Authors: Meg Cabot
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: CONFIDENTIAL
Um, because you’re good at them? Fashion shows and movie premieres, I mean.
Nad ;-)
P.S.: I have to do that new Peking duck place on Mott. Come with me.
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Lunch
I can’t. You know I can’t. I’ve got to walk Paco.
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Lunch and that dog
Okay, how long is this going to go on? You and that dog, I mean? I can’t be going out to eat by myself every day. Who’s going to keep me from ordering the double-patty cheddar melt?
I am serious. This dog thing is not working for me.
Nad
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Lunch and that dog
What am I supposed to do, Nadine? Let the poor thing sit in the apartment all day until he bursts? I know you aren’t a dog person, but have some compassion. It’s only until Mrs. Friedlander gets better.
Mel
P.S.: This just in: Harrison Ford and his wife? On again. I swear it. His publicist just called.
I’m just glad for the kids, you know? Because that’s what it’s all about.
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: It’s only until Mrs. Friedlander gets better
And when is THAT going to be? Earth to Mel. Come in, Mel. The woman is in a COMA. Okay? She is COMATOSE. I think some alternative arrangements for the woman’s pets need to be made. You are a DOORMAT. A COMATOSE woman is using you as a DOORMAT.
The woman has to have some relatives, Mel. FIND THEM.
Besides, people shouldn’t keep Great Danes in the city. It’s cruel.
Nad :-(
P.S.: You are the only person I know who still cares about Harrison and his wife patching things up. Give it up, girl.
To: Mel Fuller
From: Don and Beverly Fuller
Subject: Debbie Phillips
Melissa, honey, it’s Mom. Look, your father and I got e-mail! Isn’t it great? Now I can write to you, and maybe you’ll answer for a change!
Just kidding, sweetheart.
Anyway, Daddy and I thought you’d want to know that little Debbie Phillips—you remember Debbie, don’t you? Dr. Phillips’s little girl? He was your dentist. And wasn’t Debbie Homecoming Queen your senior year in high school? Anyway, Debbie’s just got married! Yes! The announcement was in the paper.
And do you know what, Melissa? The
Duane County Register
is on the line now…. Oh, Daddy says it’s ON-LINE, not on the line. Well, whatever. I get so confused.
Anyway, Debbie’s announcement is ON-LINE, so I am sending it to you, as what they call an attachment. I hope you enjoy it, dear. She’s marrying a doctor from Westchester! Well, we always knew she’d do well for herself. All that lovely blonde hair. And look, she graduated summa cum laude from Princeton! Then she went to law school. So impressive.
Not that there’s anything wrong with being a reporter. Reporters are just as important as lawyers! And Lord knows we all need to read some nice gossip now and then. Why, did you hear about Ted Turner and Martha Stewart? You could have knocked me over with a feather.
Well, enjoy! And you make sure you lock your door at night. Daddy and I worry about you, living there in that big city all alone.
Bye for now,
Mommy
Attachment: (Glam photo of wedding couple)
Deborah Marie Phillips, the daughter of Dr. and Mrs. Reed Andrew Phillips of Lansing, was married last week to Michael Bourke, the son of Dr. and Mrs. Reginald Bourke of Chapaqua, New York. The Rev. James Smith performed the ceremony at the Roman Catholic Church of Saint Anthony in Lansing.
Ms. Phillips, 26, is an associate at Schuler, Higgins, and Brandt, the international law firm based in New York. She received a bachelor’s degree from Princeton, from which she graduated summa cum laude, and a law degree from Harvard. Her father is a dentist and oral surgeon in Lansing, operating the Phillips Dental Practice.
Mr. Bourke, 31, received a bachelor’s degree from Yale and an MBA from Columbia University. He is an associate at the investment banking group of Lehman Brothers. His father, now retired, was the president of Bourke & Associates, a private investment firm.
After a honeymoon trip to Thailand, the couple will reside in Chapaqua.
To: Mel Fuller
From: Dolly Vargas
Subject: Mothers
Darling, when I heard all that anguished shrieking from your cubicle just now I thought at the very least Tom Cruise had finally come out of the closet. But Nadine tells me it’s just because you received an e-mail from your mother.
How well I understand. And I am so glad my mother is far too drunk ever to learn to operate a keyboard. I highly suggest you send your doting parents a case of Campari and have done with it. Trust me, it’s the only way to shut them up on the dreaded subject of “M.” As in, “Why aren’t you M yet? All your friends are M. You aren’t even trying to get M. Don’t you want me to see my grandchildren before I die?”
As if I would EVER give birth. I suppose a well-mannered little six-year-old would be all right, but they simply don’t COME that way. You have to TRAIN them.
Too tiresome. I can understand your anguish.
XXXOOO
Dolly
P.S.: Did you notice Aaron shaved? It’s a pity. I never realized what a weak chin he has.
To: Mel Fuller
From: Amy Jenkins
Subject: Staff Assistance Program
Dear Ms. Fuller,
You might think it amusing to make light of the Human Resources Department’s Staff Assistance Program, but I can assure you that we have helped many of your coworkers through dark and difficult times. Through counseling and therapy, they have all gone on to lead meaningful, profitable lives. I find it disheartening that you would belittle a program that has done so much for so many.
Please note that a copy of your latest e-mail has been placed in your personnel file, and will be available to your supervisor during your next performance review.
