Authors: Meg Cabot
To: Mel Fuller
From: George Sanchez
Subject: There’s a story here
The only story here is the one I haven’t heard. And that would be the story of why, just because your neighbor got whacked on the head, you couldn’t come into the office, or even call anyone to let him know where you were.
Now that is a story I’d really enjoy hearing.
George
To: George Sanchez
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Where I was
George, you are so coldhearted. I found my neighbor facedown in her living room, the victim of a brutal attack, and you think all I should have been concerned about was calling my employer to explain why I was going to be late?
Well, I’m sorry, George, but the thought never even crossed my mind. I mean, Mrs. Friedlander is my friend! I wanted to go with her in the ambulance, but there was the little problem of Paco.
Or should I say the big problem of Paco. Paco is Mrs. Friedlander’s Great Dane, George. He weighs a hundred and twenty-nine pounds, George, which is more than I weigh.
And he needed to go out. Badly.
So after I took him out, I fed him and watered him and did the same to Tweedledum and Mr. Peepers, her Siamese cats (Tweedledee, sadly, expired last year). While I was doing this, the cops were checking her door for signs of forced entry. But there was none, George.
Do you know what this means? It means she probably knew her attacker, George. She probably let him in of her own volition!
Even more bizarrely, there was $276 in cash in her purse that had been left untouched. Ditto her jewelry, George. This was no robbery.
George, why don’t you believe there’s a story here? Something is wrong. Very wrong.
When I finally did get to the hospital, I was informed that Mrs. Friedlander was in surgery. Doctors were frantically trying to relieve the pressure on her brain from a giant blood clot that had formed beneath her skull! What was I supposed to do, George? Leave? The cops couldn’t get in touch with anybody from her family. I’m all she has, George.
Twelve hours. Twelve hours it took them. I had to go to her apartment to walk Paco twice before the surgery was even finished. And when it was, the doctors came out and told me it had only been partially successful. Mrs. Friedlander is in a coma, George! She may never come out of it.
And until she does, guess who’s stuck taking care of Paco, Tweedledum, and Mr. Peepers?
Go on. Guess, George.
I’m not trying to get sympathy here. I know. I should have called. But work was not necessarily foremost in my mind at the time, George.
But, listen, now that I’m finally here what would you think
about letting me write up a little something about what happened? You know, we could hit it from the be-careful-who-you-let-into-your-apartment angle. The cops are still looking for Mrs. Friedlander’s closest relative—her nephew, I think—but when they find him, I could interview him. You know, the woman really was a wonder. At eighty, she still goes to the gym three times a week, and last month she flew to Helsinki for a performance of the
Rings
. Seriously. Her husband was Henry Friedlander, of the Friedlander twistie fortune. You know, those twist-ties that go on garbage bags? She’s worth six or seven million at least.
Come on, George. Let me give it a try. You can’t keep me doing gossip for Page Ten forever.
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: George Sanchez
Subject: You can’t keep me doing gossip for Page Ten forever
Yes, I can.
And do you know why? Because I am the managing editor of this newspaper, and I can do whatever I want.
Besides, Fuller, we need you on Page Ten.
Would you like to know why we need you on Page Ten? Because the fact is, Fuller, you care. You care about Winona Ryder’s legal battles. You care that Harrison Ford’s had a chemical peel. You care about Courtney Love’s breasts, and whether or not they are silicone.
Admit it, Fuller. You care.
The other thing ain’t a story, Fuller. Old ladies get bonked on the head for their Social Security checks every day.
It’s called a telephone. Next time, call.
Capisce?
Now get me the copy on the Prada opening.
George
To: George Sanchez
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: I do not care about Courtney Love’s breasts….
…and you’ll be sorry for not letting me run with the friedlander story, George. I’m telling you, there’s something there. I can smell it.
And by the way, Harrison would NEVER get a chemical peel.
Mel
P.S.: And who doesn’t care about Winona Ryder? Look how cute she is. Don’t you want her free, George?
To: Human Resources
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: My Tardiness
Dear Human Resources,
What can I say? You caught me. I guess my
and any number of other conditions have finally caused me to hit bottom. Please enroll me in the Staff Assistance Program right away! If you could hook me up with a shrink who looks like Brendan Fraser, and preferably conducts his therapy sessions with his shirt off, I’d appreciate it.
Because the primary condition from which I am suffering is that I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman living in New York City, and I cannot find a decent guy. Just one guy who won’t cheat on me, doesn’t live with his mother, and isn’t turning to the Arts section of the
Chronicle
first thing Sunday morning, if you know what I mean. Is that asking so much???
See if your Staff Assistance Program can handle that.
Mel Fuller
Page Ten Columnist
New York Journal
To: Aaron Spender
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Can’t we sit down and discuss this like adults?
There’s nothing to discuss. Really, Aaron, I’m sorry for throwing my bag at you. It was a childish outburst that I deeply regret.
And I don’t want you to think that the reason we’re breaking
up has anything to do with Barbara. Really, Aaron, we were over a long time before you ever told me about Barbara. Let’s face it, Aaron, we’re just too different: You like Stephen Hawking. I like Stephen King.
You know it would never have worked.
Mel
To: Dolly Vargas
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Aaron Spender
I did not throw my bag. It slipped out of my hand when I was reaching for my drink, and accidentally flew through the air and hit Aaron in the eye.
