Pretty in Ink Read Online Free Page B

gotten lots of mail from women grateful for our sex and marriage advice. And Dr. Sharon Hellerman—”
    “Oh, Christ, Dr. Sharon Hellerman!” Mimi emits a strange sound that may or may not be laughter. “Do you think that old bag has had sex once in the past decade? I picture Sharon and her husband of a thousand years sitting down to watch reruns of Love Boat each night, then chastely kissing each other on the cheek and tucking themselves in to twin beds, Bert-and-Ernie style. Marriage expert, ha! Please don’t let me catch her name in the magazine again.”
    I jot down, “No more Dr. H,” wondering how I’ll cancel this afternoon’s phone interview without rescheduling.
    “Listen, Jane, you’re a young, attractive, unattached girl. If you showed up at a dinner party full of our readers, you’d be the star of the show. The rest of them would be coupled up and likely bored to death of their partners, dying to hear your stories from the fun, exciting single life. They’d hang on your every word about your latest first-date catastrophe or the mind-blowing sex you had with the guy you met out at the bar last night. And believe me, I’ve been on both sides of the fence, so I know what I’m talking about.”
    I’m nodding furiously, as if I have a clue about what it’s like to have a wild one-night stand, and like it’s no big deal to chat about it with my new boss.
    “So how about this?” Mimi says. “What I’d like you to do is to start a blog on our Web site. We’ll call it something like ‘Sex and the Single Girl: Having Her Fun Before She Snags the Ring,’ and you can chronicle the highs and the lows of your dating life. OK?”
    “Jeez, well . . .”
    “All right, then. Good talk. We’ll get to the rest of your pages as we go along. Great to meet you, Ms. Jane Staub-Smith.” Mimi clicks her red pen, shakes my hand, and then calls Laura in to usher me out of her office.
    Back at my computer, I neglect my e-mail and instead load up a game of Tetris. I think of Marjorie Dawson, the woman I’ve invented to be the face of our eight million readers, the one I picture when I come up with story ideas and the one I write to. There Marjorie is returning from her dental hygienist gig to her home in the suburbs of Minneapolis, a bag of groceries tucked under each arm, a golden retriever lapping at her feet, and an eight-year-old son answering her greeting without peeling his eyes from the newest Pixar flick playing on the screen. I imagine Marjorie starting dinner, then taking a break to log on to HersMag.com, where she’s confronted with the latest post on “Sex and the Single Girl,” a recounting of my botched make-out with that awful chubby guy after I downed one too many margaritas last Friday night. I shudder at the thought.
    “Jane, are you trying to get yourself fired?” Leah appears in my cubicle and reaches across the keyboard to close out my Tetris game.
    “Hey, I was about to beat that level.” Leah’s I’m-disappointed-in-you look is the worst; nothing makes me feel guiltier. “So, Mimi wants me to start a blog.”
    “Oh, yuck.” Leah shares my disapproval of the oversharing epidemic that’s infected our culture; still, we’re careful to keep our reproach under wraps, for fear of becoming office pariahs. “Well, do you think you impressed her? Did she like your ideas?”
    “I honestly have no idea,” I say.
    Leah nods, betraying nothing, but I imagine she’s mourning the loss of her power. As executive editor, Leah was in charge by default during that strange, rudderless week post-Louisa and pre-Mimi, although we all understood that her authority had an expiration date.
     
    “Jane, we have a problem.” I can identify that high-pitched whine anywhere, and I feel myself breaking out in blotch: Sylvia Rogers, Hers ’ research chief, marches up to my cube.
    “What’s wrong?” I ask, not really up for a Sylvia confrontation after my dress-down with Mimi.
    “We have a red-alert