Amy Jenkins
Human Resources Administrator
New York Journal
To: Amy Jenkins
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Staff Assistance Program
Dear Ms. Jenkins,
What I find disheartening is the fact that I reached out to you and all the other Human Resource Administrators, and instead of being given the aid I so desperately need, I was brutally rebuffed. Are you saying that my chronic status as a single woman is not worthy of assistance? Do I have to tell you how demoralizing it is to buy Lean Cuisines Fiesta Meals for One every night at the Food Emporium? What about having to order my pizza by the slice? Do you think that isn’t whittling away at my self-esteem, slice by disheartening slice?
And what about salad? Do you have any idea how many pounds of lettuce I have ingested in an effort to maintain my size 6 figure, so that I might entice a man? Even though it goes against every fiber of my feminist being to cater to the misogynistic mores that exists in Western culture that insist that attractiveness is equal to one’s waist size?
If you are trying to say that being a single woman in New York City is not a disability, then I respectfully submit that you visit a Manhattan deli on a Saturday night. Who do you see crowded around the salad bar?
That’s right. The single girls.
Face reality, Amy. It’s a jungle out there. It’s kill or be killed. I am merely suggesting that you, as a mental health expert, accept that truth, and move on.
Melissa Fuller
Page Ten Columnist
New York Journal
To: Mel Fuller
From: George Sanchez
Subject: Cut it out
Stop teasing Amy Jenkins down in Human Resources. You know she doesn’t have a sense of humor.
If you have so much free time, come to me. I’ll give you plenty to do. The obit guy just quit.
George
To: Mel Fuller
From: Aaron Spender
Subject: Forgive me
I don’t know where to begin. First of all, I can’t stand this. You ask what “this” is.
I’ll tell you: “This” is sitting here all day, seeing you there in your cubicle, knowing that you said you never want to speak to me again.
“This” is watching you walk toward me, thinking you might have changed your mind, only to have you pass by without so much as even glancing in my direction.
“This” is knowing that you’ll walk out of here at the end of the day, that I will have no idea where you will be, what you will do, and that an abyss of time will elapse before you walk back in here the next day.
“This” is—or should I say, “these are”?—the countless hours during which my mind leaves me, and pursues you out the door, following
you in a journey that leads nowhere, right back where I started, sitting here thinking about “this.”
Aaron Spender
Senior Correspondent
New York Journal
To: Aaron Spender
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: “This”
That was really moving, Aaron. Have you ever considered writing fiction for a living?
Seriously. I think you’ve got real talent.
Mel
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Tony Salerno
Subject: We got e-mail
Nad!!! Look!!! We got e-mail!!!
Isn’t it righteous? You can write to me at [email protected] Get it? I’m foodie because I’m the chef!!!
Anyway, just thought I’d say hi. Now we can e-mail each other all day long!
What are you wearing? How come you never wear to work that bustier I got you?
Do you want to know tonight’s specials?
I’ll save you some bisque.
Hey, by the way, my uncle Giovanni’s throwing us an engagement party next weekend. Nothing fancy, just out by the pool at his house in Long Island. So keep Saturday free!
Love you,
Tony
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Another one
Look, Tony’s uncle Gio is throwing us an engagement party (yes, another one) and I’m telling you right now, YOU HAVE GOT TO COME. Seriously, Mel, I don’t think I can handle another round of Salernos without you. You know what they’re like.
And this one has a pool. You know they’re going to throw me in. You just know it.
Say you’ll come and keep me from being humiliated. PLEASE.
Nad :-O
P.S.: And don’t you be giving me that damned DOG excuse again.
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: I can’t
You know I can’t go. How am I supposed to go all the way out to Long Island when I have Paco to think of? You know he has to go out every four to five hours. I am wearing out my Steve Maddens as it is, running back and forth between the office and my apartment building, trying to get there in time to take him out. There’s no way I can go all the way out to Long Island. The poor thing might explode.
Mel
P.S.: Vivica—you know, the supermodel, and Donald Trump’s latest arm candy—has dumped him! Seriously! She’s dumped the Donald! He is said to be devastated, and she’s gone into hiding.
Poor things. I really thought that one was going to work out.
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Paco
Okay, this is ridiculous. Mel, you cannot put your life on hold just because your next-door neighbor happens to be in a coma. Seriously. There must be someone in the woman’s family who can look after that stupid dog. Why do YOU have to do it?
You’ve done enough, for God’s sake. I mean, you probably saved her life. Let someone else handle Paco and his digestive schedule.
I mean it. I am not getting into that pool on my own. If you don’t find this woman’s next of kin, I will.
Nad :-(
P.S.: Excuse me, I understand your concern for Winona, but the Donald? And Vivica, the Victoria’s Secret Wonder Bra girl? They’ll be fine. Trust me.
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Paco
It’s easy for you to say let someone else handle Paco. My question would be: WHO?
Mrs. Friedlander’s only living relative is her nephew, Max, and not even the cops have been able to find him to tell him what happened to her. I know he lives somewhere in the city, but his phone number’s unlisted. Apparently, he’s some up-and-coming photographer with pictures in the Whitney, or something. At least, according to his aunt. And quite popular with the ladies…ergo, the unlisted number, I assume so the ladies’ husbands can’t track him down.
And of course his aunt doesn’t have his number written down anywhere because she undoubtedly had it memorized.
In any case, what can I do? I can’t put the poor thing in a kennel. He’s already freaked out enough about his owner being…well, you know. How can I leave him locked up in some cage somewhere? Seriously, Nadine, if you saw his eyes, you wouldn’t be able to do it, either. He is the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen, and that includes nephews.
If only he were a man. I’d marry him. I swear it.
Mel