Fashionistas by Lynn Messina Page B

kumquat soufflé with apricot coulis. It was delish.”
    I say, “Frozen kumquat soufflé?” to be friendly, to encourage conversation, but I really don’t have the time for either kumquats or conversation. It’s Friday, and I’ve several things to do before the weekend, the least of which is finding Alex Keller’s address. I don’t know how I’m going to do this. He’s not listed with information, so I will have to sneak into Human Resources or somewhere equally unwelcoming and look through files.
    But despite this, I ask questions. I take a moment to show interest because I know few people who have dreams and it seems wrong not to nourish their hopes.
    From her detailed description, a frozen soufflé sounds like nothing more exotic or complicated than vanilla ice cream served in a white ceramic bowl, but I just nod and smile and refrain from comment. I’ve already disappointed her on the kumquat front and don’t have the heart to do it again.
    While she’s explaining the intricacies of making apricot coulis—first you stew the apricots, then you add sugar—I’m trying to decide what to do next. I’m trying to figure out which is more important: keeping my job or liking my job. Breaking in to Human Resources and rifling through their files will produce the address of Alex Keller, but it will more likely yield my instant dismissal. And to what end? Keller won’t agree to help. He won’t offer his services with a carefree smile and a happy glint in his eye. Even if I do manage to get my hands on his contact info without suffering personal harm, nothing will come of it. As soon as I knock on his door, Keller will tell me to get lost before viciously slamming it in my face. I’ve been on the receiving end of too many of his voice mails to expect anything less.
    This is the perfect excuse to extricate myself from the plot, and I consider telling Allison and the fashionistas that thewhole thing is off. I consider jumping ship and making them find someone else to be their linchpin. Alex Keller is too much of a risk; he’s the sort of long shot that tumbles empires and destroys fortunes.
    But even though I have the entire withdrawal speech formulated and written in my head, I don’t deliver it. Bringing down Jane McNeill might just be a pipe dream but it seems wrong not to nourish it.

My 15th Day
    M y first quarrel with Alex Keller was over the color copier. He’d left a sheet of white paper in the feeder, which I removed and placed next to the machine.
    “Don’t do that!” he yelled, as soon as I answered the phone.
    Since the only thing I had done was pick up the receiver, I naturally concluded he meant that and immediately hung up. A second later the phone rang again. Clearly he was a hard man to please.
    I let it ring four times before picking up. “Hello,” I said pleasantly, as if I didn’t know who it was.
    “Don’t you ever hang up on me again or I’ll have your job,” he said, angrily throwing his weight around.
    Although I hated all sorts of confrontation and was only an editorial assistant, I refused to cower in the face of threats. “Whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to?” I asked disingenuously. Although I didn’t yet know his voice or his telephone number, I’d heard enough stories to make an educated guess.
    “This is Alex Keller. I’m the events editor at this magazine and I was in the middle of using the copier outside the kitchen when you hijacked it. You took the article I was photocopying. It’s a very important document and I can’t have people like you touching it. Don’t do it again.”
    I rolled my eyes. Although I hadn’t bothered to read the article before moving it—gingerly!—to the side, I saw enough to know that it wasn’t the Declaration of Independence. Magazines are a completely disposable medium. Nothing we touch is very important.
    “I thought you were done,” I said, compelled to defend myself.
    “Until you see me removing my documents from the