      Andrea tugged impatiently on my sleeve. During Muriel’s monologue, she had removed her raincoat and shaken herself out a little more, spilling droplets on Muriel’s carefully tended simulated wood grain work surface.

      “Let’s show you to your cave so you can dump your junk and start to dry off,” she said, ignoring Muriel’s pursed lip parting glare. When we were out of earshot, she said, “She’s always like that.”

      “Like what?”

      “Prim,” Andrea grumbled. “I don’t know how she keeps it up. It makes me wonder if she’s not moonlighting as a lap dancer.”

      We made our way through a labyrinth of hallways that I vaguely remembered from my last visit. As we were turning a corner, Andrea looked around furtively and asked, “When you were at Random House, did you talk to Margaret Wyberry?”

      “I didn’t interview there,” I reminded her.

      “Oh, that’s right.” She let out a puff of breath. “Oh well. I’ve heard there isn’t a lot of opportunity for advancement there anyway.”

      “Is there here?” I asked.

      She arched her brows. “Why? Are you bored already?”

      “Well, no…I…” I had just been making small talk.

      “Here!” She stopped at a small windowless office and flipped on the lights. There was a seascape watercolor gracing one wall and a large empty peg board over the desk. Andrea gestured grandly, like the hostesses on The Price is Right. “Home sweet home. I stole your chair and gave you my shitty one. Hope you don’t mind.”

      I looked at the desk chair, which looked like standard issue office rolling thing. “I’m grateful not to be sitting on a plastic crate.”

      “That’s only the ed assists,” Andrea joked.

      I took off my coat and tossed it on the spare chair in the corner. As I did so, I noticed a bookshelf with piles and piles of manuscripts on it. “What’s that?”

      “Your inheritance.” Andrea went over to inspect it. “Looks like slush, mostly, but there are a few agented proposals in here…” She whistled. “This one’s cover letter is dated 2003! Damn! That Julie had more nerve than I gave her credit for.”

      “What happened to Julie?”

      “It was very sad. One day she decided to end it all right there at her desk.”

      I swerved in alarm, whereupon Andrea blasted out a laugh. “Kidding! She got knocked up.” She sighed. “That’s one way off the treadmill.”

      “Yeah, but then you have a baby to deal with.”

      Andrea snorted. “Here you have twenty.”

      I looked at her, puzzled.

      “Otherwise known as authors.” She gave my suit a once-over and whistled. “Snappy!”

      “Thanks—it’s a hand-me-down.”

      “What, are there tycoons in your family?”

      “In my roommate’s family, actually.”

      “Nice!” She frowned. “But can you breathe?”

      I СКАЧАТЬ