by Meg Cabot
George
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Are people around the office talking about you
Are you kidding? Don’t flatter yourself. We have way better things to worry about than your love life.
Nad
To: Stacy Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: Kenny Rogers chicken
You never seriously attempted to pass off something this good as your own cooking. No way.
John
To: John Trent
From: Genevieve Randolph Trent
Subject: The benefit
Just a reminder, my dear boy, of your promise to attend the benefit with me. And, of course, your sweet little cheque.
I haven’t heard from you in a few days. I do hope all is well.
Mim
P.S.: Did you hear about your cousin Serena?
To: Genevieve Randolph Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: Of course I didn’t
forget. I’m escorting you, remember? I even got the old tux out of storage and dusted it off.
See you there.
John
P.S.: Yes, I did hear about Serena. I blame her parents for naming her Serena in the first place. What did they expect?
To: Mel Fuller
From: George Sanchez
Subject: What do you mean
you won’t be back in the office until Monday? I think you’re forgetting something, sweetie pie.
The Lincoln Center benefit to raise cancer awareness. Only the biggest society event of the season. According to Dolly, everyone who is anyone is going to be there.
I don’t care if you’re bleeding out of the eyeballs, Fuller. You’re going.
I’m sending Larry to do photos. Be sure you get all those rich old biddies, the Astors and the Kennedys and the Trents. You know how they love seeing themselves in the paper, even in a tired old rag like us.
George
P.S.: Your stupid doll is back on your computer. What was that all about, anyway?
To: Nadine Wilcock
From: George Sanchez
Subject: Hey
Quit yelling. If she’s well enough to contemplate having sex with some guy, she’s well enough to drag her sorry butt out of bed and do her damned job.
George
P.S.: What kind of ship do you think I’m running here? This is not the slacker express, Wilcock.
To: Mel Fuller
From: [email protected]
Subject: Listen, I
knocked a little while ago, but you didn’t answer, so I assume you’re asleep. I didn’t want to call and wake you up. The thing is, I have an assignment tonight, so I’m not going to be able to stop by until late. Will you be all right? I’ll bring more ice cream. This time I’ll make sure it has lots of chocolate-covered nuts for you to pick out.
John
P.S.: Hurricane Jan is moving at 135 miles per hour toward Jamaica. The eye should pass over it sometime tonight. Looks like it might be pretty bad. That should cheer you up.
To: Mel Fuller
From: Nadine Wilcock
Subject: Last night
Hey, how did it go? I tried to talk George out of making you go, but he was adamant. He said you were the only reporter he knew who could get the story without offending anybody. I guess Dolly wasn’t exactly stellar at the whole charity-circuit thing. Well, that was undoubtedly because she was sleeping with all of the society wives’ husbands.
I hope you don’t suffer a relapse or something.
Nad
To: Jason Trent
cc: Stacy Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: Now what do I do?
Okay, last night, when I escorted Mim to the Lincoln Center benefit, who should come strolling up to us with her little notebook and pencil but…Mel.
Yes, that’s right. Melissa Fuller, Page Ten correspondent, the New York Journal, who, last time I’d seen her, had been in bed with a copy of Cosmo and a temperature of a hundred. Next thing I know, she’s standing in front of me in high heels and a miniskirt asking Mim if she feels her work raising cancer awareness will help bring about a cure someday.
And then she notices me and breaks off and cries, “John!”
And Mim—you know Mim—swivels her head around and takes in the red hair and Midwestern accent and, next thing you know, she’s asking Mel to sit down with us and does she want some champagne?
Now, I think I can safely say that this was the first time in Mel’s journalistic career that one of her subjects invited her to sit down and have a drink at her table. And I know it’s the first time Mim’s ever invited a reporter for a private interview.
And all I could do was sit there and kick Mim under the table every time she started to say anything remotely resembling “my grandson,” which of course she did about ten million times.
So the fact is, Mel knows now that something is up. She has no idea what, of course. She thinks it’s that Mim is in love with me. She thinks I should go for it, since a rich old bat like Mim could pay off all my credit cards. Although she warned me that all of Genevieve Trent’s kids ended up in communes (Uncle Charles, Aunt Sara, and Aunt Elaine) or jail (Uncle Peter, Uncle Joe, and Dad). She neglected to mention the suicides, Aunt Claire and Uncle Frank. Further proof that Gramps was right to bribe the coroner.
What fine stock we come from, don’t we, Jason? Stacy, you should take the girls and run, run far away, now while you still can.
So what do I do? Tell her? Or continue lying my head off?
Could one of you please just shoot me?
John
To: John Trent
From: Jason Trent
Subject: Tell her
Just tell her. Please. I’m begging you. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.
