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my lap—producer on The Purrfect Life with Lucy Lane, working for Naomi.
    It took some very dicey negotiating with the immigration authorities to get my paperwork done, but after a lot of hard work, there I was, visa in hand, and the job was real.
    It was now the Monday morning after my Friday night from hell. I sat at my desk waiting, without word from anyone—not an apology, not a text, not so much as a smiley face. It was anyone’s guess how Naomi might react to my Friday night e-mail and whatever the other four girls had told her. No part of me was going to pretend it didn’t happen. Their behavior was mean and unprofessional, and so traumatic it might well send me into months of expensive therapy. Time would tell on that one. In the meantime, triple shot vanilla lattés from Coffee Bean would have to suffice.
    “House call!” a perky well-groomed twenty-five-ish guy exclaimed while rapping on a pygmy palm that sat between my desk and the door of my new office. His lips shimmered with the latest boy balm.
    “Hi,” I said, gulping my latté. I was anticipating cat-calling , not Avon calling.
    “Shall I get you a straw?” he said with a smirk, helping himself to my guest chair.
    “I think I’m addicted,” I said sheepishly.
    “Hear that,” he nodded. “I’m Danny, your new associate producer.” He cupped his chin as if he knew he was precious. “Naomi sent me in here to tell you I’m your new Rose.” He winked. “And also that we have a meeting with Lucy and the network at eleven.”
    “That’s in five minutes,” I gasped.
    “Indeed, Miss Fabulous,” he snorted.
    “And Rose? Where is she?”
    “Canny-can-canned! Now we better get our fannies moving, Sunshine.” He wiggled his body, worm-like, apparently clueless to what I’d been through two days prior. “Let’s go.”
    That was the last thing I’d expected—Rose gone, a new AP, and an impromptu meeting with the network brass. A double wave hit me: first relief, then Indiana Jones -like fear, complete with rolling boulders, quicksand, fast-talking villains, and who knew what else.
    I shuffled behind Danny to the boardroom sorting my papers and my thoughts, preparing a mini dog-and-pony show to sell myself, just in case that was what this was all about: Okay, so, uh, I’ve got a BA in history, journalism minor, studied at NY Film School for six months, five years as an on-air reporter—no, scratch that, five years producing news. No, five years of producing documentary and lifestyle programming for Channel Z—no scratch that, too. Americans don’t know Canadian television. Make that programming for Canada’s largest network, CBC, which is like the BBC, only bigger, with the highest ratings ever on my, um, my piece on homeless people, no, homeless showgirls, no, homeless cross-dressing showgirls—
    “How are you doing?” Naomi patted me on the back as we entered the boardroom. “It’s going to be okay. I can’t believe those girls.”
    Her face looked sympathetic. It bore the same expression my mother had after I’d been dumped, or after I crashed my car, both of which, strangely, happened more often than I care to discuss. Naomi truly felt sorry for me. A lump gurgled up my throat as I felt the urge to cry.
    “Jane, I want you to meet Karl.” Naomi motioned to a large-set man in a black suit looking very dot.com in Converse sneakers and a Volcom t-shirt peeking out of his jacket. “He’s our official network liaison from CRP-TV and our executive producer.”
    “Great to meet you.” I held out my hand for Karl, morphing from poor-me to bright-eyed and professional.
    He nodded and pulled his hand from his pocket, about to shake my hand when—
    “Danny!” Karl cried, jumping from his seat and embracingDanny’s slender body in a giant bear hug. “Good to see you. I didn’t know you worked here.”
    “First day on this show, Sugar Cakes,” Danny responded in delight. “Guess that means, technically, I’m working for