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We here at the New York Journal are a team. We win as a team, and lose as one as well. Please note that failure to read this book may result in suspension or dismissal from this store. If you have received this e-mail in error please inform the sender and delete it from your mailbox or any other storage mechanism. From Publishers Weekly In her debut adult novel, Cabot known for her extremely successful young adult fiction series the Princess Diaries, published under the name Meg Cabot relies entirely on highly amusing e-mails to tell a fetching meet-cute story.
New York City gossip columnist Melissa Fuller is known for being obsessive about Winona Ryder, dating the wrong men and being tardy for work. Arriving particularly late one morning, she explains to her colleagues at the New York Journal that she was detained by the attempted murder of her elderly next-door neighbor, Mrs.
Friedlander, who is in a coma. Always the good girl, Mel has volunteered to take care of Mrs. Friedlander's many pets until the neighbor's nephew Max, a famous fashion photographer, can be reached. Her co-workers warn her about Max, a notorious lady's man. Contrary to the gossip, when she meets Max he is down to earth, funny and kind.
Despite the strange fact that he likes to be called John and appears to be between photo shoots, she begins to date him and learns that he shares her love for Stephen King novels and natural disasters. It doesn't take long for her to fall head over heels, or for Mel's mom to write, "Get a ring on your finger before you uncross those legs, sweetie. But when Mrs. Friedlander's attacker returns, will Mel and Max be able to put their differences aside to catch a killer? Full of clever e-mail banter and tongue-in-cheek humor, this cheeky novel should be enjoyed in one sitting.
Copyright Reed Business Information, Inc. I never realized what a weak chin he has. Fuller, You might think it amusing to make light of the Human Resources Department's Staff Assistance Program, but I can assure you that we have helped many of your co-workers through dark and difficult times. Through counseling and therapy, they have all gone on to lead meaningful, profitable lives. I find it disheartening that you would belittle a program that has done so much for so many.
Please note that a copy of your latest email has been placed in your personnel file, and will be available to your supervisor during your next performance review. Jenkins, What I find disheartening is the fact that I reached out to you and all the other Human Resource administrators, and instead of being given the aid I so desperately need, I was brutally rebuffed. Are you saying that my chronic status as a single woman is not worthy of assistance?
What about having to order my pizza by the slice? Do you think that isn't whittling away at my self-esteem, slice by disheartening slice? And what about salad? Do you have any idea how many pounds of lettuce I have ingested in an effort to maintain my size 6 figure, so that I might entice a man?
Even though it goes against every fiber of my feminist being to cater to the misogynistic more that exists in western culture that insists that attractiveness is parallel to one's waist- size? If you are trying to say that being a single woman in New York City is not a disability, then I respectfully submit that you visit a Manhattan deli on a Saturday night.
Who do you see crowded around the salad bar? The single girls. Face reality, Amy. It's a jungle out there.
It's kill or be killed. I am merely suggesting that you, as a mental health expert, accept that truth, and move on. You know she doesn't have any sense of humor. If you have so much free time, come to me. I'll give you plenty to do. The obit guy just quit. First of all, I can't stand this. You ask what this is. This is watching you walk towards me, thinking you might have changed your mind, only to have you pass by without so much as even glancing in my direction. This is knowing that you'll walk out of here at the end of the day, that I will have no idea where you will be, what you will do, and that an abyss of time will elapse before you walk back in here the next day.
This--or should I say, these? Have you ever considered writing fiction for a living? I think you've got real talent. We got email!!!!! Isn't it righteous? You can write to me at foodie fresche. Get it? I'm foodie because I'm the chef!!!!! Anyway, just thought I'd say hi. Now we can email each other all day long! What are you wearing? How come you never wear that bustier I got you to work? Do you want to know tonight's specials? Nothing fancy, just out by the pool at his house in Long Island.
So keep Saturday free! Seriously, Mel, I don't think I can handle another round of Salernos without you. You know what they're like. And this one has a pool. You know they're going to throw me in. You just know it. Say you'll come and keep me from being humiliated.
You know he has to go out every four to five hours. I am wearing out my Steve Madden's as it is running back and forth between the office and my apartment building, trying to get there in time to take him out. There's no way I can go all the way out to Long Island. The poor thing might explode. She's dumped the Donald! He is said to be devastated, and she's gone into hiding.
Poor things. I really thought that one was going to work out. Mel, you cannot put your life on hold just because your next door neighbor happens to be in a coma. There must be someone in the woman's family who can look after that stupid dog. Why do YOU have to do it? You've done enough, for God's sake. I mean, you probably saved her life. Let someone else handle Paco and his digestive schedule. I mean it.