Jason
To: John Trent
From: Stacy Trent
Subject: Don’t tell her
until after you’ve had sex with her.
I’m serious. Because if you’re good enough in bed, she won’t care.
I know I have sex on the brain, and it’s up to you, of course, but that’s how I’d handle it.
Stacy
To: Stacy Trent
From: John Trent
Subject: Oh, okay, thanks
I should just sleep with her. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?
IS THERE SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU???
I mean, besides the fact that you’re married to my brother.
Don’t you remember what it was like to be single? You couldn’t just sleep with somebody. I mean, yeah, you could, but it never worked out. I WANT THIS TO WORK OUT.
That’s why it’s important that BEFORE we sleep together we establish a warm and loving friendship.
Right? I mean, isn’t that what Oprah’s always saying?
John
To: John Trent
From: Stacy Trent
Subject: But don’t you
think you’ve established a warm and loving relationship? I mean, you brought her ice cream and did her dishes, for God’s sake. The girl owes you. She’ll put out, don’t worry.
Stacy
To: Stacy Trent
Subject: Excuse me, but
is that the spawn of Satan gestating within you, or my nephew? What is wrong with you? “She’ll put out, don’t worry.”
Nobody puts out because you bring her ice cream. If that were true, those guys who drive the Mr. Softee trucks…
Well, you get my drift.
No, I want to do this right. But the sad fact of the matter is that every woman I’ve ever gone out with has always had one eye on my wallet—and we’re talking mostly women Mim fixed me up with, the crème de la crème of New York society, who you would think had plenty of money in their own Schwab accounts—so getting them into my bed was never a difficulty. Usually it was trying to get them out of it that was the problem.
Mel, however, is not exactly what you’d call the falling-into bed type. In fact, she’s pretty shy.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. I was serious about the shooting thing, you know. I really wouldn’t mind a bullet between the eyes, if it was all over quickly, and Mel didn’t have to end up walking Paco again.
John
To: John Trent
From: Stacy Trent
Subject: Oh, for God’s sake
Just go for it.
Just knock on the door and when she opens it pull her out into the hallway and start kissing her deeply and intrusively. Then push her up against the wall and pull her blouse from the waistband of her skirt and put your hand underneath her bra and
Stacy
To: John Trent
From: Jason Trent
Subject: You’ll have to excuse
my wife. She is a quivering mass of hormones right now. In fact, I just had to put her to bed with a cold compress.
I would appreciate it if you would refrain from discussing anything of a sexual nature with her until after the baby comes. Six to eight weeks after the baby has come, as a matter of fact. As I am sure she has explained to you, she is at her sexual peak. And yet, as you undoubtedly know, her doctor has advised her that she is at a stage in her pregnancy when it might be dangerous for the baby for us to engage in…
Well, you know.
So would you shut your piehole about the whole sex thing between you and this girl?
And while we’re on the subject, whatever happened to taking a girl to dinner? Huh? That always works in the movies. You took a girl out for a nice romantic dinner, maybe a carriage ride through Central Park (unless she was the type of girl who would think that was lame), and if you were lucky she’d put out. Right?
So take her somewhere nice. Don’t you know the guy at Belew’s? Isn’t that the nicest restaurant in town? Take her there.
And this time, if the damned cat gets sick, let the stupid thing die.
That’s what I think, anyway.
Jason
To: John Trent
From: Brittany and Haley Trent
Subject: HI, UNCLE JOHN
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF OUR NEW E-MAIL ACCOUNT? DADDY GOT IT FOR US SO WE WOULD STOP USING HIS.
WE HEARD MOMMY AND DADDY TALKING ABOUT YOU AND THE REDHEADED LADY AGAIN. THEY SAID YOU AREN’T SURE HOW TO LET HER KNOW YOU LIKE HER.
WELL, IN THE SECOND GRADE, WHEN YOU ARE A BOY WHO LIKES A GIRL, YOU GIVE HER YOUR BEST POKÉMON CARD. OR YOU PULL HER HAIR. NOT HARD ENOUGH TO MAKE HER CRY, THOUGH.
OR YOU CAN ASK HER TO ROLLERSKATE BACKWARD WITH YOU, AND THEN HOLD HER HAND SO SHE DOESN’T FALL DOWN.
HOPE THIS HELPS!
LOVE,
BRITTANY AND HALEY
To: John Trent
From: Genevieve Randolph Trent
Subject: I am not even
going to ask what that was all about at the benefit. I can only assume that you, like all of your cousins, have completely lost your mind.
