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funny, but it’s not like you’ve got a whole lot of other offers on the table right now, is it?”
    Kate bridled at Lise’s reminder of the so-far unmeteoric pace of her career. “Well, no, but the editor, Alexis, said she knew someone called Lisette and I figured that might be you.”
    “How would she know me? Lise is short for Lisette? I guess it could be, but—oh, my God, I bet she’s like Meryl Streep in that film!”
    “ Silkwood ? The one about the nuclear plant?”
    “No! The Devil Wears Prada , you idiot!”
    “Oh . . . I don’t know. . . . Well, now I think they might have meant me after all, because they had my number, my name, they knew I’d done the Trisha story—they said my brilliance was shining!”
    “So . . . that’s great then, isn’t it? I mean, what’s the problem? That’s great, Kate! Oh, my God! You’ll get a boyfriend finally! A native New Yorker! When are you going? Can I come and stay? Do you get a flat or something?”
    “Look, for the umpteenth time, I don’t want a boyfriend, remember? My career comes first. Anyway, I just wrote saying they’d made a mistake.”
    “You did what?”
    “I e-mailed saying they’d made a mistake and to call me.”
    “Well, can’t you un-e-mail it? Isn’t there some button you can just call it back on?”
    “Lise . . . e-mail, computers, they don’t—”
    Suddenly a friendly “ping” alerted Kate to a new e-mail appearing.
    “Wait . . . I’ll call you back.” She hung up.
    So this was it, her one big chance to leave Maidstone behind, to enter the international world of journalism, to sidestep from big celebrity interviews to beauty, to write in-depth, probing articles on animal testing and the perils of a culture obsessed with antiaging, to segue effortlessly, eventually, to a healthy sideline in an eco-friendly cosmetics and skin care brand that would raise funds for global development and environmental issues, that would have Bono and Sting and every other aging rock star clamoring to front her charitable causes . . . all gone. Her knuckles felt stiff as she hit Open.
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    Dear Kate,
    I am so sorry, you’re right, I’ve amended the contract address so that it now reads correctly. Apologies. Please don’t tell Alexis—I assure you I will be more vigilant in the future. Let me know if there is anything I can do to ease your relocation in the meantime.
    Kind regards, Lizbet
    At 9:00 a.m. the following morning Kate had her resignation letter typed and on her editor’s desk.
    At 10:00 a.m., Brian Palmers, in a speech to the entire staff, said he was saddened, understandably, having always had a soft spot for Kate, who had been working at Maidstone Bazaar since she had arrived ten years ago, at age twenty-two, to make teas (why did he always have to remind her about the tea?). One of their most talented writers, she had produced some of the magazine’s finest stories, including his all-time favorite, “Local Man Wins Worst DIY Husband of the Year,” and now of course, the mag’s biggest celebrity coup, Trisha Hillmory ! She would be sorely missed, but he was happy she was moving on to brighter pastures, becoming a beauty consultant, imagine that! Director , Kate had corrected, but he’d only repeated beauty consultant , as if she’d be orange-faced, white-coated, and working at the cosmetics counter in the local department store. It was particularly good she was leaving now that Stacey had confirmed she would be returning after her maternity leave after all, and he wouldn’t have been able to promote Kate; in fact, he’d been chatting with Tania about it yesterday afternoon at the pub, funny how fate played its cards. He knew that his training program and her experience under his directorship had no doubt in some—he coughed for effect here—small way contributed to her advancement.
    “Now on your way, Kate!” he laughed, patting her bottom. Kate had winced. Tania,