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looks at me for the first time. But he still can’t meet my eyes.
    “No,” he says, finally. “You, er, didn’t. Not this time.”
    And then he looks back down at the paper clip, and he is obviously nervous, which is odd. Unnatural. He is usually the epitome of comfort in his own environment.
    I swallow the lump of disappointment and try to be calm and reasonable. But I deserve that job. I worked so hard to prove myself and I thought I’d succeeded.
    “Why not?” I ask, clutching the seat of my chair, which ismuch lower down than Adam’s, so I have to look up at him to get this bad news.
    “I’d be great with my own accounts—you know how much input I gave to the Kitty Krunch and Perfect Pantyhose campaigns,” I say, pleased that my voice is more assertive than I feel. And then, “Who did get it, then?”
    “It was felt that Lou Russo should be appointed. On this occasion. But not by me, of course,” Adam stresses, then gives a guilty little laugh.
    This is the icing on the cake. I must be hallucinating. I would rather Angie of the Cruella eyebrows beat me to a job than Lou Russo.
    “He only spent last summer here for work experience. How could they choose him instead of me? Don’t you remember how useless he was?” I know I sound whiny and a bit bitchy, but I can’t help it.
    Lou Russo is twenty-two years old and probably needs to shave once a week, max. He is also a nasty little boy who made my life last summer a living hell. Because he was given the title of Trainee Junior Account Manager, working for Johnny Cray (my boss before Adam), and also because he was a soon-to-be Ivy League graduate (paid for by Daddy’s money), he took great delight in thinking up all manner of meaningless, menial tasks for me, the Brainless Secretary, to do.
    My favorite was the constant request for coffee. He sat much closer to the coffee cubicle than me, but he found it amusing to watch me trot back and forth when I really had better things to do. The thing I couldn’t figure out was why he wanted to watch me trot back and forth—my cleavage is definitely not of the bouncing variety.
    “But how come he got it instead of me? I’m experienced—I’ve been working on your accounts for five months now, and I come up with great ideas. Why would William Cougan pass me over? What did he say to you?” I know I’m babbling, but I can’t seem to switch off my mouth.
    “Oh, you know, usual reasons,” Adam mumbles. “Lou has a good degree from a prestigious school.”
    He then proceeds to mutilate another paper clip and I am confused, because I know that Lou got a very mediocre degree, because, apart from the fact that Tracey the secretary in Human Resources told me so, Lou is a very mediocre person with no imagination.
    “I have a degree, too,” I tell him. “In fact, I have two degrees. I graduated with honors. Last month. You came to my graduation, remember?”
    I originally studied English Literature in London.
    Now, a degree in English literature is all very well. If you want me to explain Shakespeare’s use of imagery or if you want a reasonably accurate translation of Chaucer, I’m your woman. But English literature degrees don’t seem to hold much sway in this company. Which is precisely why I put myself to the trouble of taking another degree—this time in business studies. At a great deal of inconvenience to myself and my loved ones, because it meant nighttime classes. Plus, I paid for it myself, which meant less cash donations for Human Rights and World Peace. And obviously excluded the possibility of Manolo Blahnik shoes.
    “And my degree is better than his,” I tell Adam, now indignant that I have been passed over for such a pathetic reason. “In fact, both of my degrees are better than his one degree, so it can’t be the degree issue. Come on. Give me some more to work with, here.”
    Maybe I’m too old, I worry, chewing on my bottom lip.
    “Oh, you know, er,” Adam bumbles on heartily in a