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degree,” she went on. “The salary is quite low, of course, and I am not an easy employer—I have incredibly high standards and I expect—no, I demand— competence and professionalism from my employees. I tolerate nothing less. But it’s also an entry-level position at the top magazine in the country—and the world, and there are any number of more qualified graduates who would sell their mothers into sexual slavery to get this job and learn from me.” She snapped her fingers. “Always bear in mind that I can replace you like that.”
    I stared at the card. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
    â€œ Thank you would be a good place to start.” She stood up, finishing the whiskey and setting the empty glass down on the table. “And from now on, you’ll have to earn your keep.” She shook her head. “This is undoubtedly an enormous mistake I will regret.” She walked back into the house.
    That was the last time I spoke to her before my first day on the job.
    And that was how I came to be living in a roach-infested three-hundred-square-foot one-room apartment in a very seedy area of Hell’s Kitchen within three weeks of my father’s funeral. The outrageously expensive rent almost equaled one of my twice-a-month paychecks. Most of the time there was no hot water, there was no air-conditioning, and I doubted there would be much heat in the winter. It didn’t really matter much, though—I was hardly ever there.
    But I was living in New York, working for Street Talk magazine as the personal assistant to one of the biggest names in magazine publishing, Valerie Franklin—the envy of everyone I’d gone to college with, the envy of everyone with a journalism degree working as a barista or waiting tables while they tried to break into the business.
    I was living the dream of every journalism student.
    This was something I had to keep reminding myself on an almost daily basis.
    Valerie Franklin had said she was not “an easy employer,” but there was no way I could have known what an understatement that would actually prove to be. It was particularly eye opening for me since I had never worked before. I was on call twenty-four hours a day, and at least three times per day I was called on the carpet for another one of my “exceptional failures,” as she referred to them. Everyone at the magazine was terrified of her and her moods, and those moods could—and did—change in the blink of an eye.
    But she pushed herself just as hard as she pushed all of us, with an almost inhuman energy that never flagged. She was always operating at a high level. She was in her office every morning at seven—and I had to make sure the coffee was brewed and ready to be poured for her. She never left the office before seven in the evening—and many times went from the office to a function of some sort or a party. I was in charge of making sure her life—personal and professional—ran smoothly. I was in the office myself at five—it took at least two hours to get her schedule together for her day, and I often was answering e-mails and returning calls until one in the morning.
    I kept primarily to myself—I didn’t have time to gossip or be friendly with anyone else at the office, or any of my neighbors. I lived in New York for a year without ever seeing a play or going to a museum. I was usually so exhausted by the time the weekend rolled around—provided, of course, that it wasn’t a working weekend, which they so often turned out to be—that the last thing I wanted to do was leave my horrible little apartment and be around people. Working at Street Talk had helped me learn how to talk to coworkers and deal with situations as they developed—but unfortunately that didn’t translate into my personal life. I still couldn’t think of anything to say to people, got nervous and clumsy around