The Art of French Kissing Read Free Page A

as work when my life had just fallen apart.
    Just past ten, Andrea, my boss, stopped by my desk. I had just put in my third series of Visine drops that morning, in an attempt to mask my bloodshot eyes. I hoped that the tactic was working. I knew how the emotionless Andrea despised it when her employees brought their personal problems to work.
    “Great job with the 407 account,” she said. They were named 407 because Max Hedgefield—whom everyone called Hedge—had apparently run out of silly phrases to string together and had thus resorted to using the area code for Orlando, the birthplace of modern boy bands.
    “Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile at her through blurry eyes. I
had
done a good job, and I knew it. One of our 407 boys had decided to come out of the closet the week their album was released, and I thought I had handled the resultant media storm gracefully. Thank goodness Lance Bass had blazed the way for boy-loving boy banders everywhere. Danny Ruben, the out-and-proud lead singer of our band, had been welcomed by the media with open arms, and as a result of all the publicity, 407’s album had climbed the charts even more quickly than expected.
    “We need to talk about something,” Andrea said. She looked down at her left hand and examined her perfectly manicured fingernails intently.
    “Okay.”
    Maybe
, I thought with a little jolt of hope,
I’m about to be promoted.
After all, I certainly deserved it. I’d been with the company for four years, and although I was running the 407 and O-Girlz accounts by myself, I was only a PR coordinator. I’d heard rumors lately about a company reorganization, and I had my fingers crossed that I was next in line to move into a PR managing director position, which came with a substantial pay bump.
    “Emma, sweetie,” Andrea chirped, glancing now at the perfect nails on her right hand, “Hedge has decided to downsize a little bit, so I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.”
    I could feel my vision cloud up, despite the Visine.
    “What?” I must have heard her wrong.
    “Don’t worry!” she went on brightly, glancing away. “We’re offering four weeks’ severance, and I’d be happy to write you a nice letter of recommendation.”
    “Wait, you’re
firing
me?” I asked in disbelief.
    Andrea looked back at me and smiled cheerfully. “No, no, Emma, we’re
laying you off
!” she said, carefully enunciating the last three words. “It’s a totally different thing! I’m very sorry. But we’d appreciate it if you could have your desk cleared out by noon. And please try not to make a scene.”
    “A . . . a scene?” I stammered. What did she think I was going to do, throw my computer at the wall? Not that that would necessarily be a bad idea, come to think of it.
    She leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You’re just so well liked around here, Emma,” she said. “It would be bad for company morale if you create a scene, you know. Please, for the good of Boy Bandz. We truly are sorry we have to let you go.”
    I tried to wrap my mind around what she was saying. I felt numb, like someone had just smacked me across the face.
    “But . . . why?” I asked after a moment. My stomach was tying itself into strange, tight knots. I worried for a moment that the granola bar I’d eaten on the way to work was about to make a reappearance. “Why me?”
    Andrea looked momentarily concerned and then flashed me a bright smile. “Emma, dear, we’re just downsizing,” she said. “It’s nothing personal, I assure you. You’re very overqualified for your current position, and there’s simply no room for growth here. Besides, I’m sure you’ll find another job in a jiff ! I’m happy to be a reference for you, of course.”
    I didn’t bother reminding her that Boy Bandz was the only record label in town. Or that it would now be impossible to walk back into Columbia Records in New York after I’d already rejected their