It read:

March 12

Annie dearest,

If you insist on sending me images, I’d prefer they be of you.

See you tomorrow at 8.

Affectionately, Ronan

P.S. I can’t eat any of that stuff you sent. Again, if you’d sent a picture of yourself, then it would be a completely different story…

Unsurprisingly, my pulse quickened at the double meaning in his last line. He couldn’t eat any of the food, but if I’d sent a picture of myself, he’d…he’d….

I groaned.

Then I ran back to the bathroom. This time I opted for a cold shower.

***

New York’s Finest

Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*

March 13

Have you noticed that the ratio of supermodels in Jason Carter’s entourage to number of Jason Carters has been steadily declining over the last twenty-four months? The number of Jason Carters has remained constant at one (or two, if you count his custom-made Louis Vuitton fanny pack as a separate sentient being), whereas the number of supermodels has decreased from seventeen to six in just two short years.

Exhibit A (picture 1) was taken nearly twenty months ago as he and his harem of seventeen left Tiffany’s.

Now look to Exhibit B (picture 2). This picture was taken nine months ago. Here he is down to twelve.

Now look at Exhibit C (picture 3). This was taken last week. Again, we have Jason Carter and his fanny pack, but an entourage of only six.

WHAT IS GOING ON, PEOPLE?!?!?!

Why the diminishing number of models?

Doesn’t he know he is the primary source of fame for these women? Doesn’t he care we’re going to have poorly dressed supermodels if he and his fanny pack don’t step up and foot the bill for their Jimmy Choos and Louis Vuitton handbags??

I thought I could count on three things to never change in life: death, taxes, and Jason Carter’s (and his fanny pack’s) entourage.

Is nothing sacred? What’s next? Will George Clooney date someone his own age?!?!?

Feeling a tad out of sorts today….

<3 The Socialmedialite

***

I was uncomfortable.

And that was putting it mildly.

I tried to cross my legs, but the sky-blue silk skirt—which fell just above my knees—felt too short; I opted for crossing them at the ankle instead. I also tugged, I hoped surreptitiously, at the V-neck of my long-sleeved, cream-colored shirt because it showed cleavage. It showed my cleavage. My cleavage was showing. As well, the shirt was formfitting and plainly exhibited the shape of my stomach, back, shoulders, and chest.

It was a nightmare.

I wanted to run to my office, grab my Snuggie (which is basically a blanket with armholes), and cover myself up.

Unfortunately, Joan was sitting across from me, watching me like a hawk. I was a mouse, and she was a peregrine falcon. Resistance was futile. I’d arrived at the building and found her in my office at 7:15 a.m., five garment bags full of clothes lying on my couch. She was drinking a cappuccino from my machine and smiling at me like she’d just won something.

“I know you’re busy, so I had one of the shoppers buy you a new wardrobe,” she’d said, holding up an outfit. “Change into this one now.”

When I opened my mouth to object, she added, “Looking professional is no more than I would ask of any of my employees.”

Objectively, I knew the clothes the shopper had handpicked were lovely. They were stylish, well made, very expensive, and undoubtedly professional looking. It’s just they weren’t brown or navy or gray. They weren’t baggy. They fit, and they fit too well, like they’d been made to highlight my curves and…assets. I looked pretty in them, like a girl. Like a feminine girl. And, adding to my horror, there were shoes! Little kitten heels and spiky stilettos and everything in between, one pair for each outfit.

People had stared at me when I walked down the hall. I could feel their eyes following me, though I kept mine on the hallway carpet. I distinctly overheard one of the associates from Printed Media say, “Is she new? Who is that?”

When I walked into the conference room, all conversation stopped. My team gaped. Rachel gasped. Ian stared. And Joan smiled. I felt like a sideshow act at the circus, the kind where people stare and point.

Again, it was a nightmare.

I shuffled and thumbed through my stack of papers. I turned to Gerta, attempting to ignore her stunned perusal, and asked whether she’d made enough copies for the team. I purposefully sat near the door just in case I needed to make a quick escape. Worst-case scenario, I could pretend I had gastrointestinal distress.

I was still forming my escape plan and trying to fight my blush of intense discomfort when Mr. Fitzpatrick arrived.

He was five minutes early.

“Bollocks, bitches, and Battlestar Galactica,” I mumbled.

I have a bad habit of mumbling curse words when I’m aggravated; honestly, I think I might have a mild case of Tourette’s. To soften the string of foul language and make me feel like less of a freak, I try to throw in a pop culture reference at the end. It usually works, but not today.

I closed my eyes briefly, gathered a slow, steadying breath through my nose, and tried to wrestle the spike of adrenaline into submission. People moved around me, crossing to the door and shaking his hand, introducing themselves. I stood slowly, my jaw clenching so tightly I thought I might crack a tooth, and turned.

But I couldn’t quite bring myself to lift my eyes to his. So I waited, using my hair as a curtain, dipping my chin to my chest, and pretending to read the papers I’d brought and knew by heart. I waited until everyone was introduced and had reclaimed their spots around the conference room. I waited and listened as Joan invited Mr. Fitzpatrick to take the seat next to mine.