I am not getting into that pool on my own. If you don't find this woman's next of kin, I will. And Vivica, the Victoria's Secret water-bra girl? They'll be fine. Trust me. My question would be WHO? Friedlander's only living relative is her nephew Max, and not even the cops have been able to find him to tell him what happened to her. I know he lives somewhere in the city, but his phone number's unlisted. At least, according to his aunt.
And quite popular with the ladies And of course, his aunt doesn't have his number written down anywhere because she undoubtedly had it memorized. In any case, what can I do? I can't put the poor thing in a kennel. He's already freaked out enough about his owner being How can I leave him locked up in some cage somewhere?
Seriously, Nadine, if you saw his eyes, you wouldn't be able to do it, either. He is the sweetest thing I've ever seen, and that includes all my nieces and nephews.
If only he were a man. I'd marry him. Nadine, you HAVE to go. The party is for YOU. Well, you and me. You can't not go. And don't give me any of that bull about how you don't want anybody in my family to see you in a swimsuit. How many times do I have to tell you that you are the hottest girl in the world? Do you think I care what size you wear? You have it going on, girl.
Only you should wear those thongs I bought you more often. I don't understand what difference it makes whether or not Mel goes. It doesn't make any sense. Besides, if you feel that strongly about it, just tell them you have an ear infection and can't get in the water. I don't get you dames. I really don't.
I was otherwise occupied, or I would have joined in we really ought to talk to someone about how narrow those stalls are. Fortunately, Jimmy--you know, the new fax boy--is quite surprisingly flexible, or we never would have managed ;- First of all, Mel, sweetheart, Max Friedlander did not have just any old picture in the Whitney--which you would know, if you ever ventured out of Blockbuster long enough to take in some real culture.
He had a stunning self-portrait on display there for the Biennial, in which he was sans apparel. If you ask me, the man's a photographic genius. Though that may not be where his true talent lies, judging by that photo And I'm sure you do.
Anyway, he has, for reasons unfathomable to me, chosen to cheapen his gift by prostituting himself out for photo shoots such as, just as an example, last Winter's Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. And he just finished up the Victoria's Secret Christmas catalog, I believe.
All you have to do, children, is contact those so-called publications, and I'm sure they'll know how to get a message to him. Well, ta for now. Look, can't you throw him a bone? He's no good to me like this. And all that Wagner is giving me a migraine. At least, no one seems to have his number, but I've got an email address. Help me draft a note to him.
You know I don't do well with groveling. Friedlander, I hope you get this. You are probably not aware that the police have been trying to reach you for several days now.
I am sorry to inform you that your aunt, Helen Friedlander, has been seriously injured. She has been the victim of an alleged assault in her apartment. Unfortunately, she is in a coma, and the doctors have no way of knowing if she will ever come out of it.
Please, Mr. Friedlander, if you get this message, call me as soon as possible on my cell phone, , or if you are unable to get to a phone, please feel free to email me. We need to discuss how you think your aunt would best like her pets cared for while she is in the hospital. I know this is the last thing you need to be worried about right now, considering how grave your aunt's condition is, but I can't imagine that, being the great animal lover she is, your aunt didn't have some sort of proviso arranged for just this sort of circumstance.
I am her next door neighbor in apartment 15B , and I have been walking Paco and taking care of your aunt's cats, but I'm afraid that my schedule does not allow for full-time petcare. Taking care of Paco is beginning to effect my job performance. Short but sweet. And it gets the point across. Nad : PS I think it's good you left out the part about all your tardies.
No one in the real world cares about tardies. From what I can tell based on the people I've talked to so far, this Max Friedlander seems to be taking the role of playboy artiste to brand new heights. In fact, I can't believe he's never hit Page Ten before! The guy was in Thailand on a shoot last month, Hawaii last week, and this week, what do you know?
Nobody seems to have any idea where he is. Oh, and it's no good trying his cell phone: According to SI, he lost it scuba diving in Belize. If he even gets this message, does he sound to you like the kind of guy who'll even do anything about it? I'm a little worried. And it's okay, I guess. I mean, I'm bonding with the cats well, Mr.
Peepers won't come out from under the bed and Paco's like my best friend now. But I've gotten five more of those tardy warnings from Human Resources. They are seriously going to put me on probation! But what can I do? Still, if I have to ditch out of one more society function because I have to get home to walk that dog, I'm pretty sure I'm going to get fired. I completely missed the Sarah Jessica Parker thing the other night because Paco wouldn't go.
