I’ve thought about it long and hard.
I think it is now time for me to write for profit.
I have chosen Chick Lit.
Now, despise me if you dare.
“Let me get this right, Krissy; you went to Miss Porters, did your undergrad at Wellesley and you have an MBA from Darden and now you are going to throw it all a way to be what, some sort of Administrative Assistant—which we all know in nothing more than a a step out of the typing pool—do they still have typing pools—to some uncouth shipping company manager.”
I had been watching Kris the entire time during Helena’s speech. She bristled at the name Krissy and did a slow burn as her educational background was listed with a hint of disdain for her Virginia University. I braced myself.
“It is not some Administrative Assistant job; it is Assistant to the Director. That is a big difference.”
Helena rolled her eyes and took a long sip from her vodka martini. “Well, that will play well down in the provinces. Just let me be there when you inform your father; I am sure he’ll just love knowing that his daughter, who he has such hopes for, is fetching coffee and picking up dry cleaning.”
“I won’t be picking up dry cleaning. I’ll assist with strategic planning, oversight—”
“Yes, between runs to Starbucks.”
“Kris, how is you sister?” asked Yolanda, trying, as always, to keep the peace between the two and failing miserably.
Kristine waved her hand dismissively, staring off into the distance. “She tells me that she is fine—even though I know better—I keep meaning to go over there—” Kris let the matter drop. Her sister was a sensitive subject for her. Yet, when it comes to insensitivity, leave it to Helena to leave her sense of delicacy at the door.”
“All your sister needs is a lov-ah! Someone to make her forget that idiot she’s married to.”
For a moment I thought that Kris was going to fly off her seat and ring Helena’s neck in a fit of rage, but as always, Kris’s black humor saved the day.
“Oh, who do you have in mind, Helena? That idiot brother of yours, perhaps?”
Helena went pale at just the suggestion of such a thing. Everyone around the table went quiet eying the two women warily. We all knew that Helena had a overactive protective streak when it came to her twin brother, Chaz, a rather dim-witted, simple-minded sort of man who made a living making organic ice cream in Vermont, far away from the Prada-obsessed Manolo wearing women of New York City that his sister usually spent her time with. Helena was on her feet in an instant grabbing her purple Balenciaga and headed for the door, her Jimmie Choo’s clacking rapidly across the floor. We all immediately protested her leaving. Well, nearly everyone, I should say.