I suppose that was the Miss Fuller, of the Lansing, Illinois, Fullers. For the life of me, I can’t imagine why you’ve been hiding her away like that. I thought her perfectly charming. I assume she has a cold and does not always pronounce her ths like ds.
And yet you are obviously playing some sort of game with her. My ankle, I think you should know, is black-and-blue from all the times you kicked it.
You have always been completely hopeless where women are concerned, so do let me give you this piece of advice: Whatever game you’re playing, it isn’t going to work, John. Girls don’t like games. Even, I am told, girls from Lansing, Illinois.
Mim
To: [email protected]
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: The other night
Is it just all the decongestants I took before I went out, or was that totally weird?
I had no idea you were going to be there. You must have written after I’d left. My horrible mean boss made me go. I didn’t want to. I felt terrible. But he made me, so I put on some mascara and a dress and I went, stuffy nose and fever and all.
It wasn’t too bad. I mean, the shrimp was good. Not that I could really taste it, but whatever.
Anyway, I had no idea you go to that kind of stuff. Were you taking pictures? Where was your camera? I didn’t see it.
That Mrs. Trent was pretty nice. How do you know her? Did you do her portrait, or something? It’s funny how you hear stuff about people, and then you meet them, and they’re exactly the opposite. Like I always heard Genevieve Randolph Trent was this horrible ice bitch. But then she was so nice. You know, if she wasn’t like a hundred years old, I’d say she has a crush on you, because the whole time we were talking, she just kept looking and looking at you.
It’s good, you know, that with all her money, she does stuff for charity. I’ve covered stories about lots of people who don’t. Actually, all of Mrs. Trent’s kids (she had EIGHT, did you know that?) are these huge slackers who live on communes or are in jail. I feel sorry for them. And for her, a little.
Anyway, I am back at work because they simply can’t do without me around here, but I was wondering if you’d let me take you out to dinner one night soon as a sort of thank you for looking out for me when I was feeling so rotten? Let me know when you’re free…. Mrs. Trent, I know, should get first dibs on your time, seeing as how if you married her, you could pay off all your credit cards right away, and not ever have to worry about maxing them out again.
Just a suggestion.
Mel
To: Mel Fuller
From: [email protected]
Subject: Dinner
No, it wasn’t just you. The other night was totally weird. Well, except for you, I mean. You’re never weird. I just meant the circumstances.
I’ve known Genevieve Trent for a long time. My whole life, actually. But I don’t believe there’s any possibility of anything romantic developing between the two of us, in spite of the fact that it might offer a solution to my credit card problems.
She really enjoyed meeting you, by the way. And the piece you wrote about the benefit was very touching. I imagine every charity in town must be calling, inviting you to come write about them next, you do it so eloquently.
As for dinner, I would be delighted. Only I wish you’d let me take you out. I still owe you, remember, for saving Aunt Helen?
So how about tomorrow night? If you’re feeling up to it, I mean. I’ll make reservations—it’ll be a surprise.
But I guarantee we’re not going to Fresche.
John
To: [email protected]
From: Mel Fuller
Subject: Dinner
All right, if you insist. But you really don’t have to.
You know, if you would just let me cook, then you could save your money and actually pay off your credit cards. It’s a novel thought, I know,
but it is what normal people do.
But I guess it’s pretty clear neither of us is all that normal. I mean, normal people aren’t really obsessed with hurricanes and sinkholes, are they?
So I guess the whole normal thing is ruled out, as far as we’re concerned.
Oh, well.
Just promise me you won’t spend a lot. I’m not really a champagne kind of girl. Beer suits me just fine.
Mel
To: David J. Belew
From: John Trent
Subject: Dinner
Dear David,
Remember how after I got Patty to do that Dining Section exposé on hard-to-get-in restaurants, and how yours was the only one that she declared worth the three-month wait? And you said I had a table anytime I wanted?
Well, I want one. For two. And you’ve got to hold it under the name of Max Friedlander, and when I show up, that’s how your staff should greet me. Okay?
Also, make sure you’ve got ice cream with chunks in it for dessert. Chocolate chunks are best.
That’s all I can think of right now. I’ll call later to confirm.
John
To: John Trent
From: David J. Belew
Subject: Dinner
John, I hate to disappoint you, but at Belew’s, rated four stars by the illustrious newspaper for which you toil daily, three stars by the Michelin guide, top restaurant in New York City by Zagat’s, and recipient of not one but two Beard awards, thanks to the culinary talents of yours truly, we do not serve “ice cream with chunks in it.”
No, not even chocolate chunks.
I will, of course, see that a table is held for you, and even instruct my staff to call you Max Friedlander. But I’m afraid I must draw the line at chunks.