doll . . . Anyway, letâs get down to the nuts and bolts here. Iâm assuming you can type?â
âUm, yes?â I lied, placing my napkin back on my lap. âI type very well.â
Ruth furrowed her brow. âWhaddayou call a dress where thereâs a seam just below the bust?â
âAhm-peer,â I said, pronouncing âempireâ correctly.
Ruth grinned. âNice. Well done.â She paused once more andthought. âOkay, last one. What was the name of Vivienne Westwoodâs store on Kingâs Road?â
Emily looked at me, bewildered.
I knew the answer to this one! Iâd studied Vivienne Westwood in a fashion history course.
âUm . . .â I paused bashfully and whispered, âSex.â
âExcuse me?â Ruth turned her ear toward me.
âSex,â I repeated, slightly louder.
âWhat was that?â Ruth leaned closer still. She was starting to laugh, thoroughly amused by my inability to say the word âsexâ at a normal decibel level.
âSex!â I blurted.
This time the entire restaurant heard. Two brunching ladies toward the front turned in my direction and lowered their large sunglasses in order to get a better look at the girl who cried sex.
But the humiliation was worth it, because Ruth leaned toward me and said five fateful words.
âWhen can you start, honey?â
Emily and I released all the air in our lungs, filling the entire room with relief. Even the waiters, who were watching our table like we were the cast of a bad reality TV show, looked relieved. I wondered if they were going to start clapping or pouring glasses of champagne.
I placed my hand on my chest, feeling it flush with excitement.
I began, âMs. Vineââ
âCall me Ruth for Christâs sake.â
âRuth,â I corrected myself. âIâm thrilled to have the opportunity to work for you.â I had to catch myself from leaning over to hug her. âThank you so much!â
Ruth smiled, wrapped her fingers around her wineglass, and raised it in a toast.
âTo Minty,â Ruth said.
I blushed as we each held up our glasses and clinked them together one by one.
Be Cute and Quick
T ripp did write me back. But it took him an entire week, and an entire week in southern belle time is a lifetime.
The message itself was interesting. And by âinteresting,â I mean ridiculous and terrible and lazy. It may have been one of the worst messagesâincluding greeting cards and e-mails and text messagesâI have ever actually received. I had waited a week to read the words: âOh, hey.â
No more, no less.
I was so boggled by the nothingness of Trippâs message that I instantly began to rationalize. There were so many possibilities: A fire drill! Short-term memory loss! Carpal tunnel syndrome! Or maybe he was just an idiot. There was also that possibility.
Luckily, I was a busy girl. I was right in the middle of my first week as Ruth Vineâs assistant. I was so busy that I barely had time to breathe, let alone worry about Tripp and his terrible messaging skills.
âMintyyyyyy!â
After just three days of working for Ruth, I had already learned to tune out the sound of Ruthâs voice screaming my name through the loftlike space of the RVPR offices. Lucky for me, the office intern,Spencer Goldin, sat next to my cubicle and seemed to have my best interests at heart.
âMinty,â he hissed, elbowing me in the side. âMinty!â
I jumped. I had been staring at my computer screen, nearly blinded by the Excel worksheet in front of me. It was filled with what seemed like a thousand yeses and nos and maybes and plus-ones and little notes in the last column marked by an asterisk that said things like, âMay be filming in Vancouver but if in town will attendâ and âWill only attend if hair, makeup, driver and stylist are provided.â I was already in charge of my very