Laura storms out of the conference room. I imagine her retreating to her desk, trying to deep-breathe her way into the picture of calm, even as she begins to unravel inside. I imagine her going through the rituals that just hours ago I believed I myself would perform today: scanning her Post-its and business cards and all the things that have shaped her days at
Hers,
trying to commit everything to memory, already feeling the nostalgia of returning to a place where she used to belong. I feel a pang for her, but I will myself to dismiss it. I jot off a quick e-mail to Suzie in H.R., and then add an item to my mental to-do list: collect résumés, entry level.
I rush past the rows of cubicles of everyone who works for me (
me!
), and take my position behind my desk—a sleek, solid number made of gleaming mahogany, special ordered for a small fortune by a certain predecessor of mine whose name will no longer be uttered in this office, a desk that is now mine, mine, mine. I hear the faint ringing of a phone: Laura’s. The sound resounds like an announcement of my command.
As my assistant reaches to pick up her receiver, I slide the glass door to my office closed, shutting out all that’s outside. The space hums with white noise, a pseudosilence I find even more comforting than the real thing. It’s precisely the peace and quiet I need. I survey my surroundings, this grandiose space that now belongs to me, and I marvel at just how much I love
Hers
, how much I believe in the group of people who sit working just beyond my office door, and how much I’m going to do to make this magazine the best version of itself it can be. I click open my pink pen, and I get started.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following people: Max Apple, my treasured teacher and friend, whose Writers House classroom I often conjure up in my mind for inspiration and motivation. Tom De-Peter (in loving memory), who first taught me to revere semicolons and to be wary of adverbs, and whose graceful teachings I will value always. All of my former cubicle comrades-in-arms, who made the magazine madness mostly a delight—and whose wit and good humor helped compensate for the rest of the time. Diana Spechler, whom I met by happenstance in a hair salon and who has since become a valuable mentor and thoughtful first reader. Zick Rubin, for his generous counsel, both legal and otherwise. My wise agent, Joelle Delbourgo, whose insight and savvy have shaped and sharpened this story. My editors, Audrey LaFehr and Martin Biro, and the rest of the team at Kensington, for transforming my scribblings into this beautiful book (and trusting me with the next one, too!). My mother, father, and brothers, for their endless love and support. And Damian, who joins me for coffee, shores me up with confidence and a kiss, and then leaves me be to write. I couldn’t be luckier.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2014 by Lindsey J. Palmer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-9433-3
First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: April 2014
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-9434-0
eISBN-10: 0-7582-9434-4
First Kensington Electronic Edition: April 2014