Bombshell. Jody Gehrman

you ask?”

      “You look a little feverish.” She reaches into her drawer and hands me a Kleenex. For a second I assume she’s anticipating an outburst. Here comes the ax. But then I see she’s gesturing, almost imperceptibly, at my forehead, and I realize I’m supposed to use the tissue to mop up my sweat. Lord, can this day get any more humiliating?

      “Thanks.” I dab at my forehead, then wad the Kleenex into a ball.

      “So, about Colin’s visit. I just want to make sure you understand how essential it is that we present a modern, streamlined image.” Her eyes travel over my body as I try to get comfortable in the tiny space-age chair. I feel like a hippo stuffed into a hatbox.

      “Oh. Right.” I glance down self-consciously. Nobody on the planet makes me feel as fat and powerless as The Stick. It’s her superpower; one glance from those hard, sparkly eyes turns me into an obese, inbred deaf-mute.

      “This business is all about image.” She grins, her facial muscles straining against their Botox restraints. “I just want to show Colin how on-trend we are. That makes sense, right?”

      I nod, staring at my lap.

      “I’ve started taking the most invigorating Pilates class.” She says it briskly, as if changing the subject. “Amazing how much it works the core.”

      Am I paranoid, or is she actually glaring at my stomach? I suck in my belly and hold my breath, torn between mortification and fury.

      I’m the lump in her porridge, the wrong sized cog in her machine. Over the past couple of years she’s assembled a creative team of skinny, fit, cosmetically perfect automatons. They’re members of her cult—they worship clean lines, motionless hair, perfect skin and bland ideas. She would have fired me long ago, except I’m the best copywriter she has. My inability to fit in with her twisted little vision of corporate perfection pisses her off every time she looks at me.

      “Excellent!” She stands, signaling the end to our little chat.

      As I make my way back to my desk, Simon looks up. “You fired yet, sweetheart?”

      “Not yet,” I breathe.

      But I knock on wood, just to be safe.

      Chapter Two

      Happy Hour

      Wanda studies me over the rim of her martini glass. “So you dodged The Stick’s wrath. So what? She’s destroying your self-esteem. You know that, right?”

      “Can you please not snatch my last shred of dignity?” I’m slurring my words and licking sauce from my fingers, so my dignity is out the window anyway. We’re lounging in a booth at Jo-Jo’s, our favorite happy-hour spot. It’s right near my work, which comes in handy on days like today, when it’s all I can do to stagger across the street and collapse into Jo-Jo’s shadowy depths. Between us sits a platter piled high with chicken bones. Wanda took one look at my face and insisted on a double order. She firmly believes any sorrow can be borne if you have enough gin and extra-spicy buffalo chicken wings.

      “The bad-ass sex kitten in that picture is who you really are.” She tosses her hair over one shoulder and widens her eyes at me. “The Stick’s fat phobia is turning you into someone you’re not.”

      “Every single woman in our department’s a size two, and the guys are all jocks. That’s what she sees as ‘modern’ and ‘on trend.’”

      Her bracelets jangle as she plucks a celery stick from the carnage before us. “She’s a skinny little fascist. Pure and simple.”

      She has a point. But then, Wanda gets to be whatever she feels like; she never has to dress for somebody else’s notion of success. She’s got a trust fund, after all. I take in my best friend, feeling affectionate on my two-martini buzz. Her long blond hair is styled to look like she just went surfing, though I know she spends a fortune to achieve those careless beachy waves. Her blue-green eyes are set off with pale glittery makeup, and her outfit is an offbeat mix of upscale designer pieces set off with funky bohemian secondhand finds. Wanda Duffy sparkles. That’s the only way to describe her. She sparkled the day I met her at UC Santa Cruz, when I was stitching costumes for a student play she was in. She sparkles now, a decade later, even while destroying a celery stick with unladylike chomps, her jaw working with bovine determination.

      “I hope you realize,” she goes on, “that until you stop trying to please that horrible woman, you’re going to be miserable.”

      “Some of us have rent to pay.”

      She tilts her head and fixes me with a “girl, please” look. “That’s a suck-ass excuse and you know it. You could run your own agency by now. You don’t need The Stick. She needs you.”

      “I’m touched by your confidence in me, but—”

      “Don’t be touched! Just believe me for once.”

      I give her a weary look, and she changes the subject. Like all best friends, she knows when to give it a rest.

      “Anyway, speaking of work, I have an announcement to make.”

      I sip my drink and nod encouragement.

      “I’ve finally found my calling: fantasy matchmaker.” She looks incredibly pleased with herself.

      Though the Duffy fortune ensures Wanda will never have to work, she’s obsessed with finding a worthwhile vocation. Her worst fear is turning into her mother, whose idea of a hard day’s work involves shopping on Melrose and sushi with the girls. Of course, Wanda’s not pedestrian enough to go out and apply for a job that already exists. Instead she’s forever inventing new careers, most of which lose their shine after a few weeks, at which point she discards them without comment in favor of some new pursuit.

      My eyebrows arch. “Okay. Fantasy matchmaker. Explain.”

      “You remember Mimi Foster, Sarah Copeland’s cousin? Anyway, I had this fascinating conversation with her at a party last week about how much she loves dressing up in anime costumes and getting spanked. Needless to say, she was wasted.”

      “Random,” I comment.

      “People have a right to their proclivities,” she tells me with a pious air. “Anyway, the next night I met this banker dude at another party, and guess what he just happens to mention?”

      “Don’t tell me—he likes getting spanked, too.”

      “Not getting spanked,” she corrects, “He likes to spank. And he happens to have a thing for hentai.”

      “Which is?”

      “Japanese porn—but like, comic-book porn.” She waves a hand dismissively, not wanting to get off track. “So I fixed him up with Mimi and kapow! They hit it off.” Kapow is one of Wanda’s favorite words. God knows why.

      “A relationship based on comic-book porn?” I can’t help looking skeptical.

      She downs the rest of her drink and signals the waiter for another round. “Okay, so they might not live happily ever after, but they had an amazing night together. And it got me thinking: all these matchmaking websites, they focus on compatibility in the most conventional sense—you know, like hobbies, religious beliefs, income levels. They don’t even touch on the most powerful factor of all.” She pauses, eyebrows raised in expectation.

      “Which is...?” I prompt obediently.

      “Your secret self. Your fantasies. The dirty little wish list you don’t dare type into a form on eHarmony. When your fetish matches his, that’s a powerful bond. I consider it a public service.” She squints at me with a sly, conniving look. “And you’re going to be my first big project.”

      “Oh, no! Come on. Again?” I’m forever Wanda’s test subject, as evidenced by the “fantasy photography” session last summer.