I had to walk him for like an hour. George was furious, because the Chronicle got the scoop on us. Though what the Chronicle is doing, reporting on celeb gossip, I can't imagine. I always thought they were too highbrow for that! No, don't worry, she's not one of my exes.
She's my aunt's next door neighbor. Apparently, Helen took a tumble, and this Fuller woman is trying to get in touch with me about the stupid dog. But we aren't going to let her ruin our little get away together, are we? So don't even answer the door until I get there. I'm just finishing up the Neve Campbell shoot, and then I'll be taking the red-eye out from LAX, so I ought to be there in time to watch the sunset with you, baby.
Keep the champagne chilled for me. Friedlander, It is my pleasure to inform you that your message for Miss Chandler has been delivered. If there is anything else we here at the Paradise Inn can do to make your stay an enjoyable one, please do not hesitate to let us know. We look forward to your joining us tomorrow. Fuller, I am shocked. Deeply shocked and appalled to hear what has happened to my aunt Helen. She is, as I'm sure you know, my only living relative. I cannot thank you enough for the efforts you've gone to in order to contact me and let me know about this tragedy.
Although I am currently on assignment in Africa--perhaps you've heard of the drought here in Ethiopia? I am doing a photo shoot for the Save the Children Fund--I will begin making preparations to return to New York at once. If my aunt should wake before I get there, please assure her that I am on my way.
And thank you again, Ms. Everything they say about cold and unfeeling New Yorkers is obviously untrue in your case. God bless you. I'm in trouble. You've got to help me out. I'm serious. You don't know what's at stake here: I have a chance for an extended vacation with Vivica.
Yeah, you read that right. The supermodel. The one who just dumped Trump. The one in those ads for that new bra with the water pump. The one on the SI cover. THAT one. But it's not going to work out, buddy, if you don't do me a little favor. Just one little favor. That's all I'm asking. And I know I don't have to remind you about that time I saved your you-know-what in Vegas. Spring Break, our senior year?
I've never seen anybody drink as many pitchers of margaritas as you did that night. I'm telling you, man, you'd be paying alimony right now if it weren't for me. And you swore to me the next day by the pool, remember? Well, today's the day. I'm calling it in. The Favor. Crap, they're making me put away my electronic devices for take-off.
Write back, man. I gotta know if you can do this for me, or else I'm dead meat. I knew it was coming, and just now, it arrived: A dispatch from Max Friedlander, demanding payback for a favor he did me our senior year in college. My God, that was ten years ago. The man has a mind like a sieve. He can't remember his own Social Security number, but this favor I owe him, he remembers. What did I ever do to deserve this? You remember Max, don't you, Jase?
He was my roommate senior year, the one I got my first apartment with when I moved to the city after college. That dive in Hell's Kitchen, where the guy got stabbed in the back the first night we were there--remember?
It was in the papers the next day I think that's what led to my deciding to become a crime reporter, as a matter of fact. Remember how Mim offered to get me out of the lease so I could move in with her and live, to quote Mim, like a human being? God, after two months of living with Max, I almost took her up on it. It's like the guy still thought we were in college--half of Manhattan used to show up in our living room for Monday night football every week. No hard feelings when I moved out, though.
He still calls me every few months to catch up. And now this. God only knows what Max wants me to do for him. Rescue a raftful of refugee Cuban ballerinas, I suppose.
Or house the Australian rugby team. I am seriously considering leaving the country, Jase. Do you think Mim would let me have the Lear for the weekend?
Jason PS Stacy says when are you coming to visit? The kids have been asking about you. Brittany's riding post, and Haley won best jumper at last week's exhibit. PPS No go on the Lear.
Julia's using it. She was a showgirl. She had feathers in her hair, and a dress cut down there. Okay, not really. But her name was Heidi, and she was a showgirl. And apparently, I was determined to make her the first Mrs. John Trent. You wouldn't understand, of course, having never done anything even slightly disreputable in all of your thirty-five years, but try, Jason, to put yourself in my shoes: It was Spring Break.
I was twenty-two. I was in love. I'd had way too many margaritas. Max dragged me out of the Wedding Chapel, sent Heidi home, took away my keys so I couldn't follow her, sobered me up, and put me to bed. I still think of her sometimes.
She had red hair, and slightly bucked teeth. She was adorable. But not worth THIS. Are you going out to the Vineyard this weekend? I could meet you all there. Depending on whatever this favor of Max's turns out to be. It is all become clear now. I know how you are when it comes to redheads. And just what is THIS?
