The Pink Ghetto. Liz Ireland

home for the holiday—in other words, me—was especially grating. She had a few good lines, but for the most part she was a scold, a former fat girl who secretly scarfed down spritz cookies when no one was looking.

      Okay, maybe that last part was me spot-on, but come on. Was I a scold? I didn’t think so. Yes, I was just more practical than Fleishman, but that was setting the bar so low the midgets of the Lollypop Guild couldn’t have limboed under it. Anna Nicole Smith was probably more practical than Fleishman.

      This play would have weighed more heavily on my mind if I had thought that Fleishman would ever finish his masterpiece. But he had been completely unproductive since graduation. What really went over big in a small school in Ohio was not exactly what the Great White Way was clamoring for. I could sense Fleishman getting discouraged. He hadn’t written much of anything in the past year, and he had lost that glow of the big-fish-in-a-small-pond celebrity he had when we first met. Lately it seemed that he mostly misspent his nights drinking too much cheap wine and watching Green Acres.

      Nobody tells you this growing up, but the reason you’re supposed to develop good work habits is so when the academic world spits you out at the age of twenty-two, your personal ambitions won’t be sidelined by the seductive lure of TV Land.

      Fleishman squinted in despair at my gray interview suit, which had been a college graduation present from my mom. I had never had to use it until that month. “You think that’s the right outfit for this job interview?”

      I furrowed my brow. During the last interview, I had splooped coffee on the jacket and I hadn’t been able to get it out with a Shout wipe. “Why not?”

      “Because that suit is not the right suit for any job interview.”

      I couldn’t argue. The suit was pretty much ugly all day: a slate gray color that would wash out even the most Coppertoned skin, a Mao collared jacket that made my bust look like one vast gray rolling plain, and a skirt with a hem that hit at mid kneecap, which was a flattering length on no one.

      “Plus I imagine people at Candlelight Books all run around the offices in pink sequins and feather boas,” Fleishman said.

      “It’s a business,” I replied. “The woman on the phone sounded very businesslike.”

      “Right. It’s probably just the authors who run around all day in lounging pajamas.” He flopped onto the couch. “I hope you get this job! It’ll be so entertaining to hear you talk about. You’ll get to talk to people like what’s her name.”

      “Who?”

      He snapped his fingers. “You know—that one who’s on the bestseller lists all the time.”

      “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

      Neither did he.

      “It’s probably just some flunky job. I might just answer phones or something.”

      “You’re always downpeddling,” he said. “What if this is actually the beginning of something big?”

      He flashed those gray eyes of his in a way that, I admit it, could still make my insides go fluttery. Which was amazing, considering all we’d been through. I mean, we’d been friends, and—briefly—lovers, and endured a breakup, and then become roommates. One New Year’s after we’d just moved to New York, we had re-succumbed to each other, but now our romance was officially in full remission. I’d watched him date other women. Worse, I’d watched him floss his teeth in front of the eleven o’clock news. That alone should have squelched any residual fluttering, but no such luck.

      I shook my head. “Big, as in…?”

      “Think of it. We’ve both been knocking around this city for almost three years now. It’s time one of us got a break, isn’t it?”

      “In other words, you think I’m going to go to that interview a youngster, but I have to come back a star?”

      “Don’t be so cynical. This could be a really great career turn for you.”

      Could it? I tried to stay guarded. Sometimes Fleishman exuded this crazy enthusiasm that could carry me aloft. He could go nuts over an idea, or some wacky plan, or even a new Web site he’d found. It’s part of why I found him so appealing. He could pull enthusiasm out of thin air and toss it over me like fairy dust. A little of it was twinkling over me now.

      Chapter 2

      Candlelight Books was located on two floors of a mammoth New York office building in Midtown. I huddled in a coffee shop in the lobby until it was just time for my appointment, then I hurried up. The only other person on the elevator was a tall, good looking man. Really good looking, I decided, doing a double-take. Dark blond hair, brown eyes. A combination of buttoned down and hott, with two Ts. I took all this as a good sign. Despite the butterflies in my stomach, I couldn’t be too nervous if I still wanted to take the time to ogle some man-flesh.

      He tilted his head at me. I smiled.

      He frowned.

      I averted my eyes.

      “Job interview?” he asked.

      I swerved back toward him, amazed. It was like he had powers, or something. “My God, you could be on Oprah. How did you know?”

      Laughing, he lifted his shoulders. “You looked nervous.”

      I sank against the wall. Damn! “Nervous isn’t exactly what I’m trying to convey.”

      “But you shouldn’t be nervous at all,” he said. “I’d hire you.”

      He was just being nice, but I was grateful. “You don’t happen to work at Candlelight Books, do you?”

      “Uh, no.”

      “Well, thanks anyway.”

      “Just the same, you might want to check your teeth.” A fresh Kleenex materialized in his hand, and he offered it to me. “Lipstick.”

      Startled, I glanced into the stainless steel of the doors and just before they opened, I saw a smudge of red on my left front tooth. “Shit!” I murmured, grabbing the Kleenex and scrubbing frantically. How embarrassing. I felt like a dumbass (with two Ss).

      “Break a leg!” he called after me as I stumbled off the elevator.

      I was standing in a carpeted lobby whose walls were lined with glass-covered bookcases. The cases gave the appearance of guarding something valuable, though the books inside them were rack-sized paperbacks you would see at any Walgreens in the country. Many of the covers bore pictures of men (usually shirtless) and women (usually in the process of tastefully losing their shirts), undulating against each other in various chaste and not-so-chaste ways. Some of them just had couples staring at each other, or the horizon, with dramatic urgency. A few just had a single man, usually in a cowboy hat, standing rugged and alone and staring ahead with what I supposed was meant to be a sensual glower.

      A woman about my age was doing phone duty at a large, double-tiered reception desk. All that was visible of her was her heart-shaped face, long blond hair, and a Peter Pan blouse in baby blue with navy blue piping—a hideous early Donna Reed thing that I hoped for her sake was being worn as an ironic statement.

      She smiled briskly at me. “May I help you?”

      “I’m Rebecca Abbot. I have an appointment with Kathy Leo.”

      “Kathy will be out momentarily,” the receptionist announced after buzzing her.

      Momentarily left me five minutes to stare more closely at the books in the cases. I recognized very few names. I had spent all my college years reading. I had been buried in books, but I knew nothing about romances. It was like I was discovering a counterculture.

      “Good, you’re on time!” a voice said to me before I knew I had been spotted. Kathy Leo strode toward me with her hand outstretched. “Nice to meet you. Come on back.”

      I