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she really
did
need to drop a few pounds. Already prone to jelly bean binges, being on the same floor as the on-average-15-percent-below-healthy-body-weight public relations team had caused Meagan to pack two dress sizes onto her five-foot-four frame in fits of Luna Bar gorges. “Are you calling me fat?”
    Julian’s hands jumped in front of him to backpedal. “No, no, no—I just meant—those girls in Miami are just, like, so
ridiculously
skinny that I could understand why—”
    â€œPlease go get me a coffee,” Meagan interrupted, assigning the associate his punishment. “Two-pump sugar-free vanilla skinny latte, three Splendas. Tara, you want anything?”
    â€œNo, thanks.” Tara turned in her chair and smiled politely.
    â€œHey, by the way, do you know whether Kelly Jacobson accepted her offer?”
    â€œI’m actually talking to her tonight,” Tara explained. Kelly was their top pick from last summer’s intern class—a cheerful and bright Stanford senior whom Tara had been assigned to “convince to accept her offer” on account of their shared alma mater.
    â€œWho is she deciding between?”
    â€œUs and Google, I think.”
    â€œUgh.” Meagan made a face. “Why would you work at Google? Everyone gets totally fat there.”
    â€œI’ll be sure to mention that,” Tara said.
    â€œI’m serious, Tara.” Meagan didn’t appreciate the sarcasm. “You know I’m in charge of the summer intern recruiting committee. If she doesn’t accept the position I’m going to look totally retarded.”
    â€œOf course,” Tara demurred, turning back to her computer, pleased to find an instant message on her screen.
    TERRENCE: OMG I can hear her from here.
    Tara looked over to Terrence, who sat three cubicle-blocks away. He was the best-looking and most intelligent person Tara knew at L.Cecil but, as a half-black gay man, was a perpetual outsider. He had landed in Investor Relations because the firm felt the best way he could serve the company was by showing his face to the press and investors who might, seeing it, believe the company was committed to diversity.
    He was also one of Tara’s closest friends. They would have been friends under any circumstances, but being depressed in their jobs had helped to solidify the deal.
    Tara smiled at Terrence across the room and typed back.
    TARA: Will I go to hell if I tell this Kelly girl she should come work here over Google?
    TERRENCE: At least the men are better looking here.
    TERRENCE: Even if they are douchebags.
    TARA: Speaking of . . . Todd Kent encounter in the elevator this morning.
    TERRENCE: Didn’t you used to sleep with him?
    Tara blushed . . . Had she told him that?
    TARA: No.
    Best to deny these things.
    TARA: Once.
    She could trust Terrence.
    TARA: Fine, twice. But it was college. It didn’t mean anything.
    It had, of course, meant something then, when she’d lost her virginity to him at SAE and then he’d never called. But it didn’t matter now—not ten years later when they were both adult professionals.
    TERRENCE: Right.
    â€œTara, my office. Now.”
    Tara looked up from her screen at Lillian Dumas, who swept by in knee-high boots that gapped around her hyper-skinny legs, a bold test of business formal attire that senior management let slide because the boots were clearly expensive.
    Tara slipped her shoes back on, suddenly self-conscious of their last-seasonness, and followed Lillian to the glass-enclosed office. They reported to the same group head, but Lillian was a managing director five years Tara’s senior in the Equity Capital Markets Group, and so liked to consider herself Tara’s boss.
    â€œClose the door.” Lillian’s voice was shaking. Tara did as told and moved toward a chair. “Don’t sit down.”
    Lillian’s skeletal collarbone heaved as she breathed