And if you want him, Dolly, you can have him.
Mel
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Where I was
Okay, okay, I should have called. The whole thing was just a nightmare. But get this. This, you’re never going to believe:
Aaron cheated on me in Kabul.
That’s right. And you’ll never guess with whom. Seriously. Try to guess. You never will.
All right, I’ll tell you: Barbara Bellerieve.
Uh-huh. You read that correctly: Barbara Bellerieve, respected senior ABC news correspondent, most recently host of the television news magazine
TwentyFourSeven
, and voted one of
People
magazine’s fifty most beautiful people last month.
Can you believe she slept with AARON??? I mean, she could have George Clooney, for God’s sake. What would she want with AARON???
Not that I didn’t suspect. I always thought those stories he kept e-mailing in during that month he was on assignment were way too smug.
You know how I found out? Do you? He TOLD me. He felt he was “ready to reach the next level of intimacy” with me (three guesses as to what level THAT is), and that in order to do so he felt he had to “make a clean breast” of it. He says ever since it happened he’s been “wracked with guilt” and that “none of it meant anything.”
God, what a putz. I can’t believe I wasted three months of my life on him.
Are there no decent men out there? I mean, besides Tony. I swear, Nadine, your boyfriend is the last good man on earth. The last one! You hang on to him, and don’t let go, because I’m telling you, it’s a jungle out there.
Mel
P.S.: Can’t go to lunch today, I have to go home and walk my neighbor’s dog.
P.P.S.: Don’t ask; it’s a long story.
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: That jerk
Look, the guy did you a favor. Be honest, Mel. Did you really picture a future for the two of you? I mean, he smokes a PIPE, for crying out loud. And what’s with all that classical music? Who does he think he is, anyway? Harold Bloom?
No. He’s a reporter, just like the rest of us. He’s not out there writing fine literature. So what’s with that bust of William Shakespeare he keeps on top of his monitor?
The man is a big phony, and you know it, Mel. That’s why, in spite of the fact you two went out for three months, you never slept with him.
Remember?
Nad ;-)
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: That jerk
I never slept with him because of that goatee. How was I supposed to sleep with someone who looks like Robin Hood?
He didn’t want me enough even to shave.
What’s wrong with me, Nad? Am I really not worth shaving for?
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: That jerk
Give up the pity quest, Mel. You know you’re gorgeous. The man is obviously suffering from a psychiatric disorder. We should sic Amy Jenkins on him.
Why can’t you go to lunch today? And don’t worry, I don’t mean Burger Heaven. If I don’t get down to a size 12 in two months, the wedding’s off. Every girl in my family has worn my mother’s dress to her wedding. I am not going to be the first Wilcock to schlep out to Klinefeld’s.
Nad :-)
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Lunch
Can’t do lunch. I have to go home and walk Mrs. Friedlander’s dog.
Did you hear the latest? Chris Noth and Winona.
I’m not kidding. They were seen kissing in front of Crunch Fitness Center on Lafayette Street.
How could she be so blind? Can’t she see he isn’t any good for her? I mean, look what he did to poor Sarah Jessica Parker in
Sex and the City
.
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Reality check
Mel, I hate to break this to you, but
Sex and the City
is a fictional program. You might have heard already that there are these things called TV shows? Yeah, they are fictional. What happens on them in no way reflects real life. For instance, in real life, Sarah Jessica Parker is married to Matthew Broderick, and so whatever Chris Noth’s character did to her character on her show, it didn’t actually happen.
In other words, I think you should be less concerned for Winona, and more worried about yourself.
That’s just my opinion, of course.
Nad
To: Mel Fuller
cc: Nadine Wilcock
From: Tim Grabowski
Subject: CONFIDENTIAL
All right, girls, hold on to your hats. I got the information you requested, the salary increases for next year. It wasn’t easy.
If you tell anybody where you got this information, I will accuse you both of having gambling addictions, and you’ll be yanked into the Staff Assistance Program before either of you can whistle “Dixie.”
Here goes:
| Name: | Position: | Salary: |
| Peter Hargrave | Editor in Chief | $120,000 |
| George Sanchez | Managing Editor | $85,000 |
| Dolly Vargas | Style Editor | $75,000 |
| Aaron Spender | Chief Correspondent | $75,000 |
| Nadine Wilcock | Food Critic | $45,000 |
| Melissa Fuller | Page Ten Columnist | $45,000 |
| Amy Jenkins | Human Resources Administrator | $45,000 |
Read it and weep, girls.
Timothy Grabowski
Computer Programmer
New York Journal
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: CONFIDENTIAL
I can’t believe Amy Jenkins makes as much as we do. What does SHE do? Sits around and listens to people whine all day about their dental plan.
Please.
I’m surprised about Dolly. I’d have thought she made more. I mean, how does she keep herself in Hermès scarves on a mere $75,000 a year?
Nad ;-)
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: CONFIDENTIAL
Are you kidding? Dolly comes from money. Haven’t you ever heard her talk about how she used to summer in Newport?
I was going to ask Aaron out for an I-forgive-you drink after work—NOT to get back together with him, just so he’ll stop with the Wagner already—but now that I see how much more he makes than I do, I can’t even bear to look at him. I KNOW I’m a better writer than he is. So what’s he getting $75,000 per year, while I’m stuck at $45,000, doing fashion shows and movie premieres?
Mel