Jason PS No, we're going to the place in the Hamptons. You're welcome to join us. What is it that you want me to do for you, Max? And please, I'm begging you, nothing illegal in New York, or any other, state.
Just for a week or two. Well, okay, maybe a month. Simple, right? Here's the My aunt--you know, the filthy stinking rich one who always kind of reminded me of your grandma, Mimi, or whatever the hell her name is? The one who was so mean about our apartment? The neighborhood wasn't that bad. Anyway, my aunt apparently suffered a senior moment and let a psychopath into her place, who conked her on the head and fled, and now she's in the vegetable crisper at Beth Israel.
There is a chance--albeit a small one--according to her doctors, that she might come out of it. So you understand that it simply won't do to have her waking up and finding out that her beloved Maxie didn't fly to her side as soon as he heard about her accident. Of course we wouldn't. Which is where you, my friend, come in: You're going to tell this neighbor of hers that you're me.
That's it. Just be me, so Ms. Melissa Fuller reports back to Auntie Helen--if she ever comes around, which is extremely doubtful--that yes, her beloved nephew Maxie did show up as soon as he heard about her little accident. Oh, yeah, and you might have to walk this dog a few times.
Just to shut the neighbor up. And of course, if the old biddy shows the slightest sign of rejoining the conscious, you call me. Got it? And I'll rush right back. But since I figure the chance of an eighty-year-old woman springing back from this kind of thing is pretty much nil, I won't be expecting to hear from you. You know I wouldn't ask you to do this if we weren't talking Vivica here.
The girl is supposedly very well versed in yoga. YOGA, Trent. You do this for me, and your slate's clean, dude. Whadduya say? That is cold, Friedlander. Really cold. Essentially, what you want me to do is commit fraud--a crime punishable by five to ten years in a state penitentiary--by impersonating you. I think I'd rather be married to the showgirl.
Listen to me, Trent. I'm only going to say this once: It's not fraud if you have my permission to impersonate me. Why do you have to make it sound so underhanded? I told you, Helen's in a coma. She's never even going to know about it. If she croaks, you tell me, I come back to arrange the funeral. If she comes out of it, you tell me, I come back to help her convalesce.
So why postpone anything? Besides, we're talking Vivica here. You see how easy things can be if you don't overanalyze them? You were always like this.
I remember those multiple choice tests we'd get in Bio, you were always, It can't be A--that's too obvious. As long as Auntie Helen--and her lawyers--don't know any better, why not let me enjoy my well-earned little vacation? Placate this neighbor of hers. Just take over the dog-walking duties a few nights a week. I think it's a very small price to pay, considering that I kept you from making the worst mistake of your entire life.
You think old Mimsy would still be inviting you up to those soirees on the Vineyard if you had a Vegas showgirl for a wife? I think not. I think you owe your buddy Maxie, but good.
I guess it could be worse. A lot worse. So why do I have such a bad feeling about it? It could be worse. Are you going to do it? Jason PS Stacy says to tell you she's got the perfect girl for you: Haley's dressage instructor. Twenty-nine, size four, blonde, blue-eyed, the works. What do you say? I mean, walking an old lady's dog How bad can that be? John PS You know I can't stand dressage. There's something unnatural about making a horse dance. They step.
And have you ever considered that you and Heidi might have been perfectly suited for one another? I mean, with the kind of luck you've been having with women lately, Heidi could very well have been your last chance at real happiness. I'll let the neighbor know to expect you I mean, me tonight for the big key exchange.
She's got my aunt's spare. It has not apparently occurred to her to wonder why Aunt Helen never gave me a key to her place that fire in her last apartment was not my fault. There was something wrong with the wiring. Remember, you're supposed to be me, so try to act like you care about the old lady's hemotoma, or whatever it is. And listen, as long as you're being me, could you try to dress with a little Oh, I know.
I know for guys like you who are born into money, the instinct is to downplay the trillions you're worth. And that's cool with me.
I mean, I can understand this whole thing you're doing, getting a real job instead of the cushy family one your big brother offered. And I'm totally fine with it. If you want to pretend like you're only making forty five grand a year, that's just great.
I am begging you: No Grateful Dead T-shirts. And stone-washed jeans? Yeah, those are OUT, John. And those deck shoes you always wear? Would something in a tassel kill you? And for the love of God, invest in a leather jacket. That's all. That's all I ask. Just try to look good when you're imitating me. I have a reputation to uphold, you know. Max PS The neighbor left a number, but I lost it. Her email's melissa. You didn't say that. You didn't say anything about your aunt's neighbor working for the NY Journal.
Don't you get it, Max? She might KNOW me. I'm a journalist.
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