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her cat’s-eye reading glasses. I’d figured out at my first meeting that this was her signal to begin.
    We were in the eighth-floor conference room, whose windows overlooked Twenty-third Street. I sat between Debra’s assistant, Jemma, and Latoya. Always stylish, Jemma sported a gossamer white blouse under a black Betsy Johnson corset top, a red-and-white-checked miniskirt, and round-toed heels that reminded me of Minnie Mouse. The only suggestion that she wasn’t as perfect as she looked were the raggedy cuticles lining her ballet-slipper-pink manicure. Evidently pressure got to her, too.
    Latoya wore a thick gray cashmere sweater, a straight black skirt, and piles of oversize black beads around her neck. She looked like Debra’s style protégée, which of course she was. In my own jelly-stained shirt and absurdly out-of-season skirt, I looked like the protégée of a bag lady.
    “Let’s start with Hooking Up/Breaking Up.” Debra fixed her gaze on Lisa Weinstock, the plump and brilliant editor whose department handled celebrity couples. “What’s coming up, Lisa?”
    Lisa brushed her magenta-streaked bangs away from her eyes. “Totally fresh scoop, including trouble in paradise for Jen and you-know-who. We’ve also got cell-phone pix of Ashlee flirting with Nick at Bungalow 8—nothing like hitting on your sister’s ex to make a splash.”
    “Excellent,” Debra said as heads bobbed in agreement all around the table. Of course, if Debra had agreed that a pictorial on donkey sex was “totally fresh,” heads would’ve bobbed.
    “Latoya?” Debra asked. “Center story?”
    This was the department for which I was an underling.
Scoop
did one weekly four-page “article” in the center of each issue.
    “I’m working on a piece with Demi’s daughter Rumer,” Latoya reported. “An inside look at her mom, Bruce, Ashton, blah blah blah. Her photographs; she’ll write captions.”
    “Excellent, Latoya.” Debra’s head turned slightly until I was squarely in her gun sights. “Megan? What’s your best new story idea?”
    A dozen sets of eyes swung in my direction. I willed my face to remain this side of vermilion, but apparently, biofeedback wasn’t working.
    “Well . . . I was thinking about a story on . . .” Think, Megan,
think
. “Some new studies are suggesting that a decline in breast cancer may be connected to a decline in menopausal women’s use of hormone replacement therapy.”
    Someone snickered, but Debra’s face was inscrutable. She rolled a forefinger, indicating that I should continue.
    “And that had me wondering what the connection might be to other forms of, um, hormones.” I felt my face flaming. “Like the pill,” I finished.
    Debra raised her eyebrows at Latoya. “Did Megan discuss this with you?”
    “No.” Latoya was more than emphatic.
    This was not good.
    “Would anyone like to comment?”
    Jemma raised a finger. “People read
Scoop
to
escape
reality, not to read about it. Cancer? Hormones?
Menopause?
I mean, ew.”
    I don’t know if it was the weekend or my jealousy that James had gotten to write about something with a modicum of intelligence or that I’ll always be my parents’ daughter, but I couldn’t help myself. “Don’t you think we have some responsibility to our readers?” I asked. “We have a broader reach than almost any newspaper. Maybe we should do . . .
something
. . . with that.”
    Jemma glanced skyward in an apparent appeal to heaven to deliver her from me. “We write about important things
all the time
. But nothing goes wrong that a very expensive stint in rehab, or some very expensive plastic surgery, or perhaps a very,
very
expensive vacation on a private island can’t fix. And
that’s
what our magazine is about.”
    “I think—” Latoya began.
    “Excuse me. Does anyone smell
smoke
?” Jemma wrinkled her irritatingly pointy nose, which got a dozen other noses twitching like bunnies’ at a petting zoo. Shit. My shoes. I ever so