Pretty in Ink Read Online Free Page A

they ordered in restaurants, how much of their meals they actually ate, and whether or not they requested doggie bags. A very fulfilling job, as you might imagine.”
    “Jeez. So what’s Mimi like?”
    “If I remember correctly, she’s notorious for never using the bathroom—even after downing venti lattes and on late nights. Total freak. Also, she adores purple.”
    “Huh.”
    “I’d love to keep gossiping, but I’m neglecting my risotto, and I fear if it dries out the new boss will have my head.” Debbie flashes a wicked smile.
    “Return to your stirring, then.” I swipe an apple on my way out.
    On the day of my meeting with Mimi, I’m dressed smartly in eggplant capris and a lavender button-up, a manicure to match. But my scheduled time slot comes and goes, and then the appointment is pushed back three more times. I struggle to come up with three more just-right outfits. When it’s finally my turn, I enter Mimi’s office with as much confidence as I can fake. For my first real-life encounter with the woman who’s already become a myth in my mind, I’m wearing my fourth and final purple getup, a lilac silk sheath I picked up at a BCBG sample sale (unfortunately by this point I’ve bitten my magenta nails down to the quick). I’ve brought with me a long list of my responsibilities, plus a longer list of ideas for revamping the magazine. I’m genuinely excited at the prospect of transforming Hers into a more impactful, serious-minded publication. I’m anxious to finally show off my journalistic chops.
    The first thing I notice in Mimi’s office, perched on a ledge behind the desk, is a portrait of the old boss Louisa’s children, the boy gap-toothed, the girl squinty-eyed—some sort of joke or just an oversight? My research revealed that Mimi is not a mother. I feel the kids eyeing me accusingly from within the frame, like I’m on trial.
    “I hear you work on our marriage coverage,” Mimi says, pronouncing the word “marriage” like it’s “cancer.”
    “Yes, for three years I’ve been writing the love, sex, and relationship pages.” I’m proud of the stories I’ve written for Hers, especially the marriage ones; it’s thrilling to receive dozens of letters each month from readers praising my work and thanking me for helping their relationships. “I actually have some ideas for—”
    “Are you married, then?” Mimi interrupts.
    “No.”
    “In a relationship?”
    “Well, until recently, yes.”
    “So then, no?”
    “Um, I guess not.” I flash on an image of Jacob, and my eyes blur with tears. I blink until they recede.
    “So, where do you get your ideas, Jane? How do you put yourself in the shoes of our readers?”
    “I do research, of course. I know plenty of people who are married, so I talk to them, and I pay close attention to our reader mail.” I’m trying to hang onto Mimi’s wandering attention, secretly fuming that marriage has apparently become a prerequisite for my job. Never mind that I graduated top of my class from Medill School of Journalism. “I don’t pretend to be an expert, but I have a dozen real experts on speed-dial, and their knowledge—”
    “Oh, Jane, I think the reader is bored to death of hearing how to spice things up with her slob of a husband, how she should buy lingerie to impress him, how she needs to schedule sex to stay intimate, blah blah blah. I think she’d rather die than read another article about the Holy Grail of date night.” I’m making an effort to maintain a neutral expression as my new boss insults everything I’ve covered at the magazine for three years. It’s a particularly cruel prelude to firing me, I think, but at least it will soon be over. She adds, “Don’t you agree, Jane?”
    “Uh, I guess so.” Mimi nods, like we’re now collaborators. Maybe this is a game, and she’s egging me on to see if I’ll wither under the pressure or stand up for myself. I take a breath to calm my racing heart. “I will say, I’ve