Sophie entered the room and sat down. “The rest of your things have been placed at Trump SoHo, Miss Carter. Would you still like to meet with the realtor this Sunday?”
“Yes please.”
“Okay. Your catalog project was approved by the board while you were gone. They expect you to have your team organized by October. And Mr. Maxwell wants your review of Sweet Attraction by this evening.”
I sighed. “Take out my 27 Dresses review, change the names of the actors and then take the last paragraph of my Bride Wars review and slap that at the end of it.”
“Yes ma’am,” she stood up. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Hot chocolate?”
She smiled and walked out.
I should’ve been excited about the catalog project. I should’ve been jumping up and down and screaming. But I wasn’t. I was dreading putting together a team, working for months on a documentary detailing the best and worst romantic comedies.
I could no longer look at any of them the same: I wanted that car to run over Jennifer Lopez in The Wedding Planner, to prevent her from falling for an engaged doctor. I wanted to repeatedly stab Julia Roberts for deliberately trying to take back her best friend in My Best Friend’s Wedding. I wanted to stone and burn Ginnifer Goodwin in Something Borrowed.
My office phone rang. “Miss Carter. Who am I speaking with?”
“Get in here,” Mr. Maxwell’s voice was clipped.
I smoothed my blouse and walked to his office. Late afternoon meetings with him were almost always about movie premieres and parties—events I always turned down.
“Have a seat,” he rubbed his chin. “I remember when you first started here, Melody. You were a freshman in college then, a mere intern, a nobody. You were as valuable as the girl who got my coffee every morning.”
Where is he going with this?
He leaned back and continued. “You were young, dumb, and you couldn’t dress to save your life.”
“Sir, what does this—”
He wagged his finger to silence me. “Today, you’re still young, less dumb, but at least you can dress now…I remember when you became the youngest printed critic, and then the youngest major critic. The thing about you Melody is that you’ve spent all six of your years here trying to outdo everyone else. So, when you start to hand in subpar work, it shocks us all.”
“Subpar work?” I murmured.
“Channing Tatum is the worst thing to happen to romantic comedies since Matthew McConaughey,” he read a sheet of paper. “It might even be safe to say that the romantic comedy genre has died and been replaced with shirtless psychos batting their eyes at their female costars. Really Melody?”
“Okay, that was just one—”
“Rachel McAdams plays Lisa, a home-wrecking slut who realizes that she still loves her old college sweetheart. Instead of being her usual likable self and finding a new boyfriend, she is loathsome and downright disgusting as she tries to win back her first love. Do I need to read more?”
“No,” I avoided his eyes.
“I’m not one to pry into people’s personal lives, but why are you even here? Your fiancé leaves you at the altar and you come back to work weeks later?”
“I love my job.”
“As admirable as that is, I’m going to have to let you go for a while.”
“What are you saying? Are you firing me?”
“Of course not,” he laughed. “Are you kidding? You’re our top critic. I’m suspending you.”
“What? What does that even mean?”
“It means that I’ve known you for six long years, and after I saw you at your wedding…I knew it would be selfish of me or anyone else to expect you back in less than eight weeks.”
“You want me to go away for five more weeks?”
He smiled. “Yes. And stay away, starting Monday. Go relax, see a therapist, whatever you need to do.”
“Who’s going to write the weekend suggestions? Who’s going to write the—”
“We’ll keep your name in the byline, but I’m going to let Phil cover for you.”
“Phil? Sci-fi Phil?”
“The very same.”
“Look, I’m sorry about my latest reviews but not having a job for five weeks isn’t going to solve anything for me. Please—”
“Melody, you’ll still draw your salary. You need to reflect you know, like a normal person. What happened to the honeymoon if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Sean let me keep it.”
“Is it an open ticket?”
“Yes.”
“So why are you in New York?”
“I don’t know…”
“Well, I hope you won’t be in New York next week. And since I still have you on my team for a couple more days,” he handed me a pink envelope, “I want you to accompany the rest of the group to a launch party Friday. It’s for Selena Ross’ new perfume.”
“Sir, you know I don’t do—”
“That wasn’t a request. The town car will pick you up at nine sharp. The theme is A Night at the Oscars,” he waved his hand across the air.
“Mr. Maxwell, it’s May. The Oscars were in February.”
“Nine sharp Melody,” he shooed me out of his office.
Chapter 8
Matt
Was Melody Carter really blushing? Or was she just embarrassed for me? Why am I still thinking about this?